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  • Writer's pictureThe 4th Dot

Updated: May 27, 2023

The newest poems are on top.

The oldest ones are on the bottom.

Continuous additions over time.

Get Around to It

Perhaps next summer we will do that road trip,

Stop at all the parks,

Take some less travelled roads and see some ghost towns.

Perhaps I will get around to It.

I have plans to finish that book on my night stand.

Once that is done, I will finish writing that family recipe book.

Then I can finally be

I have plans to get around to it.

Someday I will start running and shed this extra weight.

Then I can start lifting those weights,

Show up to my reunion looking better than ever.

Someday I will get around to it.

I will stop by the local theatre and audition.

I will travel around the country with my troop.

I will earn the part with the witty comebacks.

I will get around to it.

I know that I will marry a beuatiful woman

and buy land out in the fly-over's

and we will raise three beautiful children.

I know that I will get around to it.

Or, maybe I won't.

For now this block of cheese fulfills me.

How to Awaken

Afraid to die, or afraid to be alive?

Shouldn't we live without guilt of living more?

Did we chose 'not' because we fear injury?

Shouldn't avoiding harm be mentally rewarded?

Do we become free when we embrace chances?

Shouldn't playing it safe be mentally rewarded?

Will we suffer if we choose nothing?

Shouldn't consistency be mentally rewarded?

Why do we have guilt for not being bold?

Shouldn't safety be mentally rewarded?

Courageousness and Pride are cousins?

Shouldn't contentment be mentally rewarded?

Perhaps ask less questions.

Perhaps awaken to your choices.

Beers Taste Better

Beers taste better when you drink them at a bar

where the men don't read poems.

They avoid rhyming

avoid syncopation

and avoid anything to do with the written word.

Screens take over,

leaning back is the posture,

and heads slouch toward laps

they pull out green bills

figure out wht to leave for a tip.

The old men scoff at news

they sneer at emotions

and mock the youth.

Tales revolve around "remember when"

and everyone looks when the door opens

and fresh air pushes through

A good defatult when the bartender asks...

"what're yah drinkin"

whatever you're trying to get rid of" is my response.

The bubles rise, the glasses are cold,

and old men clear their throats more than

the average human.

perhaps it is their experienced bitterness that adds

to the citrus flavors in this local ale.

My freiends will be here soon,

for now, the bar is quiet, well let

and the company is experienced.

Juice of Age

Vinegar is the juice

Jars are the fuse

Time is how you induce the flavor.

Perhaps I haven't fermented enough

to know what other juices i could be using.

The pursuit of pickles shall continue.

Have I already found the flavor I am after?


Leave your facts in your mouth

My mind already has the answers.

Stubborn is a word with 1400's origins:

presumably came from a man

presumably used to describe a leader

presumably needed sooner than its adoption

My father was this.

My mother was this.

Yet they called each other so and not themselves.

"You know how he is."

"You know how she is."

presumably mule-like.


If you don't know what to do

go outside at midnight

dazzling stars

shoes on

tied tight

and run.

exert yourself.

Run until you can't.

Run until you can't.

Run until you can't.

Until it hurts,

until it kills,

then walk




then again

then again

then again

Resist the urge to stop

unimpeded galloping

mixed with thwapping shoes

only the breeze and your thoughts in your ears

Exhaustion builds dreams


Sit Down, Eyes Up, Ears Open

The problem with schools

Is not the teachers

Is not the resources

Is not the administration

Is not the parents

Is not the culture

Is not the buildings

Is not the bus drivers

Is not the content

Is not the technology

It is that it is imparted on those

who can't sit still.

Dualing Pens

Let me tell you a tale

Of a writer who lived by a well

He lived in the woods

And knew that he could

Write a poem if he just had a dime.

His rival lived in the town

Where noise and drink were around

Distractions were too many

And his mind filled plenty

If only he could make some time.

These men had a plight

Writing poems was a fight

One lacked inspiration

the other needed separation

Whilst poems unwritten are a crime.


