The Art of the Spider

The Art of the Spider

The art of the spider is patience
Its venom is held in reserve
For when the web breaks unbidden
Or if the prey works up the nerve
To resist that which nature intended
To swerve from the course of its fate
The spider’s unseen strength
Is the will to sit and silently wait

Gene G. McLaughlin 2022

Lonely Skee-Ball Lane

Lonely Skee-Ball Lane

In an empty arcade, exists activity

None arising from life

Sounds of machines humming and beeping

Existences clear and free of strife

Bells ring to alert no one of nothing

Digital voices entice the absent to play

They can’t distract their intended targets

To attempt to chase their worries away

Oh the pop-a-shot lights

Are ever oh so bright

Offering buttons to press

Promising prizes and tickets to win

As the cabinets bathe in fluoresce

Waiting for the day’s simulations to begin

Gene G. McLaughlin 2022

Flicker and Shine

The spark
A Dose
Of Art
As love
Tears you

Gene G. McLaughlin 2020

An Artist’s Heart

One good moment

A spark of art

A souls movement

A missing part

Grace captured

From promising start

To the brief rapture

Of an artist’s heart

Gene G. Mclaughlin 2016

9 Dollar Poem

I sold a poem for 9 dollars

Then bought sea monkeys

With the funds

Art, commerce, and life’s miracles

Existing together as one

Gene G. McLaughlin 2015

Don’t Wear Your Damage As Blame

Don’t wear your damage

As blame

But as a life lived

Too close to the sun

Exhibit your pain like art

Let no two joys be the same

Gene G. McLaughlin 2014

She Who Is The Speaker Of Her Dreams

Speaker of Dreams

Dreams can die together

They are viral

Every intertwined

Dreams can grow forever

They are vital

Slow to unwind

She who is the speaker of her dreams

Should not be scorned

Embolden this world do not lessen

You have been warned

The dreams which you dismiss

The dreams which the crowd denies

Is that which in perpetuity is lost

And all that loss implies

Gene G. McLaughlin 2014

The Hill



I haven’t a clue what went down at Calvary

Centuries ago

You can put the things in a giant endless box

That I don’t know

I do know much of narratives

The stories we tell ourselves

There are true things in stories

That we create for ourselves

If you tell me Romans might have feared

What they didn’t understand

If you tell me Judas might have betrayed

Someone he loved and respected as man

If you tell me that 3 men were crucified

On crosses plunged deep into the land

If you tell me those that had love for them cried

As the the blood dripped from their nail struck hands

I’d believe you for the most part

I know these stories to be mostly true

I’d believe you at least in part

Because from experience these thing are true to you

People have ever been sacrificed

People have ever been betrayed

Maybe one was named Jesus Christ

Maybe he died today

No narrative sustains

That isn’t one that compels

No stories remain over centuries

That aren’t written in our cells

I’m somber not from a leap of faith

That is not my road

I’m somber for the parts I know are true

Those lying deep within our code

Sacrifice, love, and loss

Things which are often represented

By a lonely hill once bearing a cross

Which many hold when their sins are repented

Gene G. McLaughlin 2014


Ecosystem v2

Bryson Creek

There are dragonflies

In my earliest memories

There are no clever thoughts

No grand ambitions

Only their loud hum

In the heat of summer

The taste of sweat

Upon my tongue

The feel of damp

On my neck

The river is near

Giving and taking

Sleeping then waking

Frothy then serene

The mountain is near

Giving not taking

Bending and breaking

Its peak still unseen

There is my mother

Provider of food and love

There is my father

Before me and not above

We are of here

This valley

This land

We are from here

Our family

Our band

All I know

Is nearby

Or at least as

The bird flies

The river knew my name

When I was baptized in it

The mountain knew my name

When I walked upon it

I became of here

In my crib

As the wind blew

Through it

I cannot forget

The hum

Of horseflies

Nor the pain

Of their bite

Nor the pull

Of the river’s current

It’s inhuman might

It all escalates outward

It all internalizes inward

The river takes me elsewhere

The mountain fades from view

When I am motionless

I can hear the dragonflies

Humming there still

When I am motionless

The river carries me there

Once again

The mountain’s peak

Still out of view

Gene G. McLaughlin 2014

So Much Of Spring is Faith



So much of spring is faith

A red flower

We were not certain

Would bloom again

Alive once more

It is the unknowns

That winter creates

Which give birth to wonder

Gene G. McLaughlin 2014