I thought of you then,
in those days of forgetting,
your eyes stealing from the moon,
dagger-deep but drawn with fatigue.
The phantoms of time promise plans too lofty to keep.
-
Forgetting
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Happy New Year (Make Friends with the Fallen Leaves)
Hello, friends.
Another New Year’s Eve has arrived. The weather couldn’t have been better—65 degrees and sunny, with a light north wind. I spent the day visiting the Austin Zen Center, taking a walk along Lady Bird Lake, and enjoying a cup of coffee at Civil Goat on Guadalupe, where I wrote this short poem.
Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read or comment this past year—and even more so, thank you for all the incredible poetry you’ve shared. Y’all are the best. It’s awesome to have a group of such talented, inspiring friends—that I’ve never actually met.
Wishing you all a safe, happy, and peaceful new year.
– Nick
Make Friends with the Fallen Leaves
A quiet door opens,
as another closes.
The last breath of the year
feels much like the first.This next revolution greeted
with mindful gratitude,
an earth-bound walk.
When feet brush the path,
it sounds like surrender.A song shared with a winter bird,
a nod passed to a stranger—
just for a moment,
before momentum carries forward.We smile,
pay our respects to impermanence.
And make friends
with the fallen leaves.
-
Nostalgic Guesswork
I caught myself thinking
about what I’d be like as an old man—
then saw the folly in assuming
those years will ever arrive.There’s no use in nostalgic guesswork,
no refuge in what remains in the balance.
Both daydreams dissolve
under the lens of what is.To traffic in futures
that never arrive
is to trace the road to suffering.We live suspended in a series of nows—
to hold lightly,
like breath in the chest,
and then let go.
-
I See Myself
I see myself
in the old woman
at the next table in the café.
Her face carved with worry and wisdom,
her hand quivers
as she stirs her coffee.I see myself
in the angry teen at the bus stop,
his daily journey to anxiety.
Oily skin branded
with acne and angst,
a crossroads of ambition
and uncertainty.I see myself
in the young mother,
cradling an infant
in her protective embrace.
A fierce sentinel,
a boundless love,
a longing to nurture
and shield.I see myself
in the soft cheeks
of that child
nestled safely in his mother’s arms.
A bundle of promise,
feeling only raw emotion,
a life anchored
in the present.I see myself
in the homeless veteran,
body marred by war,
soul weighted with sorrow.
A tin cup, a cardboard sign,
a quiet plea,
pressing onward
toward another sunrise.I see myself
in the prostitute,
existence narrowed
to a series of scores.
Track-marked arms,
and willing smile
betrayed by eyes
of deep despair.I see myself in you—
for I am you, and you are I.
Divided by time, shaped by fate,
alone, yet entwined
in our brief existence,
woven by the thread
of our shared humanity.
This poem, I See Myself, was first published by Spillwords Press on December 6th, 2024. I am grateful to the editors for featuring my work.
-
A Backfire is a Bird is the Wind
To stop reaching for the wheel,
we settle into the backseat of awareness.A backfire is a bird is the wind—
just sounds,
arising and dissolving.Waves and photons dance
upon forms that become faces,
or trees,
or nothing at all.Thoughts, too, merely appear—
no different from the rest,
just another ripple
on the shifting surface of what is.
-
Turning Blue
For a moment,
I considered change—
a flicker of curiosity
pressed against my borders.But the tired two-step is easier
than learning a new waltz.
Five decades have taught me
to hold familiar hands,
to hum old songs
in a voice steady with habit.We build walls around ideas here.
I’ve heard the whispers,
felt their pull—
something loose, unformed,
waiting to take shape.Maybe someday.
But for now,
I keep spinning,
tracing the same worn paces,
letting the dust settle
where it always has.
This poem first appeared in Texas Poetry Assignment, Issue # 78, “Texas Speaks.” Many thanks to Laurence Musgrove for his acceptance and encouragement. I highly recommend exploring his works, especially The Bluebonnet Sutras, available here. Don’t miss the remarkable poets featured at Texas Poetry Assignment.
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Orion
The sky bends beneath city lights,
its vast quiet fractured—
and yet the hunter emerges,
sharp-edged, unbroken.Once, he anchored me—
half a world away,
etched into desert winds,
his watchful eyes a tether
to what I could not hold:
home, family, something unnamed.Time slips, soft as owl’s breath,
years folding into shadows,
a presence felt, unseen,
somewhere at the mind’s edge,
like a promise carved in starlight.But tonight, I look up;
his belt gleams bright,
as if memory itself
has taken shape in the dark,
steady, silent, unchanging.It’s good to see you again,
old friend.
