the man in the moon 4.26

I try to believe
that your never uttered words
are the crescent moon

with negative space
closepacked with rocks and water
hidden, trapped inside

depths of the mantle
even though it is often

the smile of the man
in the moon is a cold one
lighting night pathways

but never bringing any
warmth to bask upon your skin

Haiku 6.15

yellow pollen coats

your side of the red porch swing

where we’d sit at night

Tanka for memorial day

far away thunder

fat drops splatting on pavement

wisps of steam rising

billowing flags at half mast

taps echoes through the valley

500 year storm

flood water rising

eating at the riverbanks

large bites of the shore

old pathways for all crumble

forcing change on everyone

A Schrodinger moment

I didnt read yet

the note you left

on the table last week

as you walked out the door,

letting I still love you

faintly waft in with the lilacs

from the neighbor’s yard.


As long as the note

stays unopened,

we stand looking both

ahead at a new beginning

and back at what is no more.

breaking through the coldness

morning diffuses
through thickly frosted windows
your lips soft with sleep


evening’s scarlet eye
captivates my thoughts – pulls them
always beyond the horizon

you beckon me –
red-light, come-hither,
come-back to bed

gibbous moon
inviting exploration
of the darkened edge

faint moonlit sheen
on your hip’s rounded curve –
cleft hidden in shadows

midnight cirrus wisps
scuttle across the sky’s expanse
suddenly visible, then gone

I taste your soft sighs
escaping – like us, a singularity
vaporizing into the night – see literary studies:
“an item or event triggered by an item that results in divergent narratives,
in which the singularity alters the new timeline
away from a prior “default” state”.

Slipping through my fingers

The cloudless sky is dark with rain-
I cannot see the stars.

My thoughts of you, July noon clear:
laugh, curve of cheek,
the musky scent of your hollows.

Even when I close my eyes,
I can’t conjure up your smile.

Missing my connection

circling in midair
waiting for clearance to land
trapped between sky and ground
without purchase
on either
while others above and below
continue on
to finish their journey

like the man
sentenced to having no country
always at sea
never touching the edges
of something
you want to call your own

we reach out each time
passing by, stretching
to just brush fingertips
never quite enough
to clasp hands,
to grab on,
to stay.

how we communicate

This must be how it feels
to the tree alone
in the forest,
only the breeze to stroke
her leafy green hair,

to have limbs
rattle and shake,
as she bends or breaks
in the midst of the storm,
broken bits piled in heaps
or scattered
across the lawn,

to fall
and have no one
acknowledge the sound.

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