I Think I Will, Eventually, Forget

I think about what will happen to my paternal grandparents’ house when they die. I always hated that house, not them, not the experiences that I had in it. Just, the house ITSELF. I hated that no matter how many people you filled it with it always seemed empty, no matter when you went into it it existed on another plane of time and space. Lonely. How it always had a crushing quiet, the quiet of an awkward silence, when you heard that a family member has just died, except it is always, always like that.

My maternal grandparents house was similar, but less so, mostly because the only place that was eerie was the basement (I avoided it like the plague). This house felt more familiar, in a subconscious sense. My Mother’s family was larger than my Father’s, and well, it still is, despite how many that have died, and have made that once familiar house more hollow than before. It was also once filled with family members in picture frames that had died, that I had never met, that even my Mom had never met. When my grandmother died the house began on its downward progression to this hollowness, in fact, that was actually the beginning AND the end, because when my grandfather died, his soul had already left him when the love of his life did, six years before.

When I was working the other day, I had a sudden flash – of lightning bugs and of the humid New England evenings that had seemed to never have an end, in my maternal grandparents’ fenced-in back yard… it was the first time I had thought about these memories, that place, since my grandfather passed away, and it came to me, in a sudden realization, that these nights would never happen again, these dark sunsets playing capture the flag with siblings and with cousins (in the end someone would inevitably get hurt), capturing lightning bugs en masse (because dear God they were everywhere) would exist only in my memory; I could relive them as many times as I wanted to, until I replayed them so much they eventually faded and became forgotten, like the jaded photos of family members on walls, like my Dad’s cassette tapes that he claimed to wear out, like the rotting books and dusty vinyls my grandparents gave me, all of those, existing in my memory or not, with someone watching them or not, would fade, would rust, would tire of being the objects they were, becoming nothing, so that no one would even remember them for what they were.


No, I Am Not Gone

As you may have noticed, I have not posted anything in the last month – the month of March. During this time I was so overwhelmed with personal obligations that I couldn’t find the time to find inspiration, let alone write anything. So I decided that I would take the month off, in order to recuperate and then sit done and begin writing again. As such, I will be continuing with my normal posting schedule from this post onwards (no April fooling here), so expect some new (and hopefully improved) poetry to be on its way. In the meantime, here are a few haikus. (It seems customary to make a return from a hiatus with haikus, as I have done so in the past.)

I may never write
again. I felt nothing. No
death, no parting thoughts.

Picture me perfect.
The way I wanted to be.
The way I couldn’t.

Could be poetry.
Don’t let them say otherwise.
Words make black and blue.

What’s Coming

In lieu of the new year, I’d like to set in place a few things that readers can expect sometime within the next twelve months.

As my poetry skills have improved over the years, I am also still trying out different styles of poetry. You will see more structure to poems, whether it be syllabic, metrical, or other. You will also see more writing practices, which this blog has been absent of in recent months. Lastly, I will be working on a poetry collection that should be read as a whole, perhaps for thematic or narrative purposes.

You will most likely see the same sporadic posting of photography that has become the usual from me. So stay on the look out if you enjoy that content.

Some superficial updates: posts will continue to be brought to you every three days, but will be posted in the morning rather than at night. This may be subject to change, depending on whether the time change is beneficial or not.

I have also made a Poem Types page for use when narrowing down and searching for different poetical structures I have used in the past.

Another thing you can check out if you are interested is my update to my Tips For Poems post, which basically details what you should remember when writing poetry according to what I have learned in my experience.

Also don’t forget that you can find Port Foilo over on Tumblr, Twitter, and FictionPress (where you can find short stories and hopefully the potential poetry collection).

Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy my upcoming poetry!


One day while I was walking down my street, as I have a routine of doing, I heard a sharp barking from behind me. It was a deep growl, as one would expect from a large, vicious dog. But as I turned my head, instead of my eyes meeting a hound, I noticed a small, white dog. It had its snout just barely poking out between two fence posts, barking at me in a low tone.

“I guess its bark is worse than its bite.” I said, turning away.

Persuasion Of A Playwright

An often over-talked about figure of literature is William Shakespeare. Everyone loves his works, and his allure that is displayed through his words is usually strung beyond comprehension into analytical passages. But besides this, we wonder what exactly draws us to his pieces in the first place.

I have felt that through my reading of his plays and poems that the most grasping quality is his use of diction combined with the conveying of ideas within the tight constraints of iambic pentameter.

