Poetry: Prosthetic Emotions 

​Nobody sees what’s amputated, lost
And yet it’s gone, as surely as some limb
Invisible, yet not without a cost
This TBI’s annoying, if not grim

What’s gone is my ability to show
Emotions that display humanity
My feelings still exist; a fact I know
As surely as the sane know sanity

And so I write my feelings time to time
Like carving some prosthetic lines of verse
At times they limp; at other times they rhyme
At times they seem to say: “It could be worse.”

At least with my prosthetic poetry
I’ve found a way to share humanity.

Mare Sortem

I walk beside the waves, upon the sand
The beach reveals my destiny, divine
Where flotsam comes to rest, I often stand
The divination of the beach is mine

I’m not some Hamlet, asking what to be
I just survey the driftwood, buoys, and rope
The tides have cast these pieces here for me
Like random lots to read in faith and hope

It does me good to contemplate my finds
Like contemplating life beyond the now
Beyond the simple fate of simple minds
The treasures of the sea have taught me how

Divine, like divinations on the beach
Such mare sortem maps my fortune’s reach.

Dreams and Time

And now that I am well, the dreams have ceased
When time was out of sync, I sang my song
And now that I am well, my time’s increased
The right to sing is counted mostly wrong

Come sing of time with one who knows it well
He thinks he knows it better now than most
And yes, the “he” is me; I’ve come to tell
How time reveals the depth of God’s great boast

That man was in His image made, divine
And yet, His chronoception must be skewed
He’ll never see a day like I see mine
With clocks that have mortality imbued

I see the darkness in the light of dawn
And know before I wake, the dreams are gone.

Inspired by the Peter Iredale

With years of rust, reflected on the sand
While ocean waves still crash the boat’s old bones
Imagination’s memories are grand
At least the ones the time of tides condones

Though tides recede with time, they’ll flood once more
Like memories imagined in the dark
When memories or tides approach the shore
On life’s reflected bones, they leave their mark

The cargo of our dreams may be washed out
When waves of rusted time precludes desire
And yet we still remember they’re about
Dichotomies of ocean waves of fire

Some dreams we have may rust on time’s wide beach
And yet time’s vision stays within our reach.


I found an old notebook with writing in it that I believe is the last things I wrote before my accident on 4/29/2010. This might be the last sonnet I wrote before the accident:

My feet, repulsed by darkness and the fruit
which rots between the rows of orchard arms
alone, organic sentinels, the root
of evil growing silently. Alarms
of touch, repulsion marks the solemn path
between the rows of withered lives. I walk
in silence, like the culminating wrath
of stagnant, rotting life, protruding stalk
which stigmatizes flesh, my feet are bare
I feel the piercing call of dreadful night
where dreams of darkness permeate the air
and danger bleeds my skin a ghostly white
I flail and moan in spasmic steps. The coup
of life is death, which life can not renew.

Sweet Apathy

Sweet apathy is more than just a shrug
“Who gives a fuck,” is personal and pure
An apathetic cord runs to a plug
It pulls itself, of that you can be sure

Sweet apathy compels the null to void
The void compels sweet apathy to null
Compulsion isn’t sweet; it’s just annoyed
That apathy’s a glass that’s just half full

It should have been half empty, like the time
“Who gives a fuck” was power, plugged for naught
By empty seconds, pointless and sublime
That felt the freedom apathy had brought

In time we see that apathy is sweet
Without it, null and void are not complete.

Capturing Light

The pen’s more mighty than the sword, they say
More mighty still is that which captures light
The lens records the luminence of day
Like dreams reveal the luminence of night

As Helios illuminates our shore
Oceanids reflect the tales he tells
Of beaches and the treasures which they wore
Brought in by tides of light and ocean swells

The burning, golden blade on waves we see
Is captured in our stories and retold
Our truth may some day be mythology
As stories seen and heard in times of old

We capture light like notes of little songs
And search to find where every word belongs.

(Picture by Wendy Ennis.)

Fourteen Tweets

Iambic sounds create a simple tweet
In fourteen tweets a sonnet will arise
Though in its brevity it is complete
A song is not composed by simply size

Nor are the words we breathe just simple sounds
Or simple lines that float through space and time
Sweet life is made of music which abounds
In heartbeats’ rhythm, loves prophetic rhyme

And so we tweet our souls to those who hear
Who hear the music of our heartbeat words
The words of life all living souls revere
We sing and tweet and soar like splendor’s birds

A simple tweet can bring the sounds of love
Or lead us all to soar like  birds above.

Follow me on Twitter.

Breast Feeding

Attached with love that helps her strength increase
So small, she’s pure potential to fulfill
Receiving mother’s milk in precious peace
She falls asleep with warmth wherein she’s still

And when she wakes, her comfort is complete
I see it in the sparkle of her eyes
She stretches as she coos; her sounds are sweet
She smiles in joy, between contented sighs

The gift of mother’s milk is liquid gold
The gift of life is given, skin-to-skin
The gift of love is more than arms can hold
The gift of love proceeds from deep within

Such strength, such love, by which the babe is blessed
Such strength, such love: the spirit of the breast.