Sheer necessity

Turns into sheer determination

Turns into sheer willpower

Turns into sheer struggle

Turns into sheer victories

Turns into sheer podiums

Turns into sheer reputation

Turns into sheer memories

Turns into a coffin.


CEO told me I was too qaulified

Admissions said they were not a good enough school

Coach told me that the team was beneath me

Young man said he wasn't handsome enough

Parents told me I parented them

Perhaps it is all true

Or is my ass full of disingenuous smoke?


Is the syrup sweet enough?

Does the fruit have whip cream fluff?

Does the bacon have the crisp?

Bloody Mary with a twist?

Pancakes stacked to the sky?

Or waffles pilled waist high?

Always eat breakfast to excess,

If you want to experience happiness.

The girl sat in the meadow

Pull a pedal and make a wish

She asked about his love

She demanded his devotion

She hoped for his admiration

She dreamed of his handsome smile

As she ages

Her bosoms will sag

Her face will fill with crags

She will think about herself as a girl

Sitting alone in a flower field.

She knows now

that her fruitless hopes

should have been more focused

on his ability to stay interested

and built upon that interest.

Party Pastries

I have a busy family

That is difficult to explain to most.

My youngest brother is a baker

My sister is a serial killer

My father and mother used to steal dogs

And my other brother is a loan shark.

I have fallen in love with a woman

She is the leader of a cult

And they are planning a flag-burning event.

Can I ask my youngest brother to bake for the guests?

Lipstick Santa

I was wearing a Santa suit

walking through the mall

gliding like a sleigh at night

where is the return section?

What was I trying to return

the box feels weightless while I clutch my pillow.

A woman approaches flirtatiously

convinces me to abandon my quest

and we end up in a Chinese bingo-hall restaurant.

I sit with my box and stare at the peoples

they voraciously mark their boards

a man mumbles into a microphone

she approaches again

grabs my beardless face

kisses me

and leaves lipstick prints.

Safe Travels

Inviting words

this pamphlet urges

take a moment

familiarize yourself

with safety info

The odds of death

via air

ar slim to none

yet we listen to protocol

A woman ignores her child 1st

then assists 2nd

defying her instincts

Perhaps the only time

women ever will

she has never been asked

to help herself 1st

it's her new flight mode

A mode to live

A mode to embrace impact

A mode to travel.

Bird Book

I have a bird book

the time it took

to handcraft its look

had my eyes a hooked

and ready to buy.

The price was fair

its contents I shan't share

the birds in the air

fight today's sunny glare.


All the pens are dried up

The ink has run out

A struggle to write anything down

Has taken over the earth.

People have resorted back to pencils.

Perhaps this neanderthal scratching device

will suffice for my thoughts.

Or perhaps I'll break the led

and have nothing to write with today.

I Fear

Slow sling sludge

Bellows below

Mountain tops.

The rain races

Down and Dirt

Assembles an onslaught

Of momentum

My campground is

Nicely nestled next

To a collecting pond.

As this rain remains

My feat inflames

For this cabin could succumb

To the sludge.

I'll wait a while

With high hopes and hunger

But the mud may mangle

My woodland oasis.


Sometimes I sit in my car

and listen to the rain

beat down around me.

I wish I had the money

to afford a skylight

or have an encased patio space.

Soon the noreaster will pass

I'll burn some gas

and perhaps chase the clouds

and catch up with the rain.

The drops bleat out

the ringing in my ears.

Earth's white noise machine

brings life to my garden

and peace to my solitude.

Hopefully these clouds

stay longer

so I may have this moment.

Day on the Sidewalk

Matching scarf and socks approach

"Oh my."

"I love these."

Sarah, come look."

No sale.

A truck sits idle as I wait

for my first customer to pull the trigger.

Will I ever make money today?

Pistons pointless turn while

a man's brain gears choose a piece.

The car goes nowhere as does

the hope of a purchase.

