Monday, June 29, 2015


Lately writing had been on or off
Like a faucet that doesn't know how to just drip

I wish it were a constant flow
Words one over another over another
But instead

It is either words

Slipping down the drain before I can get them on the page


It is off

Nothing garble that can barely build crumbled up letters and scattered presentation

But in the icy winter of this book

I ask for a slow

So it doesn't all freeze.

Riley Welch

Saturday, June 27, 2015

Mugged Disappointment Part Four

Here we have another installment of my poems about horrible coffee. As you can see this is part four - will this ever end? Will I ever reach a point in my life where all the coffee is better than the last? Or maybe at least not as bad as the coffee presented to you in my Mugged Disappointment series. So here you have it, another terrible mug:

Waking up early, groggy, and beat
I decided this morning I need a treat
Instead of taking the time to craft my usual plain brew
My favorite beverage would make this morning easier to get through

So I left a few minutes early, to swing by the shop
To get an iced drink, that espresso…drop drop drop
Not my normal coffee shop, or usual town
I figured an order so simple would not procure a frown

But when my drink was served up, opaque and heavy
I got a bad feeling this would taste messy
And I predicted the future upon my first sip
And to keep from spitting it out, bit my lip

This was burnt and bitter and very hard
And I trudged through that beverage like a caffeine filled marsh
I suddenly longed for my plain ol’ coffee
‘I paid for this!’ I thought scoffing

And for the first time it couldn’t be finished
I poured out that coffee, my pride diminished
I’ve had plenty of coffee, iced, hot, and blended
But all of these bad mugs – I’m a little offended

I really want to be done writing about bad cups of Joe
But when that will happen, I do not know
It seems my mugged disappointment will never be relieved
But in the next cup, I will always believe.


Riley Welch

Wednesday, June 24, 2015

The Same

Maybe all these
Nonsense connections
I try and make
Are just taking up
Important head space
Dropped off and shoved out
For something better 

But now left all filled
By things that won't help me
Solve my problems
Not by a long shot

If this is like this
How is that like that
Fill in the blanks 
Do you get it? 
Do you not?

And now I'm running in circles
And can't figure out 

How to exist in this world
Without any doubt. 

Riley Welch

Monday, June 22, 2015

The Burgundy Collection

If you've been reading for a while, you know that I have this blog to force myself to write. It makes me accountable for at least three poems a week. In addition to that, I write whenever I get an idea, so I carry a thin notebook with me almost everywhere I go. When I fill up a book, I write a poem about it. This one had a burgundy spine, and it's a little shorter than normal - but that's kind of how these four months felt. Enjoy!

One more book
One more binding
Of pages and pages and pages

And scribbled out thoughts -
Sometimes half empty,
Sometimes so full they're too heavy
To move off these sheets.

Pouring and pouring,
If you didn't count the repeats
Have I built a dictionary?

One made with
different inks and depths

And scribbled out,
Heart-felt and handwritten.

It's lacking definition
So maybe I've just
Scrawled a book

Three messy,
Inked up,
Strong and personal,

Goodbye burgundy,
You've been good.

Riley Welch

Saturday, June 20, 2015

More Locked Boxes

Have you ever thought of all the secrets
In the minds of those dead
The interlacing connections and
That someone told

'Now take this to your grave'
And they did
No one heard them
Maybe a word whispered once
To a baby
or pet
or plant
To someone that couldn't repeat it.

Maybe in a prayer
To a god
Just to get it out of their mind.

Have you ever thought of all those secrets?
All lost?
Buried feet and feet?
Under grass a dirt?
Or burned up to a fine ash?
Spread everywhere?

They turned one over another
Back into the air
Where they once traveled
To burden
Someone's thoughts.

Until with great relief,
it ended.

Riley Welch

Monday, June 15, 2015


I can't push out the words I needs to speak
Or write
I have all these
Words backed up inside me
But I can't grab a translator
Not right now.

How do you ask
Someone to translate
The solid thick thoughts you have
Into a smooth, running, liquid line of words
Funneled out
Like a drain
They must be melted
Then filtered
Into streaming letter
After letter
Building a ripe story
Pure for whatever they need.

Riley Welch

Saturday, June 13, 2015


Peeling off perfectly glossed
Sheets and sheets
The tug on your cuticle
Is satisfaction

And connections are attempted
Barely finished
Never finished
I say attempted
Because they are not to be confused
For complete
But if one thing gets deciphered
Maybe everything can be figured out
For instance
If one thing is figured out
How to succeed at one thing
At one facet of the world
It could be patterned into everything
If once thing is learned
All things can be learned

Cross page metaphors
Do one, do them
Everything becomes a routine
Laundry loads
One after another
Empty the lint catcher
Pour the detergent
Shut the door, check it's locked,
Three times
Routine is comfortable

Especially when you do it right,
Over and over and over.

Riley Welch

Wednesday, June 10, 2015

Running Backwards

Does it count as rewinding,
When it all moves right past,
Probably not, but, maybe not

When the houses drift backwards
And all my right turns are left
But real life rewinds,
Don't count in present
They won't count in my past
Or future, but that's forward
For now the clouds just drift
Forwards and I'll circle back,
For a forward moving back step seems to be my path.

Riley Welch

Saturday, June 6, 2015

11:55 pm and with 28% Battery

Sometimes my poems just seem like journal entries
Long winding


Everything always seems to start with overlappings
Nothing really there
Until one after another
Piled up
2-d images don’t exist here
we cant imagine them
but sometimes I do
And I imagine they are the first existing layer
Of anything


Really. Of anything
Just like the outline
The one hundred percent
Two-dimensional outline
And when you change your angle
Even the slightest bit
Whatever it is disappears
Because that’s physics, punk.

Overlaps and overlaps later
Something exists
Maybe a dog
A tree
I don’t know
Books, words
Strawberry rhubarb pies
And eventually
The world is built

Round and round and round.

Now don’t let me lose you here
The world
Was probably a single un-overlapped two-dimensional thing
And can you imagine that.

Riley Welch

Wednesday, June 3, 2015

Human Body

During a supremely fun day at my grandfathers with lots of people, food, and drinks, a few of us stayed up until 4 am. During that time we did some really enjoyable poetry exercises. These two poems are from one we did where the topic was 'the human body' and the poems had to be five lines. 

They say matter is conserved
but such a small thing gets so large
and I guess it makes sense
food is matter too
but who can fathom
how babies grow?


Your long legs lengthen themselves out
across state line
and when your lips curl into an 'O'
all I can say is 'definitely'.

Riley Welch

Monday, June 1, 2015


I  had a friend once ask me why I write poetry. I didn't really know how to explain it, but this poem is my best guess. 

Poetry is a snapshot landscape.

In my head I used to take scenes
and save them
Dripping with description
Painting a picture
A moment
And I'd hit save
And I'd tell myself
That it could someday
Fit snuggly
At the beginning of a book chapter
Nestled inside a cozy story
Safe and warm

It wasn't until later
I called myself a poet

And I realized these didn't need to be
Tucked in corners of other
Of writing

They were stand alone.

Because not everything needs a full explanation.