Inspiration doesn't always work on our time—and it's not even really our work.

Careful where you venture on All Hallows. And be very cautious of whom you meet.

Dream poetry may have fallen out of favor, but it predates novels by centuries. Maybe it's time to bring it back.

There are still some for whom time does not constrain.

Calvin & Hobbes was an important part of my growing up. In fact I still have the very last comic published by the Washington Post framed in my house—I've kept it since I received the paper on my doorstep. (Remember when that still happened?) I loved his artwork and the zany adventures, but I also took notice of Watterson's themes: lean into curiosity, choose imagination over reality, and remain always suspicious of the trappings of adulthood.

This one's for Bill, who taught me the invaluable lesson of laughing at absurdity, staying grounded, and how to grow up without forfeiting the important things.

We've a lot to catch you up on since you gave your poem to us. I'll do my best.

An alliterative verse poem about where we've been, where we think we are, and where we're actually going.

The Lay of the Last Light

It started when the raven came—I know that much is true.I woke and soon became awareUpon the fog and moonlit glareThat mote of midnight standing thereThen toward the trees he flew.

Through wild forests and the moorsHe beckoned me beyond.Past every road and forest trailObscured in Nyx’s gloomy veilUntil we found, across the daleA cottage by a pond.

The raven turned to speak to meBefore we reached the door.“I live here with my wife,” he said.“You see our graveyard there ahead?I’m sexton to the helpless deadBut come inside—you’ll find a bedAnd maybe something more.”

When crossing through the entranceway,A coldness stilled my veins.A bitter pall engulfed the place—A shocking, self-posessed embraceI feel it now, about my face—The memory remains.

A table housed a candle nearThe middle of the room.I saw from duller light withinA coffin where a door had been;Its cover opened, letting inA woman through the gloom.

Pure snow the color of her gowns—A scintillating white.Her face as brilliant as her clothes,Her hair the sooted black of crowsBut none had eyes as blue as those!By gazing into them, I frozeIn flickered candlelight.

As if encouraged by her eyes,Fatigue set in at last.“I hesitate to ask,” I said,“You mentioned that you have a bedOr other place to rest my head?My eyes are fading fast.”

“Feel welcome here,” the woman said,Her voice a raspy drone.“What’s asked of me is yours to keep,And here, of course you’re free to sleep,But if you choose to tumble deep,Your ruin is your own.”

I felt the tenor of her voiceAnd recognized my host.“That’s right,” she whispered in my mind.“This valley’s where I’ve been confined:Where Adam left his bride behindAnd you’re the first of his to findThat Lilith is no ghost.”

And then she held the candle up,Her raven looking on.She brought the flame just past her lipsA quickened blow, then candle-drips,A dying wick, a cold eclipse,And all I knew was gone.

A verse adaptation of “Lilith” by George MacDonald

A villanelle about present risks and reckless possibilities.

Awhile back, I gave myself the task of writing one long, continuous blackout poem from Lewis Carrol’s Alice in Wonderland. This is the result of that challenge, which was roughly four months in the making. The result is far stranger than I thought it might turn out to be, and took directions I never intended.

A small note about the physicality of the project: You will notice that the use of a Sharpie upon each page caused significant bleedthrough, rendering the page on the opposite side unreadable and unusable from the standpoint of the poem. I felt it would be more true to the nature of a blackout poem to accomodate for this, letting the physical properties of the book, not the original story, guide this new narrative. Thus the poem was written using text from every other page.

If you enjoy the poem, have questions or want to rake me over the coals for defacing such a cornerstone of literature, please know that comments are available. Also, I’d wish to point out that this was a paperback reprint with a glued binding that I spared every expense in acquiring, so it’s not like this was an original. You can find plenty of discarded versions at your local landfill, so I found it more appropriate to give this copy a second life.