Perhaps this woman?


Rich mn with a glimmering watch?

Too busy to glance.

So far only a bee

is interested in what I am selling.

His presence has transformed into a

buzzing companionship.

He lands on my pant cuff and breathes

in the sunlight.

A breeze knocks over a small frame

while a goth girl avoids eye contact.

If I describe a drawing to a blind man

do you think he will want to buy one?

"We'll think about it."

"I'm afraid of you,

but if I should be,

let me know."


She never made a copy

for the key to her heart.

Everyone seems to have

different keys to success.

Someday I will travel to

the Florida keys.

And go to a restaurant

that boasts their key lime pie.

She talked about how her father

was given the key to the city.

Yet here I am searching,

for my keys, so I won't get to work late.


p to the Sky.



I will Ladder, U

I know one day, we all w







A floor is a place for forgotten c r u mb s.


But it is fine to be among the boards.

While D



N, we can eat and clean like the mice we always were.

New Kicks

"So, what would you like today?"

"Not really sure. Why you ask?"

"You’re the one sitting in my chair sir…"

He grumph'ed back and uncrossed his legs.

His brown leather shoes looked lived.

"How’s your premium?"

"The best. 6 dollars."

The gentleman slid

Bills into my jar.

Cars roll by.

The breeze feels like

businessmen at the airport.

Pure movement.

Nose breathes wake up the eyes.

My customer has fallen asleep.

Pedestrians smile in passing.

I fixed the hole in the roof first.

Almost fell through the rotten wood.

Swept, then repainted.

I turned it into a business the next day.

[real places]

Three-dollar shoe shines.

One-dollar cold water.

Dawings next to the door.

Simple business = sex appeal.

"How’s your premium?"

"The best. 6 dollars."

Thank You For The Letter

I wasn’t able to fully read my name.

The enough’ly way you put pen to paper

Filled me. My face aglow.

After reading the first letter

I am enough’ly filled with enough’ly’ness.

Your lines comprised

A compliment or four...

"Take your smile"

Did you leave a teardrop stain?

If I tried to write your name

With enough’ly similars penmanship;

I doubt I thy same.

My reflections would be scribblins’

And now we finally know, that’s enough’ly.

Writing Mission

10-4 cap'i'tan

Chin up, head straight, think.

Accomplish your mental preparation

as you accentuate your alliteration

and let your mind's eye create with no hesitation.

The artist should judge not...

The artist should remember...


This deultory advice and converting

is for the swine

and is propigated by persimists.

Talent is not gained, rather

manifested through characters

assured personalities,

and is translated and absorbed by the confidence

which the pen is pressend into the paper

It is high time for writeers

to admit

that translations are muck

that interpretations are admissions of flattery

and that a poem

is only a poem

unless declared

not a poem.

Who Built It?

The stone masons didn't

just lay the stone

the painters didn't

just create the murals

the stainglass artisans didnt

just cut the colors.

For the women brought

them drinks to cooldown

in the shot sun

the butcher brought beed

and the baker brought bread

the town delivered a

capacity to collaborate

for two generations straight.

American before the White Man

America before the whine man was better or worse?

No polluted waters

No polluted air.

There were no card games

and no guns.

The smell of swine was negligible

and natives had their

rolling's hills.

Sadly American soil is void

of the the practice of child weddings

and the long

and underappreciated practice of

warrior scalping is missing.

If only we could go back in time

and never let the white man crash the shores.

The war tribes could still continue to raid

and lacrosse would still be played

to the death

and with severed heads.

A Couple

I’m sorry your day was miserable. I wish you, had the most amazing day, which is what I did. Sadly, we can not trade. For you would wish you had mine. Preemptive sorry. Despite YOUR 'new sadness', I must tell you about my amazing day. So I was walking by that...

Why Did I Say Yes?

