Grey is in the middle, ever in the middle,

Somewhere between white and black.

Its essence is lukewarm,

Tasting of earth and dirt, of mushrooms.

Grey is the clouds before a storm,

During a storm,

After a storm.

Grey is the mockingbird

That responds to your voice,

The only one that answers your questions.

Grey is the way you feel

After he’s left you, cold and alone,

And you’re not angry or sad anymore.

You don’t think, you don’t know,

You don’t care.

You’re just Grey.

A.M.S. 2017

Semifinalist in Poetry Nation's National Amateur

Poetry Competition


“A penny for your thoughts,” the young maid declared.

“I couldn’t help but see that your light’s not so bright tonight.”

A dim twinkle was her only reply.

“A penny for your thoughts,” she tried yet again.

“Silence is not so golden, especially when you’ve got a friend.”

A sad twinkle was her only reply.

“A penny for your thoughts,” the little maid pushed a little harder.

“You have a pretty voice, but you just need to find it.”

A swelling twinkle was her hopeful reply.

“A penny for your thoughts,” she said with a slight smile.

“Take your time, my shy friend. I can wait awhile.”

A.M.S. 2017


Once Upon A (Dark) Color...


Red is for the cloak,

The color of his eyes,

The blood that soaks the floor,

Your Granny’s last goodbye.


Green is for the envy,

The malice that she feels,

Hidden in that apple,

Your sickly sweet last meal.


Blue is for the slipper,

The glass that cuts your feet,

The evil twins that bicker,

The ashes that you sweep.


Black is for her pet,

The horns upon her head,

The sleep she puts you in,

As good as though you’re dead.

A.M.S 2017