Unbreakable Kite

The hawk has its dance
with endless ease,
unbreakable kite.

State, Ohio

At last I see the moon

slicing through the trees

wherein fireflies

paint its air spilling
fluorescent gasoline,

beneath the canopy

setting flames

above the dew

of grass
that everlasting
wholly mast just
for me to grasp,

where I sleep

is here in Ohio
wholesome in the heart
for an endless tomorrow,

that west I've sought for
is to be mine at last
steering from the stern
into the unending vast.

Images from July

all shot with my Holga CFN

Wherever You Are, Afar.

i had seen you in a dream-

on hills

swelled

soft breast,

who's hair ran wild

with wind & curl

& hand near sewn to chest,

who's heart of mine measured

no matter which height

grows like wild flowers

these eyes at your sight

& warm at dawn

the crisp of light

which glows my heart

in wholesome might,

our blushing gold fields

that fade when I wake-

will never once be washed

when the tide pulls its wave,

know that I love you

no matter where you are,

my heart is there for you

in the wind

wherever you are, afar.

2 Haikus

Evil Hell-Beast haiku

her lips are the wound
stay away or you will die
she is venomous.

Ant haiku

O shoe, please spare me
You killed my whole family,
Don't be an asshole.

The Night Is Calling Out

Written on December 5, 2010

In Night, saints sweep through the houses,

to those who near the shade of whispering shrouds-

in tied up blouses;

slipping words through to rooftops

for ghosts to catch in nets,

to prance upon the topsail winds,

below the eyes of Van Gogh skies

for rest.

A sincere extinguish of the candle’s final flame,

that everlasting wish, wholly

from the lover’s name,

to dance as the ghost

to know the newborn heart,

to love the night at most,

to soar as if a lark.

The games one has lost

are the games one has won,

the sting of Winter’s chill

turns to Springful Sun,

that love one has longed for

will be warm as Summer rain

to drop against your skin

to ease the weary vein.

To those who’ve kissed their loves

left ‘lone

on the tomb of one’s gravestone,

where all but faint whispers

echo the voice you once knew,

so fondly felt,

someday it’ll shake like dew;

one’s love is strong, no doubt,

and in turn, your heart,

the strongest flame that’s never put out.

They will lay a hand to breast

close their eyes, to bless

with rest,

to harpoon the cape

with a lasting brooch;

paint the last kiss

on the ancient lip,

draws out the final breath, swallow,

sinks deep through the chest.

Ghosts will prance

from rooftop to rooftop,

sailing through the milky white

with warm content in every flight-

under Van Gogh skies

where we’ve questioned the road

of its maplight glimmer,

it will grow dim

and fade,

just as is the candle,

that will put itself out.

When there lay imprints

in the snow,

one may want to retrace exactly

to that ancient, youthful glow;

but youth is always with us,

buried in our hearts,

like the candle that never fades

it will always remain the same,

what we leave behind us

makes us immortal all the same.

A Modern Joan of Arc

written on May 2, 2009

she stands there

at the corner road,

skin worn and cut

her clothes

much like her weathered skin,

she looked to the sky,

she spoke to the sky,

a hand to her chest

eyes as large as a whale,

among the people, no one

would care to think

that she might be

somebody different,

no one cares for her words,

as they are only voices

voices voices

that none would care

to listen,

angled over the head,

perhaps a halo hovered?

angels to be weathered

as relics would be covered,

reincarnation never existed.

10 Years Ago

Ten Years Ago, sometime after 9/11, I wrote my first poem.

It was a small haiku.

What spawned from that poem came a great bounty of literature- reading, writing and finding beauty in words.

It was perhaps unintentional that it should coincide with that terrorist attack, but thinking on it now, I realize just how important it was for me to witness tragedy and feel pain in my heart that changed my life completely.

A relative died in Tower 1...

It was the most terrifying feeling in my life.