An instance of this occurs early in one of Shakespeare’s most famous plays, Julius Caesar:

Go, go, good countrymen, and for this fault,
Assemble all the poor men of your sort,
Draw them to Tiber banks, and weep your tears
Into the channel till the lowest stream
Do kiss the most exalted shores of all.

In this quote, Flavius, a Roman, is angry at a crowd of peasants, and tells them to go and cry into the Tiber River until it floods.

Now, he could have just had Flavius say that outright as I have, but instead he draws out the idea, and does so in a beautiful and structured manner. This gives a contrast to works in today’s pop culture, which lacks this kind of sound. This contrast offers a satisfaction to us, as we are able to understand that words and decipher them in our minds, instead of just having it told to us.

Combined with the tight syllabic structure of iambic pentameter, Shakespeare’s passages offer a fluidity that draws us to enjoy his works above other’s.

Simple Words

If I focus
then maybe someday
I will write the words
on a softened page
in my own ink
from my own mind.
Maybe someday
I can be happy once again.

Sometimes the simple words
are the ones that work
and sometimes for a moment
you have to be happy
and not let temper
make you do the things
you never wanted to do.

The Pen

The pen is my piano.
I make the same wrong notes.
unlike the musician,
I can change my mistakes.
But unlike them
I stop in my tracks
because I don’t have
what to play next.
As of now my story is not yet written
but that’s what I’ll be doing.

Babies Are Deceiving

On your average day there was an average man taking a morning walk through his neighborhood. As he was strolling down his street he remembered that a local park had opened recently, and decided he should see how it looked.

When he arrived at the park he was was astounded by the work that had been done on the area. There was new landscaping, play sets, benches, and paths. While observing the scenery, he bumped into a mother and her baby.

“Hello there!” he said, “This new park is very nice, isn’t it?”

“Yes it is,” she replied, “I like to come here a lot.”

“I think I will too.” he said, “How old is you baby?”

“She’s as old as the hills.” the mother said. The man, confused by the mothers answer, asked her what she meant.

“The landscaping for this park was finished two months ago, didn’t you know?”

Curiosity Wasn’t Framed

One fine morning, a man wakes up in his home to start the day. He walks outside, dressed in his night gown and slippers, ready to pick up his newspaper.

But, low and behold, he finds not a rolled up piece of paper, but a ripped up piece of his cat.
Suddenly, his morning isn’t so fine. He continues to find bits of cat-bone and bits of cat-flesh all over his freshly trimmed yard. Horrified at his discovery, he goes back inside his house to start his hunt to find out just who did this terrible thing.

He asks his newly-awoken son who he thinks did this to their cat.

“Curiosity killed the cat!” his son proclaims. The man, slightly off put by his son’s answer, tells him that’s just an expression. Even more puzzled by his cat’s death, he goes off to ask his next-door neighbor.

Walking up the steps of the home, the man knocks on his neighbor’s door. His neighbor opens it, revealing himself to still be in his grey and plaid pajamas. The man asks if he knows anything about his cat’s carnage. Disgusted, the neighbor says no.

Right as the man is about to leave, a dog comes running up to the door from the inside of the house.

“Oh!” he exclaims, “I didn’t know you had a dog, what’s his name?”

“Curiosity,” the neighbor replies.

You’re Doing It Wrong

John was a sick boy. So of course, as John was a sick boy, he stayed in his bed. Now he wasn’t always sick, he used to be a happy little boy, always playing with the other happy little children. But there was one thing John always wanted to do besides live a joyful, carefree life. He wanted to draw.

And now, as he had fallen ill, he could no longer run around with the other children. He was stuck in his bed, wondering what he could do, when he remembered his wish. It’s perfect! He can practice drawing while he is sick! He was able to make use of his time, instead of wasting it away lying around and doing nothing.

Every day John drew the scene he sees from his bed. His window directly in front of him, the dresser on the left wall, and the door on the right wall.

As he began his mission, John’s artistic skill weren’t the best, to say the least. But he slowly got more detailed as time goes on, even drawing the area outside his window. He became so good at drawing the scene, he hardly needed to look up to make a detailed replica of his room.

But as with most illnesses, John’s didn’t last forever. He became better and was able to get out of bed and play with the other boys and girls. But first, he needed to test out his new skill. He went to the front of his house, and started to draw to what he saw. But he couldn’t. No matter what he tried, his drawings of his house always looked just as bad as his first artistic attempts.

Dejected, John left his dream behind, feeling sad about all the time he wasted in bed, and went to play with the other children.