February 12, 2016

It was not yet spring
When they found her,
The tree she chose
Still stood barren in
Winter’s last breath.

The coroner confirmed
She had done it herself,
Leapt from the branches
Some time Friday night.
Now, Monday morning,
The groundskeeper saw
Her shadow cast upon
The dew-sodden lawn.

She held no name, nor
Wallet or purse. Instead,
Her only clue lie on the
Scrap of paper within
Her tightly bound hand:
“Raisons d’être,” her
Reasons for living.  

The irony was not lost
On the students, though
When asked it seemed
That no one could
Remember her name.



The Painted Lady

December 19, 2010

It must have taken courage
To fight the way she had;
The problem with fighting yourself
Is that you’ll always end up losing
Broken glass littered the floor
Of the hotel balcony
Crunching underfoot and
Leaving specks of blood
On the railing where she leapt

And she did leap, that was certain
There was no one else around
And that was the issue
There wasn’t a note to be found
The front door left open a crack
So that a curious soul might
Put two and two together and
Realize that the body which had
Plummeted eleven stories
Was the one that belonged to
This room of things
Her story eternally tied to
A ratty armchair and a kitchen
Full of unsolved problems

Upon closer inspection,
The only thing out of place
In the whole situation was
Her face, covered in paint
Not the kind you’d redo
Your living room in but
Rather the Apache kind
Designed to strike fear
Into the enemy in war
Broad white and red bars
Emblazoned across her
Cheeks and forehead
A simple reminder of
Her ferocity in life