I wouldn’t want to write a dog story if there wasn’t a pretty message at the end. And there’s always an end isn’t there? I think the 90s and early 2000s was the golden-era for those heart wrenching, eye-socket flooding, emotional deluging dog movies, weren’t they? I mean, Old Yeller was way ahead of its … More The Story of Elsa
I would like to believe myself a descendant to some wise old bird aware of the terrors of being a poet in his time—or maybe just always consumed by some obsessive work. In his time he would pass up the expediency of machines or the draw of making a family to seek joys in … More Why the Cottonwood Gave Up Everything for Spring.
My mom looked off for just a moment, as if some story had always been near to her and seemingly always there after all these years. As she recalled the events, the colors of the room went dull and her words became crisp and vivid. “There was that one time.” She started, as if every … More The Preciousness of Every Little Thing, Every Little Memory
To at times be indecisive, is it not as natural as the shifts in weather? Somehow, this world has managed to live, resilient and unending—
To be alone and not feel that loneliness, this takes many years. To discover, when in search of those places that offer solace in solitude, certainly, this takes many years.
That time before noon, as we put our tools up, as our thoughts taper off, is a time susceptible to musing the stillness of things: the orchard, its naked green and gray concrete bodies that never seem to shiver and never seem to consider themselves concerned of the cold; and the sun, in … More The Language of Trees
I won’t act like I know what love is or write so certainly of it. I know I have, and do often think of it, but so far every grand epiphany reminds me how vast of a concept love is. I can speak of heartbreak and the beautiful breaking down the parts of ourselves to … More The Loving Honesty of Heartbreak (in 5 poems)
It isn’t Syriac, not even Arabic; both of which I love to hear being sung at the Maronite church in Buffalo, New York—with the incense filling the worship hall in thick haze, the parishioners dressed in black, the back of their hair illuminated by the narrow and tall stained glass, and that sense of high … More Gratitude, from the Deep Well of Sorrow
Just yesterday, though it wasn’t the first time, a parent stopped me on my way out of the school to ask how I was doing. Had it been the first time, I may have stopped and stayed there to give her a more sincere answer. I probably wouldn’t have replied with only a curt … More The Sound of a Door Closing (Pt. I)
Right now, there is that compelling drive to make those twenty-something hours to Tennessee, to run along the low-hum of dreary mountains into New England and on over to New York, To take my time coming back, through the quiet rocky forests To all those pieces of my heart I left behind in each … More enough