The Hand That Writes

About the Author

I write poetry that doesn’t always behave itself.

Sometimes it is dark. Sometimes it is ridiculous. Sometimes a mixture of both. I have a particular fondness for gothic tales, horror, the macabre, and the wonderfully unreliable boundary between the sinister and the absurd. Although I like to think that my poetry bites, sometimes it merely nibbles.

I have a particular weakness for limericks. I enjoy the discipline of fitting an idea, an image, and a punchline into five lines—and then finding a way to make the final line do something the reader wasn’t expecting.

But not everything I write is intended to make you laugh. Some poems are quieter: reflections on love, loss, mortality, memory, and the people who leave their mark on us long after they are gone.

It has been mentioned that I often leave a twist in the tail that upends the readers expectations. I see it as rewarding the reader for having stayed with me to the end.

I write what interests me. And if something I’ve written makes you smile, wince, laugh—or wonder “Where the hell did that come from?”—then perhaps it has done its job.