A Stone for You

A key for me

and a stone for you.

Evening comes with subtle change.

Two hands in an empty box,

reaching for a silver coin.

An old familiar dog watches idly by,

as the cotton cloth hangs loose and free.

In one hand, a flame.

In the other, a knife.

To cut and burn would be the only truth.

A key for me

and a stone for you.

– JS

No Difference

The windows still burn on into morning light,

while the gulls and crows find fragile houses elsewhere.

Ashes cloak a gravely shore.

Lonesome wooden posts stand still,

paralyzed figures facing an endless blue.

Fall into the sea at last,

resting now.

Storms approaching slow and steady,

clouds rolling past.

Night or day,

the water knows no difference.

– JS

The Apple Trees Watch Overhead

The apple trees watch overhead,

as the old orchard dog takes his midday snooze.

Evening arrives with a subtle breeze.

His work here is done.

An old farmhouse is soon filled with familiar voices.

The worn wooden floorboards seem to speak to their soles,

while laughter clouds the evening autumn air.

All the fruit will be picked,

and the rows will be clean.

As he rises with the morning sun,

a new day brings an old familiar routine.

The apple trees still watch overhead,

as the old orchard dog takes his midday snooze.

– JS


Every man’s a joker.

Every boy’s a fool.

They tell me to be weary.

They tell me to be kind.

Walking in the outside lane,

seeing through the lines.

Standing on a rocky shore,

casting stones into the blue.

A girl sits across the way,

staring at my side of the bay.

A shy and timid wave we share,

as we simply sit and stare.

I know why every man’s a joker,

and every boy’s a fool.

It must be for those sweet blue eyes,

the ones you saw me through.

– JS



“The rain will make you young again,”

you whispered in my ear.

I think of all the sleep I missed

because of you that year.

Now we’re sitting on the roof again

or swinging in the park.

I think of us too much these days,

always wondering if you might feel the same way.

If the rain could make me young again,

I’d travel back to you.

I’m still waiting on the rain, I guess.

You just haven’t got a clue.

– JS

The Marks We Left

What’s become of all the marks we left?

The summer leaves its grit with me,

and skeletons litter all the window sills.

The rain arrives in unforgiving sheets,

as we wait together in silent spaces.

There are screams in my pockets

and stones in both my hands.

A grey haze shields the sun’s rays,

setting fire to our fragile straw throats.

Chase me up and down the city blocks.

Run your fingers through my greasy hair.

The fall will bring me all the peace I need.

What’s become of all the singing birds?

Or have my ears only become deaf?

I’m still holding all the summer’s grit.

But what’s become of all the marks we left?

– JS