I always like to share some of my poems with everyone because I believe poetry can have an impact on everyone.

Great Again

When was greatness upon us?
Was it when we came to a new land with weapons and illness?
Or was it when we slaughtered those who came before us

because they had what we wanted?

Did it take longer to become greater?

Did greatness come upon us when we chained human beings and whipped them?’

When we finally unlocked those chains and put invisible ones on them?

Were we great then?

“I don’t see colors,” is a common statement.

There is nothing wrong with color, it’s how color is treated.

There is nothing wrong with gender, it’s how gender is treated that is the issue.

Are we still great?

Are we great, staring at bloodied and begging parents

who are holding the corpses of their children and denying them a better life?

We are good, kind, gentle, commanding, harsh, powerful, beautiful, horrifying,

and brutish.

But are we great?

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Gatlinburg, TN

There is a place where untouched and ruin meet.

Fire had ravaged the sides of these mountains before

nature had thundered in and drowned it with its wet wrath.

The trees scrape the sky, their lush green leaves

flutter in the wind and catch the peeking sunlight.

Thick, jagged trunks scratch my palms and branches shake

as squirrels peer down at the intruders before scurrying off.

The roar of the stream drowns out the crying of the birds,

Sunlight glistens off the wintry waters—

reminding me of sparkling snow.

But if I look past the stream,

Past the birds and the squirrels, past the living souls and

the towering trees, I can see the consequences of humankind.

Charred tree trunks linger in the distance,

evidence of two children playing before setting the earth aflame.

Thousands had been sent scrambling to escape the inferno and the

destruction that the blaze had brought to the forests’ door.

Now, thousands have come back to see the forest rise from

the decay to become beautiful once again.

These trees bear the scars of foolish boys and the forest floor

had once been stained with ash but even after certain defeat—

nature will continue to sooth its wounds and outlive man.

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Winter Child

My mother used to laugh whenever I came inside—

rosy cheeked with snowflakes in my hair.

She used to tell me that she was glad

that I was raised in the North.

For she could not imagine her winter child

thriving in the southern summers.

My mother called me her snow queen with

a crown made of ice and snow. She told me

that she had brought a bundle home in the snow

and heard a giggle. I had laughed and grinned

as the flakes fell upon my face.

When we were outside, my mother lifted me into

the air and threw me into the whiteness. I had

been shrieking with laughter as I rose.

It was our own wintery kingdom we ruled together.

Inside my mother wrapped my bone chilled body

with a blanket and placed a mug of homemade hot chocolate

in my frozen fingers, she told me of tales from long ago.

Now, when the snow falls, all I hear is my mother’s laughter.