Back when a sophomore in university I got it into my head that I was a poet, though not by any dint of skill, practice or study–no, I determined that poetry came naturally. You know, like my brain possessed some kind of muse that produced  works of poetry in fealty with the brilliance within. Before gaining a better grasp of reality during my junior year, I did manage to write a fair amount of drivel that I called poetry, and–surprise!–even managed to get two pieces published.
The first piece below represents my first-ever “published” writing and was published in East Carolina University’s literary magazine, “The Rebel.” The second piece was published shortly thereafter in a compilation called “The Anthology of a Dream,” however, I came to believe that this was a racket designed to get aspiring poets to pony up big bucks for a copy of their brilliance in leather-bound print (and no, I did not succumb). The last piece I’m adding because it represents a distinct memory from my youth.

A Vampire’s Lament

I need

So I feed

But I bleed

So I feed,


Camp Life

The deathly cold

Turnip soup

An endless Steppe,


Dogs guard the gates


Of sickly thin,

Crusty bread

The broken wills,


Dogs guard the gates


The sharpened walls,

Razor wire

A half-dead corpse,


Dogs feast on flesh



Closed casket at a Catholic wake

Disfigured sign of horrible death

Though quick as his ’68 Firebird–

“Grim Reaper” Stenciled on its sides.


She was black, like the rubber in her wake

Baddest ride in town, save the other woman.

A blonde delicate beauty–”Homecoming Queen.”

He took them both to the senior prom.


The battered wreck, rusting in the junkyard

Testament of mortality, shattered lives.

“I don’t love you anymore,” she cried

Drunk and brokenhearted, he fled

and at 100 mph met the gnarled tree.