It Stings My Cheeks

The snow's fallen 
for three hours straight 
and will fall for another twelve. 
They’re those tiny flakes, 
little icy pinpricks, 
that can sting your cheeks 
should you venture out 
into their deepening realm.
I saw their scouts edging in 
from Schenectady, so small 
and light I was unsure 
if my old eyes were seeing
what really never was again.
I guess, in a way, they were.
The flakes have flipped direction now, 
except for down, 
as if Monsieur Coreolis toppled
my windowpane snow globe. 
Me.
Here. 
Inside.
You, 
looking out 
your window.
So tell me, 
why do my cheeks sting?

These Dreams I Dream

I think I’ll give up
these dreams I dream,
the waking ones where 
I’m happy, if ever I seem.
They lie on my chest 
each night as I pray,
disappear as I sleep
and then comes new day,
where I face the truth
I never was nor will
be the one in your dreams
if you’re dreaming still.
My name on your shelf
and always on your mind.
But I’ve given up ‘cause 
I never will be the kind
who could make you happy,
so happy as you might be.
Such dreams are for others
and others don’t include me.

A "Boom! There!" poem that took ten minutes and a couple of decades to write.

Food for Thought

The bookstore’s funny place. 
Most of the time when you walk inside, 
it smells like a loud library. 
All that paper and ink and glue 
is a heady brew 
to the people walking down the aisles,
squinting through scrunched expressions 
while searching for the right name or 
the right color. It’s as if they 
lost their way and wandered 
into a supermarket or corner grocery, 
trying to find some fresh something 
to feed their bodies. Only in the bookstore, 
it’s their souls and minds growling 
for sustenance. Though a latte 
would be nice, don’t you think? 
Have you seen this?

My take on a "food" poem. 
Photo by Umar Al Farouq on Unsplash

It Ain’t Nomenclature

My name, one might say, is common as mud,
ubiquitous once, seen everywhere.
I’m the third in my line, it’s in my blood,
and if that makes it common, I don’t care.

When I was a kid, my name could be spied
above doors and windows all over town.
A gin mill, that deli, the market’s side,
just stand on the corner and spin around.

As I got older I thought I needed
a cooler name, like a nom de guerre.
But my sword’s a plume, my field conceded,
and this writer, Trey, you won’t find anywhere.

So yeah, my name’s old school, but did you know…? 
I feel so uncommon when you say, “Oh, Joe.”

The task this week was to write a poem related to the idea of "common." You see what happened when I sat to it. One of my oh so common sonnets.