I am in a garbage can rolling down a hill. I am young. My hands frantically press up against the sides as I tumble over big rocks that pock at the soft plastic shell. I was a ceaseless cyclone of dizzying confusion on camera. Brothers and sisters laughed. Thankfully garbage cans have a tilt shape/design so that they can stack within each other. This tilt helped me drift left. I would give the engineer a handshake for unintendedly making my journey down the hill shorter than we all intended. But I wish it tilted right. Because left was into a marshy ditch with snapping turtles.


These city dwelling authors

and writers and journalists

spend their time worrying

and complaining about god knows what.

While my family in the woods

and the scribes in the small towns

pend their time in contemplation

whilst the crickets chirp.


I must be musting more

as the river musts down the

musting meadow with a quick

flow, it musts the rocks

and the fish must for home.

The fighter musts his fists

and must overcome his tired muscles

in order to must

when the bell musts

for danger musts

when we forget that

musting is must.

Doors Open

They bought the larger scissors they could find.

They invited all that could sing their praises.

And the doors swung open for day one.

What a joy.

Six months later, the business stands vacant.

If only they realized that sometimes

plans functions flawlessly if...

customers didn't have opinions.

Sorrowful Storm

There is something fantastic

About a man walking down the street

Rain-pressed and determined.

Everything is taught on his skin.

Regrets and admittance beat down

Not just from the sky above.

I saw him and knew a change is a’comin.

Top of Your Head

It’s not hard to be witty at a party.

Newborn laughs are a dime a dozen.

Yet, your wit can run dry.

When you’re searching for words,

like pearls in the sea,

understand that stumblin’ and sweat

shouldn’t exacerbate your discomforts.


ignore all the listening eyes.

I only have respect for a human,

who speaks from the top of their head.

Anger and cowardice

helps my mouth seem to shine,

Let the dams crack and leak.

Mirrored Wings

A butterfly

like an arrow

slices through the sky

as i eat peanut butter bagels

no flappingno up and down

no random chaos left to right.

Pure and uniterupted

this butterfly

with eagle hunting style


like a knife through the wind

passed by.

I never knew

that these creatures

could fly straight

with wings mimicking

decorative everything bagels.

Where was it heading?

Late for a meeting?

To save a friend

trappen in a venus trap?

Straight through the air

no hesitancy

no drunken flapping

I hope to mirror

its trajectory

Will my wings

though shy


and less flamboyant

be capable of a path

like an arrow?

I shutter

in disbelief

as this tiny thing

has more directional


has more

determined guidance

has more ability

and that a tiny thing

made in god's image

could be so headstrong.

Perhaps if I held

up a mirror

to this bug,

it would flap

with pride

and cast aside self doubt

then continue


with flight

so pure and so straight.

Work Before Work

Hot oatmeal warms his stomach.

Does stomach heat transfer to his hands?

Knee-high snow has a heft to it.

He starts with the steps.

The cold grapples at his jacket’s openings.

Biting breezes scratch at his skin.

By six o’clock,

The driveway became a small black carpet.

For the star of his life to walk down.

Instead of cameras flashing,

It is the glitter of illuminated fresh snow

From the soon rising sun.

He brute*d > to her car,

> the end of the driveway.

Ice scraper in hand.

The car waits > warm.

She walks down a salted path

with warm coffee in hand.

He receives just a kiss.

“Have a good day.”

He opens her door.

Door closes.

His wife drives toward work.

All My Questions

Does anyone really know what’s next?

My nihilism makes me question substance.

Simple questions can create regrettable ghosts.

We move forward,

All the while our brains stretch back.

I sit next to a grandfather to 5 now.

Will I gray early like him?

Will my forehead crease like his?

I’m truly scared of my future child,

Because they will ask me questions.

My mind grew alongside their height.

My father told me that the only true answer,

Is that we don’t have all the answers.

Invisible Word

The microscopic haunts me

germs on table tops

99.9% is not enough disinfectant

a sneeze on a commuter bus

takes my fear and adds kerosene

for each breath is a chance to inherit.

