the cruelest


if spring should appear
may is merely
minutes away
with a few cherry blossoms
pink and white
frosted over
many green buds
and rain showers
not like the aprils
when i was young
or was that a dream
this is why we aspire to ascend
to leave the dirt and dust behind

©A. D. Joyce, 2018

apartment living


i remember
sometimes, over and above
the sound of our television,
i could hear her screaming
at her eight year old son roy,
a kid a year younger than me,
who lived in the apartment upstairs.
the louder and more staccato
she would hurl her words,
the more often the counterpoint
of his yelps of pain.
it usually ended
with the thud of his body
slammed against a wall.
we didn’t play together much,
but sometimes i would see him
walking his thin sad-eyed dog
that had bruise marks on his ribs
where roy would kick him.







©A. D. Joyce, 2017

concurrent events


the story is centuries old
the land-raped
children of africa
are laid waste to starvation
strewn lifeless across dirt roads
bulleted and bled out
their innocence is not lost
simply subjected to indifference

the recently poisoned
children of syria
for whom we would
sacrifice our own
in military aid
are equally as precious










©A. D. Joyce, 2017

Solar Eclipse 2016: Three Poems


When I was a kid, I was fascinated with all things outer space–planets, the moon, stars, and sun. Solar eclipses were exciting, and I remember trying to make an eclipse viewer with pieces of cardboard. There’s a total eclipse happening tonight, so in its honor, here are a trio of poems from past posts. They hint at the possibilities and flights of imagination that the heavens inspire in me.

voidascenevolution©A. D. Joyce, 2016

A Matter of Record


Earlier this year, I visited the neighborhood I lived in as a young child (see my poem, in search of a play). I hadn’t been there since the family moved from there. I knew the house was long gone–replaced by highway–but I didn’t expect what remained of the residential area  to be so quiet, worn, and tired. But life indeed goes on.

All photos by A.D. Joyce.


The street abruptly stops short here now.


My old house would have been on the far side of the highway.



©A. D. Joyce, 2014