Luke Boyd is an inner city high school teacher who spends much of his free time binge-reading and purge-writing. He is also an avid wine enthusiast (which sounds much better than just saying he drinks alot of wine) who enjoys spending summers traveling and writing, though not necessarily writing while traveling. He is currently working on a Masters Degree and has been published in Silverthought, Megan's Closet, Bewildering Stories, and several other publications. Boyd will not turn down a free cup of coffee...ever.

1) COFFEE (IN ALL ITS VARIOUS FORMS)

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2) FRESH LINED PAPER (IN ODD SHAPES AND COLORS)

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3) THE FEEL OF A NEW BOOK IN MY HANDS

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4) WORKSHOPPING WRITING

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5) THE CLEVELAND BROWNS (WHOA, HOW DID THEY GET ON HERE?)

THINGS LUKE DISLIKES

1) MEDIA COVERAGE FOR TERRORISTS AND / OR MASS MURDERERS

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2) SELF-SERVING, DISCOURTEOUS ADULTS (CHILDREN HAVE AN EXCUSE, THEY'RE CHILDREN!)

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3) BEING GIVEN ULTIMATUMS

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4) FAST FOOD

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5) IGNORANCE/ NARROW-MINDED THINKING

Leave a message for Luke on the SITE
FORUM

SELECTED POETRY

by
Luke Boyd

APPARITIONS

I am trying to put my finger on the thing—
The one that makes me curse you.
Under my breath,
While we make love.

Like watching angels
Tear each other
Limb
From
Limb,
I break you down
To equal halves—
Earth
And
Sky.

I lament though not alive,
You scorn the world in which you thrive:
the Heavens envy of your eye,
the Oceans of your salted skin.
the Soil ‘neath you weeping cries
in wanting for that porcelain.

and I can only clutch at you
in passing fits of vision—
for Heaven sent to Hell are bent
such wanton apparitions.

© Luke Boyd

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THE GUITAR (For Kate)

Take the drink away,
Not the Guitar.
Scrape away ten years—
Tell me who I might be.
Go back and give me a nosebleed
The first time I couldn’t stop.
Show me where I would be right now
If someone had loved me
Carefully.
Take away the hammer in my head.
And take the strangers away—
The ones who console me.
Apply the brakes,
Or let me kill myself
And sleep in my skin peacefully tonight.
Little by little,
Take away all that I have:
Mute my voice,
Cut my fingertips,
Kill my children as they sleep.
The Guitar will be my last confidant,
Though I know,
One by one,
Even her strings will snap.

© Luke Boyd

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DEER

I couldn’t help but catch
The placid,
Glassy, blackened stare—
Interrupted only by
The flies collecting there.

© Luke Boyd

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ARMS INTO NEW ENGLAND

I am leaving
This morning—
Before it is light
And before you wake.

I am leaving
You this note—
This is trepidation
At 5:18 AM.

Fifty miles north mutation begins—
Greens go gray,
The sound of tires on seamed cement is
Incessant,
Inseparable.
Lanes wind through mountains
And road becomes rock.
Hollows
Fall
Into
Gorges
where
the
fog
never
lifts.

At every exit,
Weary travellers peel away
From the arms into New England.
Fumbling for familiar stations as
One
By
One

They blink
Out
And everything
Home sinks
South.

© Luke Boyd