Footprints in Sand


The sunlight tapped gently on the glass window. A soft breeze slipped through underneath. Clouds decorated sky, a portrait of life compared to the dark, dismal walls inside. A murmur of traffic hummed with rhythm, and vibrations fell quiet against smooth, pale floors. And the world continued on without a second thought, leaving this place, leaving me behind.

Time had become a dream. Days were counted into nights, and nights were spent waiting for days. Whispers of the wind told of the seasons to come, and another end to another year passed by. Yet, I remain.


Extra, Extra and D.T.A.


Hollywood is my Emerald City. Beyond its golden gates lies beauty, imagination, and inspiration. The yellow brick road lies at my feet, but my ruby slippers have not found home yet. The journey still lies far out of reach, and there are no lions and tigers and bears at my side. I walk alone, and the skies darken under doubt, despair. But this is where I want to go, and the first step I take may be my last. Or it may be the door opening upon a great adventure.

I step forward. It is 2007, a year after Silent Dreams was born. I was one of those poets cyber shy in sharing my work. I’ve had my writing stolen from me before, and the internet was unknown territory.


Frankfurt in Ponyville

Frankfurt in Ponyville Graphic

Harry Frankfurt, an American philosopher who has taught at Princeton Yale and Rockefeller Universities, explores in his lectures the idea that what one loves reflects what he or she values and their own self conception. Frankfurt believes that what we love and care about is a part of our psychic raw material and cannot be changed without intense personal examination.


Will’s True Quill Pt. 2


Because Shakespeare dedicated “Venus and Adonis” in 1593 and “The Rape of Lucrece” in 1594 to Henry Wriothesley, the 3rd Earl of Southampton, and addressed him intimately in several of the sonnets, the Stratfordians inferred that the Earl was Shakespeare’s patron and possibly even his lover. But if Oxford was Shakespeare, then the relationship between the two peers takes on an entirely different significance. Wriosthesley was engaged to Oxford’s daughter Elizabeth from 1592 to 94, and though the betrothed couple didn’t marry, Oxford and Southampton remained friends and shared a mutual interest in the theatre (Looney 177-86).


Will’s True Quill Pt.1


Although skepticism regarding the authorship of Shakespeare’s poetry and plays may well have been expressed as soon as William Shakspere (as the family name is spelled in the Holy Trinity Church Register of Stratford-on-Avon) was publicly acknowledged as the illustrious “Bard of Avon,” the first writer to voice his suspicion was James Wilmot, a retired London cleric who in the early 1780′s settled in Warwickshire and proceeded to gather material for a proposed biography of Shakespeare. When he learned that the most famous inhabitant of those parts may well have been the unschooled son of a local tradesman who left not a shred of evidence that he had ever owned a book or written so much as a letter, Wilmot gave up the project and discarded his notes.


Don’t Forget to Tip Your Cows


I used to love eating cold cereal. I used to love Cocoa Krispies, Count Chocula, Trix, and especially Lucky Charms. Fiber was never a thought when I drowned my bowl in cereal and milk and dug in, enjoying the sugar rush. It was all so magically delicious until the ride in to school.

Homeroom. I was either late, running to the bathroom or stuck behind a desk, clutching the small, wooden structure. Sometimes, after the bell rung, I would escape back into the bathroom, trying to relieve those harsh, stomach pains.


Movies that Speak Volumes

Reservation Road

Pain and sorrow are the sweet rains flowing across the film of our lives. We dive deep through trust and into the heart of betrayal, twisting and turning along the strings of lies and illusion. Passion carries us across, and we hold to heart, afraid to break. But it’s the pieces of tragedy that tell the real stories, stories that we cannot turn away from; can we watch them again and again? Or as the screen fades to black, do we remain held within memory, forever touched by the film of their lives? It’s a simple turn of the page that can be ignored. We don’t want to hear about it. We don’t want to see it. We don’t want to know, but it still happened. One story always echoes across the news. A life was lost. Tragedy struck.


The Layman’s Holiday


Happy Fourth of July, Readers!

I hope you’re all enjoying hot dogs and lemonade in bright blue backyard pools, or maybe you’re hanging out on the beach with your families and friends, ready to watch the sky light up with red, white, and blue fireworks. I’ll be enjoying a long, glamorous night of work at my local frozen-yogurt shop, so please drink a beer or two for me! As I have nothing to do but sit and imagine all the fun I’m missing tonight, I find myself wondering why this once highly revered and meaningful holiday has been reduced to a reputation of pretty, colored fire in the sky, beer brat hangovers, and repetitive country music.


A Walk through Sprawl


My journey starts at an intersection. I stand in a place where the long and wide roads had sliced into the natural landscape, and where nature fights a losing war for supremacy in the world. Every blade of grass is like a young jarhead sent to the frontline to be cut down, or captured and conditioned to servitude. The road acts like a demilitarized zone and two opposing sides stare across the void. It’s not a depressing place, but the ambiance is of menace and despair. I stand in relative openness, but before me lies an enclosure of absolute concrete.