The ghosts of bodies past

crawl out and from under

and rearrange my bookshelf

whilst the hand that controls

lives in a dimension beyond my

mortal eyes.

These cells reproduce

and muscles grow

but a single mutated cell can make

any organ implode

fall to its knees

like a worm in a pear

burrows deeper waiting

eggs nested for duplication

and the spread manifests farther.

For there is too much

I see that distracts me

from an invisible word that waits to kill me.

My Affair

She was beautiful.

So, I told her she was beautiful.

The beautiful woman smiled.

We kiss in a coat-littered mudroom.

We trip over children’s shoes.

We strip off our clothing going up the stairs.

Is she noticing the five-dollar frames filled with my wife and kids?

Did she notice the action figures battling in the upstairs hallway?

Does she know I fell out of love with my wife shortly after our third child?

Her pear-shaped body pressed my naked ass into the mattress.

I was clumsy with her curly brown hair.

She closed her eyes and breathed heavily.

This was a vocational thrill.

To escape the life, we have.

Or at least, I have.


She glances around the manifestly domestic home.

She grins knowing that I would miss never seeing her again.

My Meal You Ask?

My waitress has a laugh.

Its excess is prominent

more so

than the smell of steak and eggs.

~Does she receive more

or less tips because of it?

~Is it he reason why her ring finger

is bare?

A father and son sit in silence

wincing in unison as she cackles at a woman

sitting in a booth with a glass of OJ.

Jazz is the background.

Light chatter fills the remaining silence.

~She blares at decibals beyond all combined

from behind the kitchen.

Perhaps it isn't a show for just customers.

Wax Buldge

A firey flicker

Subtle eromas

and post-coital sweat.

We lay on our backs and watch

a candle burn.

Despite its design

Despite its efforts

The wick forces the flame farther to one side.

A lean begins

A morphing goiter has sprouted from the cylinder.

"Look at the candle,"

she says to me,

"it has a belly."

Hot wax pushes outward.

It attempts to break the retaining wall.

I roll over and kiss her neck

and wonder when my wife's water will break.

Q's for God's Son

Peter opens the gate

step through the light

stones of gold

a path built via faith

I float forward.

"Welcome" says the robbed one

his bear is oiled

and his smile is charmed by stars

and history.

"Fuck you" I reply.

"Why did you take my nephew's eyes?"

My heavenly behavior

is not so heavenly

the lamb of all is not surprised

by my question and fire inside

as if he knew

that for years

I have been waiting to got through the gates

and have been eager to question the power

my captive faith

and strapped

because a blind baby

who did nothing

deserves my more of my love

more of my praise

than a man in the sky.


Just when I planned to make a video on how to properly make a smoked salmon bagle

it already exists.

Just when I thought I wanted to open a breakfast place on my side of town,

I found one that I never knew about.

Does this poem already exist?

When does the pursuit become negligible because there are no new ideas?

If I write more, does it make this poem more original?

More authentic?

Did Ginsburg howl in anger at the idea that someone might have already penned his gore'ish style?

Is that why it is so long? The more he wrote, the less likely someone could claim he copied?


Too hot, too cold, just right.

Pleasing a woman is always fight.

Folk tales don't know,

If the frog will turn,

Let down your hair,

Watch the prince climb and yearn.

Magazine wisdom tries to impart.

With just ten things to earn her heart.

Yet all of the lists,

say different things,

True passions should consist,

With a fat diamond ring.

Yet they don't want gifts.

And they don't want your thrift.

They say open ears,

A charming clean smile,

Handkerchief for tears,

And just patience a mile.

All we know,

I have written below:

You should...

And never...

Remeber to...

And they will love you till death do you part.

My Affair

Achievement has been on the tongues

Of everyone.

Are you on the right track

Yet sitting still?

Did you invest correctly

leaving room for the thrill?

The rat race is a addictive

Like porn and caffeine.

Did I do enough today

Or will I die empty?

Suggestions Invited.


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