Written in response to Sammy’s Weekend Writing Prompt #389: Write a poem or a piece of prose in exactly 99 words using the word “Hunter”.
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A Hymn to Resilence
You come from a long line of survivors—
evident in the fact of your existence.
Your kin endured famine’s grasp,
wars beneath silent stars,
and quakes that fractured the earth.They braved fire’s fury,
floodwaters that swallowed the land,
scorching droughts, and ages of ice.
They faced monsters in the dark,
plagues that swept through nations,
passing an enduring spirit forward—
until you emerged.Now you stand in uncertain times,
fearful, yes,
but forged by the fires of endurance,
woven by hands that never yielded.
Your breath is a hymn to resilience.
Stand firm—not because it is easy,
but because this is what you are made for.
-
Consciousness
What flickers first—
is it sight or thought?
What holds the body’s ache
and also the ache of loss?What builds the self, brick by brick,
only to watch it dissolve?
And what remains,
but the stillness in which
all things arise and fall?
Written in response to De Jackson’s prompt over at dVerse Poet’s Pub: Quadrille #212 – “What the What?” The challenge this week is to write a poem of exactly 44 words, including some form of the word “what.”
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The Gender Inequity of Sidewalk Superstitions
As I walk to my daughter’s bus stop,
carefully avoiding the sidewalk cracks
as I always do,
I remember something my mother once told me.When she was a young girl, my daughter’s age,
and my grandmother would upset her,
she would go outside
and intentionally jump on the sidewalk cracks.Soon, when my daughter gets off the bus,
she’ll ask to go to her friend’s house,
and I’ll have to tell her no,
not until her homework is finished.She’ll be upset with me,
just as my mom was with her mother.
But thankfully, we don’t know any rhymes
aimed at causing spinal trauma to fathers.
This poem was originally published in Kindred Characters, the debut issue of Lark and Owl Booksellers’ literary journal.
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International Cheetah Day
So, it turns out that yesterday, December 4th,
was International Cheetah Day.
Who knew?
I missed it, regretfully,
lost in the blur of a day that dashed by.Had I known, what would I have done to celebrate?
Maybe made a modest donation to the Cheetah Conservation Fund?
Or perhaps something bolder, more intriguing.I could have strolled casually to the zoo
and gazed at these spotted sprinters,
lazing in poor approximations of vast savannahs,
worlds away from their wild grasslands.
No longer fierce hunters,
but prisoners awaiting meals delivered
at regular intervals through cell doors.Suddenly, one would approach the glass,
and, glancing around for guards,
I’d lean in close
to share a whispered plot,
a moonlit jailbreak.
His ears might twitch with a spark of hope,
our eyes locked in covert complicity,
as I outline our daring midnight escape.
For a fleeting moment, he’d be captivated,
tail flickering with the thrill of a real run.But then,
with wisdom in his gaze,
he would silently decline.
Understanding the odds, the reality –
quickly captured again,
certainly sent to solitary,
if not shot on sight in the urban jungle.I would nod, sadly, place my fist against the glass,
and he, with a furry paw, would do the same,
a gesture of solidarity.
Then, I’d slowly walk away,
a conspirator without a cause,
wishing to offer more than fanciful thoughts,
and desperate daydreams,
on this day dedicated to his species.
This poem was originally published in Kindred Characters, the debut issue of Lark and Owl Booksellers’ literary journal.
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Support Your Local Indie Bookstores! (Two Poems Published in Kindred Characters at Lark and Owl Booksellers)
If you happen to be in or around Georgetown, TX, I’d love for you to check out Lark and Owl Booksellers. This independent bookstore isn’t just a cozy spot for book lovers—it’s also home to a vibrant literary community that celebrates emerging voices.
I’m happy to share that two of my poems, The Gender Inequity of Sidewalk Superstitions and International Cheetah Day, are featured in their very first literary journal, Kindred Characters. This beautifully crafted collection is a labor of love from local writers, editors, and artists, and it’s available exclusively at Lark and Owl.
Kindred Characters features a compelling collection of prose, poetry, and stunning original artwork by Heidi Acott-Monfre and Camilla Watson. It’s the kind of journal that celebrates the creativity and talent thriving in the Central Texas area—and I’m truly honored to be included alongside such a gifted group of writers, including Brigid Cooley and Laurence Musgrove, whose work I’ve admired long before we somehow ended up in the same journal.
