Barely alive at five forty five
Off to do something I’d rather not.
On the train in the rain
With a head full of pain,
Wishing this hard seat
Was a swinging cot.

To mountains and snow, off we go!
Says everyone except me.
They long for fun
And insist there’s some
But only cold (and more cold)
Can I see.


Mt. Haleakala

The sight of the distant city lights
Fades beneath the mountain clouds,
As the birds on wind, aloft,
Call out from the sky below.

The evening Sun rests at my side,
Glowing soft and red.
Upon the horizon lies
The dying embers of a day
Gone by.

But here I am still rising
(So close to the end of my trail),
Reaching for the stars and for heaven–
Yearning for a glimpse of eternity.

The Sun’s last tendrils of light,
Grace my face like a mother’s touch:
Warmth for the cold and weary.
Urging me forth She calls out,

“Take my hand!
Come and fly away with me.
Come roam the heavens
Just o’er your head,
And go wherever,
Your heart may guide you!
Just trust in me.”

Lingering light fades to black
As I turn to head back,
Leaving my dreams
To dance through the stars,
Without me.

Mt. Haleakala is located on Maui, Hawaii. The sunset from the peak after a grueling ascent and plunging temperatures was one of the best I’ve ever seen (and I’ve seen a decent many). For anyone unwilling-or able- to climb, you can drive straight the observatory at the summit and get the same view–though I can’t say it’ll be the same experience.

The Cosmos

When I was born, the Cosmos was young.
It’s exponential growth had scarcely begun.
As an infant, I learned to always ask, “Why?”
And the universe joyfully expanded with each reply.
Across the island of knowledge I began to crawl
And found not an edge or end, but endless sprawl.

Until, I heard something I knew was absurd.
Even though people called scientists avidly concurred
That the Cosmos was finite and several billion years old,
Who were they to limit what my universe could hold?
When, contrary to the revered “intellectuals’” thinking,
Visceral evidence told me, the Cosmos was shrinking.

And changing its age and remaking its frame
Into the young girl from the train that gave me her name.
Then suddenly it rebounded and was a bliss without time
Full of youth, and love, and picnics with red wine.
But reality returned as the Cosmos transformed
When, through heat and passion, two twinkling stars formed.

For years the Cosmos was delighted, in its pair of lights,
Let time flow as normal, only occasionally taking flight.
I watched, content, as my stars learned to ask, “Why?”,
And knew their Cosmos would be even better than mine.
And at last I thought I’d found every sprawling answer,
Until Chaos derailed my commute, that night in November.

The gentle stream of time is gone (if it ever existed),
And the Cosmos lay sprawled in the dirt, cold and twisted.
And all that I cherished as pure and profound
Now fits in my box, six feet under ground.

Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think!

Judgement Day

When he came down from the heavens above,
We welcomed him, arms wide open with love.
We showered this god with adoration
And eagerly sought his revelation.

Prostrated before his magnificence
In an attempted rite of recompense
Under the golden throne of creation,
We prayed for everlasting salvation,

But beneath elated expectations
A seed of fear for the implications
Of his coming grew from a dark hearts’ place:
To whom would He impart his holy grace?

“I have come to you from my seat on high,”
His voice echoing clear throughout the sky,
“To reside in my temple you have made,
And bid you come within the palisade.

“Rejoice and be merry! The day has come
When the god you have worshipped with the drum,
Spear, missile, and gun, from the dawn of time
Reveals the folly of all your ‘crimes.’

“You, who preach peace atop mountains of arms,
Who preach love while using deceptive charms
To bless the knife that stabs thy neighbors back
And turn a cold shoulder to those who lack.

“Oh, my sweet innocents, why do you cry?
From such atrocities, you cannot hide.
It’s me to whom you’ve devotedly prayed
Hark, look at the temple of Death you’ve made!

“It was I who made you ‘in His image,’
Yet you exceeded my best hopes and wishes.
My children, My loves, come meet your maker!
You’re loving Father, the undertaker.”

There Was an Attempt

It’s been a minute
Since writing five-seven-five,
So I wrote this haiku…

Lunchtime at the Local Shrine

High flying cicada woodwinds
Soar over the distant roar
Of passing cars beyond the gate.

A soft and pleasant pattering
Of trickling water from the mouth
Of an ever-drooling dragon
Stretching its long cast-iron hide
Around it’s spiritual pool.

Important looking people pass through.
Some stop to breath in the peace,
But most use the rocky path
To cut a corner off their route
And shave a coveted second
From their midday commute.

One leisure old man hobbles by
Unhurried by the pressing of passing time.
He stops at the fountain,
Grabs the ritual washing ladle firmly,
And takes a nice drink from the water,
Slurping loud enough for the spirits to hear.

A quick percussive rasping
Of hands clapping sounds twice
As a woman runs through ritual prayer,
Bowing to the shrines, one after another,
Hardly given a moment to each.
I wonder for what she prays?

Perhaps more time…


In the Park

He wakes up on top of me
Wearing the same tattered clothes,
As dank and filthy as garbage
On a hot and humid afternoon.

He slips away every day before dawn.
Before they come to check on me,
And clean my worn out skin
And clear my space of thrown out dreams
And rusted needles still dripping
With last night’s cheap thrill. Read More

On the March

“Alright ladies. Time to go. Get your shit and fall in!”

“A true fuckin’ poet, the Cap’ is.” Grumbled Marla “Dive bar” McTavern.

“What’s that, Dive?” Snapped the bat-eared Captain, who was eager for a conciliatory battle: something to replace the one that never came during the day’s march.

But Dive knew better. She opted to get busy gathering her “shit” in lieu of speaking. Even a simple, “Nuthin’ ma’am,” would be an open invitation for the Captain’s pent up frustration. In fact the entire squad had gone silent in a way that eerily resembled the chilling calm before battle––for that is exactly what this was. The Captain was poised to launch a battery of verbal bombardment at any poor fool that spoke up. And just when the tide had seemed to turn for the better, a poor fool, Bri “6-pack” Jackson, belatedly entered the fray. Read More


The rotting corpse of a dragonfly
Hangs over hung-headed commuters
Like a pterodactyl fossil in Fukui,
Forever aloft on calcified wings
For children to look up and wonder:
From what mysterious realm did you come?
But beneath the fossilized dragonfly,
No such wide-eyed adolescents pass by.
This Train Station of Natural History’s only patrons
Are closed-eyed, downtrodden business men:
Too busy catching up on sleep walking
To raise their gaze above the floor.

Read More

Rain Drop Drag Race

Droplets of rain drag race
Across the crowded window pane
As the train departs from Hachiman.

As the faster racers
Devour their slower opponents,
They gain in both size and speed.
I’m unable to avert my gaze
From their cannibal carnage.

Beyond, a ghostly backdrop
Of formless black shadows
Inhabit the night outside.

We watch the rain race,
These spectating specters and I,
They shout odd and wagers
While I place my money
On the coming of a new today.

A flash of cameras
The photo finish lights
The winners’ long comet tail.
A thunderous roar from the ghouls
Who’ve been exposed by lightning.

The droplets come to a stop
As the train pulls into my station.
The race is over.
Occasional flashes of camera bulbs
Still light the night sky.
The crowd is still howling
As I collect my meager winnings
And bid the night farewell.