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kcidybom
This is not my work, although I wish I could claim it. One of my students, who had come to my school with multiple diagnoses that would make the following impossible to predict no less... More »
kcidybom
Needle in his eye, The old man pokes watery questions; And wonders why, when.
kcidybom
I've said much of my poetry sounds like it was written by a pissed-off teenager, especially that stuff written when I was a pissed-off teenager. Some here in Zaadzland have said that I should go... More »
kcidybom
I sat to write a poem about insomnia but then I remembered this: Insomniac by: Sylvia Plath The night is only a sort of carbon paper, Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars Letting... More »
kcidybom
A tribute to a friend on her 50th birthday, a day she approached with some trepidation. I wrote it two years ago and forgot I had it: Drink From the Chalice The twelfth of never,... More »
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