I built you a sunroom
so you could watch me
as I worked in the garden.
You drew the shades.




I have stood
at cliff’s edge
in aging snow drifts
simply waiting
to melt
and slide downhill

At the sight
of rippled layers
of mountain ranges
stories and history
revealed and retold
through juvenile haze

Something within me
washes clouds from my eyes
and falls
to join the stream
down the mountainside

©2017 Jeremy Ruzich

shadows cast

I know great birds first
by their shadows
on earth slipping under
impelling eyes

I knew myself first
by reflection
the persistent latent notion
that there is more
the shadows I cast


Poems; April #1

Does it have to be this way?

Or should I give back my rights
The freedom to ask each night
What it is I lack in life
The privilege of the sacrifice

Of the Chosen Ones
The Martyrs of Circumstances
The Persons Become Statistics
The Relatives (Peace be upon Them)
Who have given up
Their happy lives
So that I may not even internalize
The peace all around me

Does it have to be this way?

Your city was so glorious
Your children were your joy
Someone asked for a burnt offering
Did you have a choice?

You had the work ethic
But no work
You slipped into the trap
As gradual as humanly probable
Someone proclaimed you the enemy
Did you have a chance?

Does it have to be this way?

Nieces Nephews
Because your guardians were led to believe
In the wisdom and intelligence of the powers that be
Your future is clouded and heavy
Like the water you drink
Someone elevated efficiency above purity
Did you have a voice?

San Pedro Sula
Sister Mother
You’ve seen too much
You’ve felt too much
You’ve lost too many
Someone prayed for justice but desired execution
Whose blood? Whose hands?

You lived in the emerald lung
Of a vast body
But I coveted the metallic glow
Of your Sacred Heart
I asked it be given me
And so you found yourself in the business of excavation
Digging into your chest numbed by the extraction
Leaving only scars of mud for your compensation
Soon only scars of mud for your entire nation
Someone consumed your Sacred Heart
Did you have a choice?

Does it have to be this way?


Poems; March #2

the mist
lightly stippling
your exposed skin
One by one
the blind drops
encounter the contours
of your face
Stop and rest
for long enough
as countless specks fall
to the ground
into earth
or onto you
rain shadow
your likeness
drop by blind drop
Thus is Your image
known to a cloud