I Wrote A New Book

My sixth book, Sensitive Soul, is available on Amazon.

Click here to buy it.

Here’s the Amazon description:

In his newest book of poems, Sensitive Soul, Charles B. Snoad continues to heal from depression and post-traumatic stress disorder. Recurring themes include self-doubt, self-acceptance, God, forgiveness, silence, the moon, the sky, and bodies of water. The speakers in these poems don’t always know who they are or where they’re going, but their voices emanate from the same source: a trauma survivor, in love with words, embracing the power of his sensitive soul.

The Hole Story

I’m OK
with feeling
down today

I woke up
on the wrong side
of my head
with a lump
in my throat
and a limp in my leg

tender is the nightmare
said my father
who never slept
standing up
like a stumbling block

when my father was a kid
a tomboy who chased
him on the playground
said in his mother’s voice:

“the best part of you
is still
running down
your old man’s leg”

or maybe the best
part of me to honor
his memory made
this hole story up

No-Man

Call me No-Man
I will teach you
The meaning of strife

Watch me sink
Or swim
In the belly of a wail
Just a stone’s throw
From a sandcastle
Bucket in the sky

Row your boat
Asunder watch me
Spit or swallow
My pride

Tie forget-me knots
To a paradox before
Graduate schools of fish
Watch me sink
Or swim in the deep
End of knowledge

It’s not the size
Of the No-Man
On an island

It’s the emotion
Of the ocean
Under the weather

Forty-Seven Lines

The dreamer
Wide awake
Within me
Tells a figure
Of speech:

“The dreamer
Wide awake
Within me
Is a figure
Of speech.”

The dreamer
Wide awake
Within me
Is a figure
Of speech

In a poem where
The answer
To the question
“Who am I?”
Is in question.

Here you’ll find
Four stanzas
Five lines each
No wait now
It’s five stanzas

Five lines each
No wait now
It’s six stanzas
Five lines each
Thirty lines in all.

Why limit myself
To thirty lines
When so many words
Dance like angels
On the tip of my tongue

I’m rambling here
In stanza number eight
Which you guessed it
Contains five lines
I’ll stop at line forty-five.

I promise.
Believe me.
This is it.
Stanza nine.
Line forty-five.

Isn’t silence
Divine?

My Happy Place

it’s where the sidewalk ends
prematurely
like my youth

it’s where I lost
my marbles

it’s where I sleep
like a baby
sawing wood

my happy place
remains so vast
you can’t find it
like a needle
in a knapsack

this is the best stanza
I wrote last night
in my happy place:

“tie forget-me knots
to a paradox before
graduate schools of fish
watch me sink
or swim in the deep
end of knowledge”

it’s an exclusive club
my happy place—
no pricks allowed
except the dick I think with