Haiku on porch sitting


amble in my space

the glint of the scenery

holds quiet comforts



honeysuckle breeze,

car radio on full blast,

bird song and laughter



loneliness exists

even within full view of

lives outside of mine



Turbulent Wavelengths

if we meet and I seem mute,

it is because I am trapped

beneath crashing waves, in a rip tide

that swimming techniques can’t release me from


a pearl has been stuck in my throat since birth

creamy light rarely reflected

against my tongue, in quiet spaces

a shore is a gift unknown to me

but if ever I am graced with it’s broken landscape

I am pounded by dust devils

of shell and seaweed


like the sulking pier,

releasing barnacle ridden scripts

into shark infested waters

inviting a sunfish to take my place

for a sacrificial rite

moored for nights under moonlight

folding my entire being into

the natural order of a seascape silhouette


may hope follow the wake

through estuaries curtailing what proceeded

our linguistic bobbing

that first caused this muddy mess

ahead, in the dunes

a flock of gulls lifts the arching sunlight

in a dance of the daytime


Bottleneck Plot

idling on an asphalt river,

I saw what first appeared

to be rows of vehicles, yellow

from sunlit nurturing.


I was resting in a field of sunflowers, metallic

in procession with the wind

blinking, right or left

transmitting their desires to those around them.

I thought,

how caring of those star-imitating blooms

to care about my safety

as I started to roll forward.

Spring Garden

in warmer times we are

overwhelmingly minced up

into large rolling

dew drops gliding

over asphalt and screeching

to a halt with metal

bones and rubber

senses pounding our metal feelings through

glass or air that was once glass until it fell

away from the rusted skin

buried deep inside of a secret

compartment with an unknown depth


please open my hood

the light is on again

Low Lake

quixotic puddle, a surrounding circled

by sandy ringlets of time under tree trunks

bearing desire, beneath Earthly happenings

below fears each a different shade of brown.


awaiting the hands of the archaeologist

who lives in Earthly happenings but digs

deeper than the laborers of nearby towns

and fills pales with rocky memories to look through later

just to find the round forming tangible time,



which culminates in the rolling stones they release

from their wrinkled fingers and soft brain tissue

as it thinks of what is later

as an idea

through each individual estuary laden sphere of

circled time wheeling life creating characteristic.

Band Practice

a midday march

on a sidewalk 

in a forward motion

which is in itself a feat

in this day and age

to be and move is brave 

and it is healing. 

his saxophone dangling politely

after its booming voice connected

his voice to ours

which is an ancient voice

that makes our voices say, 

“we are all hurting but just keep walking,

keep creating and being, 

keep hoping and dreaming, 

keep connecting and listening,

and we will find our ancient voices on

a midday march”

I Fell in Love with the Dawn


I found what it meant to be deserving

in the whispering communion of yellow morning song.

behind the blinding curtain that would rise

for our most famous star.

each word that I would ever write was waiting there,

right beyond my grasp,

waiting for my grasp.

each heartbeat that had yet to fill up my ear

and every thread that longed to graze my face

was on the backside of the world,



through the spinning wonderment.



Growing Pains

when you come to this place,

you come in hobbling,

on wheels,

clutching your side,

lips pursed and eyes squinted.

filled with dancers, mechanics, truck drivers, and athletes.

experience and age do not exist on a timeline.

you’ll be seen and reassured or disappointed –

the diagnosis given will be : life has been good to you or it has not

it’s assumed that you will leave in a state of lightness,

with a straight gait or a restful face.

when the veil of glass separates at your appearance,

you limp towards a life of hardship,

holding a note that reads,

“confirmation of mortality 1x a day”


The Ghost of January

I stayed a ways behind you,

on the curling tail of a forest on it’s wedding day.

dressed in white,

veiled, but not obscured.

we could have walked hand in hand,

but we held leashes instead,

which was a separate bond in itself.

a bond that said,

“I love what you love” or “I am lonely too”.


and for each step forwards,

we left one step behind,

that held all of what was not held by our hands.