Supporting independent bookstores like Lark and Owl is about more than just buying books—it’s about sustaining spaces that foster creativity, connection, and community. These stores give a platform to local writers, artists, and small presses, keeping the literary arts alive and accessible in ways large retailers never could. When you shop at an indie bookstore, you’re investing in a cultural hub that enriches both its neighborhood and the broader literary world.
As far as I know, there isn’t currently an option to order Kindred Characters online, but if that changes, I’ll be sure to let you know! In the meantime, I encourage you to visit Lark and Owl Booksellers in person to grab a copy. Supporting local bookstores like this one is a fantastic way to champion indie authors, artists, and the literary arts.
While you’re there, treat yourself to a cup of locally roasted Stone Stash Coffee (local, woman-owned) or a literary-themed cocktail from their in-store Alouette Bistro. It’s the perfect spot to settle in with your new read. Let’s keep indie bookstores thriving—they’re the heart of our literary communities!
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Into Perspective
To strive for equanimity
we must practice—
so when the kettle is upset,
we meet calamity with calm.Harder done than said, perhaps,
but we can do hard things.The vastness of time,
the stillness of oaks,
have a way of guiding
worries into perspective.
-
A Brief Report on Aging
In my mind, I have more hair
than I do on my head.
The mirror in the living room whispers a reminder,
showing me someone older
than the faded photograph tucked away in my mind.Across the room, young Dylan leans from his frame,
guitar slung low, curls tumbling like a reckless thought,
untouched by whatever it is that holds us all in place.When we saw him in Austin, I watched him fidget
with his hair, patting it back into place—
which, at 83, remains thicker than mine.But the mirror also catches the TV screen,
swing state results scrolling like distant thunder,
reminding me there are bigger storms brewingthan these quiet, inevitable losses
I’ve just now managed
to nearly forget.
-
The Lonesome Death of Civil Discourse
It begins quietly—an undertow beneath glass,
small tremors brushing at the borders,
a half-heard hum, a splinter of sound.By dusk, they emerge—
a cast of jester-kings,
brittle crowns catching the last slant of light.Faces blur in movement,
voices tilting,
stirring the stillness of quiet corners.They spill over, leaning into the mirror’s fragile edge,
where shadows convene to listen,
or else drown in the flood of noise.Each tongue lifts its own sharp song, heavy,
tugging at what once held fast, breaking it free—
a ripple that rises, crashes, curls back.November dawns, and the floor sways beneath,
while charlatans dance on cracked ground,
oblivious to the low rumble threading through.And we, quiet as candlelight,
witness the lonesome death of civil discourse,
ears pressed to the thin skin of darkness,
hoping for shape, for something solid to hold.
Written in response to Bartholomew Barker’s Visual Poetry Prompt and inspired by my essay, The Lonesome Death of Civil Discourse, which shares its title with this poem.
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As If It Never Was
Cato once said
nothing is long
that comes to an end—
for when the curtain falls,
all that came before
fades at once,
as if it never was.Moments, once deemed eternal,
collapse upon themselves,
folding like fragile wings.
Time, the silent thief,
steals what’s left,
tucks it away,
out of reach.And when we glance back,
searching for the thread,
we find only remnants
of what seemed unbreakable,
gone in the trembling wake
of that final breath.
-
The Sun Shouldn’t Rise Alone
No thanks, I said,
I have to be up early tomorrow.You ask why,
half amused.To watch the sun rise.
You laugh—
You have to?
as if waking before dawn
were some sacred duty.Someone must.
I haven’t heard from anyone else,
and the sun shouldn’t rise alone.
It’s his day, after all.
Wouldn’t it be ungrateful
if no one showed up?You shake your head,
a soft smile forming.
But I think you understand.
-
Highest Bidder
Attention auctioned to the current highest bidder—
news, politics, entertainment.
We gladly pay in time,
anything to escape the discomfort
of simply being.Left with ourselves,
we sprint to shiny objects,
shoveling over our dwindling supply
of nows
for sweet distraction.Allegiance split, pulled,
grasping for what comes next.
The gavel falls,
but nothing is settled,
nothing ever is.Always seeking,
as if meaning
could be won
in a crowded room
where every voice
demands the final word.
Written in response to Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt #380: This weekend your challenge is to write a poem or a piece of prose in exactly 78 words using the word “Auction”.
The Truth About Tigers 