One year come.

One year gone.

Filled with moments of desperation,

quiet contemplation, and doubt.

Glimpses of joys to come, battles hard won, and gratitude.

One year come.

One year gone.

Resolutions made.

Promises broken. Dissolved like castles of sand under the creeping tide.

New castles are built. With twigs, leaves and rocks. These last, though damaged still, remain.

Resolute and unyielding. As if they have been there for centuries.

One year come.

One year gone.

A mixture, smattering of emotions, hopeful doubting as the ball drops.

The feeling of stasis, with metamorphosis on the horizon. Is there a word for this?

Questions purl and rage. Answers ever elusive. How do we change?

I dig inside, push away the cobwebs, sweep out the rooms, and still cannot find what I’m searching for.

One year come.

One year gone.

A beautiful second chance.


Shoes. The oldest storyteller.
How far have they gone? What roads have they travelled?
How many miles have they seen?

Dusty and sore, blissfully resting.
Worried and impatient.
Rushing! Running! Sprinting!
Slow and languid, soaking up the feeling of every crack. Stone. Blade of grass.

Scuffed. Dirty. Tattered.
Sleek. Polished. New.
Assumptions made by the state of our shoes.
Quick to judge at first glance. Truth hides within.

Shoes. The oldest storyteller.
Not in words alone.
Hear. Sense. Touch. Walk for just a moment.
Where will these shoes take you?
What will you see?

Importantly. What will you feel walking in a stranger’s shoes?

In hopes of being True

Honest. Honesty. Honestly, what does truth mean?

If yours is yours and mine is mine,

how can we understand what’s mine is yours

and yours is mine?

Your truth could be scary. Different. Ordinary.

Mine may be strange. Extreme. Unchanged.

Her truth could be singular. Expansive. Coarse.

His truth may be selfish. Minuscule. Forced.

Truth is not a box, perfectly contained and square.

Truth is not a circle. Round and round it goes. Never ceasing.

It leads somewhere.

Truth is an explosion. A bomb ready to detonate.

Millions of fragile shards fragmented across the globe.

We are pirates. Explorers. Astronauts on an alien landscape.

Shall we dig for the gold hidden inside our souls? Or are

we doomed to lead disparate lives paralyzed by fear?

Truth is the sum.

Mine. Yours. Ours.

Humanity’s curse.

Humanity’s cure.

Truth is the questions within, glimpses in our vulnerability.

Shall we be brave and unearth the answers? Or continue to

hide where no light tends to go?




Water flows down from highest peaks,

Cold as snowflakes on the tongue.

Swift as night in winter.

Fire leaps from tree to tree,

As if by magic.

Hot as July in a Tennessee summer.

Harsh as a word from a bitter soul.

Earth shifts and moves though unseen,

Yet immovable and still.

Pungent as mushrooms cooked in linguini.

Solid as the one in your arms.

Air swirls and dances among the leaves,

Turning Nature into Music.

Clean and sharp as the smell of fresh lemon.

Free as a child among wildflowers.

Four elements each unique.

Four distinct personalities, present in each of us.

Bringing balance to a chaotic mind.


The end is greater than the beginning.

Or is it the same?

Both are immovable,

Waiting for a sign.

One is looking ahead.

The other behind.

A beginning is exciting, new life has begun.

At the end all is made known,

No matter what has been done.

Beginnings rush toward the end.

Endings long for a new start.

Never realizing they both play a part.

Beginnings require control.

Endings offer release.

Beginnings offer hope.

Endings offer peace.

Affair of Emotions

I find it interesting that people ask for what they want, receive it, and then look to other things almost immediately as if what they finally have is not enough.  This poem is a reflection upon that phenomenon.  Culture tells us the grass is greener in other homes, schools, cities, and towns, but perhaps the grass is green everywhere.  We are only viewing it through dirty brown lenses. – C.P.H.

Logic races toward oblivion,

In a little black dress and heels.

Whispering words of love in your ear.


Reason waits in the house,

In yesterday’s shirt.

Wanting very badly to be held.


Passion consumes only in secret places,

Clad in lace and silk.

Tempting the beast that slumbers within.


Love lingers in the mundane,

Wrapped in a soft blanket.

Surrounding you with the smell of her.


Anger sits at the door,

In a black suit and tie.

Shouting obscenities at the lawn.


Bitterness creeps along the baseboards,

Swathed in ill-fitting jeans.

Choking down your advances in favor of sleep.


Indifference blindly maneuvers without care,

In dirty shorts.

Oblivious to the outside world.


Sadness drapes upon your shoulders.

In a warm, heavy coat,

Reminding you of love lost.


Excitement swells among the forbidden,

In dresses that reveal too much.

Promising dreams they can never fulfill.


Happiness glows in the unexpected,

With messy hair and a baggy T-shirt.

Saying be content with what you have.

Winter Chill

The mist that forms from the breath in my lungs,

The sting of the cold as it rests on my tongue.

No respite from the harsh ruthless wind,

Like the memories of a long-lost friend.

The sun it appears from behind gray clouds.

Its rays pushing away the shadows of doubt,

But it offers false hope as the sky turns pale blue,

Because it is still cold outside and I am apart from you.