Ten Years Ago, I was 14, attending a school that eventually led me to be President of its Poetry Club I called "Deepest Fools".

The amount of writing I produced was phenomenal.

I'd stay up for hours, spilling out words, forming lengthy stories, plays and poems.

When I look back on all the years from that point, I became exactly what I needed to be. The most pivotal moment for me was having the privilege of meeting the teacher and great friend, Nick Probst.

He taught me about flow and voice. I wrote a poem and read it in front of my class. My voice was soft- eventually becoming louder and louder to the point of screaming.

The last words of that poem was: WAKE UP GO BACK TO SLEEP - WAKE UP GO BACK TO SLEEP - AND DREAM THE OCEAN IN THE BEAT!

When I won my school's poetry award, I eventually found out that Nick nominated me for it.

I never received any award before that.

His kindness and generosity has stuck with me still and I've never been more thankful for his kindness.

An inspiration.

My heart is with my relative,

with the words I've forged and the people I've met.

I love every human being and only wish for people to forge dreams- not war.

Ten Years Ago...

I became who I am today and will never forget that horrible time.

My heart is for the people of that day.

Holding back your own tears is the hardest thing to do.

Photos from the west.

Meditation

Should the moment arise-

sink your body

in lotus,

fall alone as a gentle leaf

collapsing only with the wind,

divide body from mind

and float

into the between

and dive

carelessly

carving into the air

as a wing,

to slice the water

as a knife,

finding only that one

becomes an ocean
from time to time
blossoming
at the shore
with shoulders arched
diving into the sand.

Sonora Review is Sad

Way back in November I submitted to the Sonora Review, patiently waiting for a response. Only until now do I receive an e-mail stating the winner was selected earlier in the year.

Perhaps I'll submit my work to something with a shorter period, something monthly.

Walked most of the way from Berkeley to San Anselmo.

Was it crazy? Yes.

Should I have done such a thing? Yes and no.

Last night was fantastic.

First reading in San Francisco.

Groovy.

Whales of the Desert Sea

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So long, Nevada

There are endless fields

that seemingly span

forever,

covered in a blanket of gold,

Pastures patched

around in rows spread

about

beside the road,

Great hills in the distance

are the breasts of California,

pouting toward the skies,

their brassiere tits perked poutward,

Down this ribbon,

vacant houses, wells,

powerlines bare

as the oil swells drawing

out black honey,

Motorcyclists roar by-

some spooned like lovers,

this kid tries to grab a bike

in the middle of the highway

an invitation to die,

Crosses in a single row

form one great line,

a single thread connecting each,

The moon of the afternoon

is as big as Texas,

that silver dollar shining

over Nevada mountains,

People have spat out undesirables,

leather seating

and

U.S. Maps,

all to get to California.

Bursting Colossus Chorus

My hands cup sweet honey

from Big Sur sea

running through my hair

dripping from the Sunrise

spilling red velvet warmth

all over my body-

a dawn chorus

saturated by a golden hue

aroused by crashing waves

rising further up my legs

sand receding under my feet

the breeze a gentle degree

touched by ancient hands

who’ve drowned in oceans

from fish to airmen

to mammal to seamen

ancient protein shake-

whirls of wild winds

who’ve molded into shape

the canvas of Big Sur coastline

shoreline

all mine

for the taking-

I will drink your waters

and indulge

in your intoxicating fluid.

Some things to be lost at sea.

They'll fall out of pockets

to disappear

in snow covered fields

along the highway

on an interstate,

cars lose control and slide

on far stretches of ice sheets,

to be lost and forgotten

as are the items that fall from pockets

to be buried in frost

to erode,

to be hidden in thought.

Forget the burned finger edge

from the fastened cigarettes,

the loose life crashes against you,

waves smell of burning rubber

down highways covered in white,

Some nights the highways are empty canals

with frostbitten roadkill

waiting to cross to the other side

few hoping to be delivered a number of feet

from the hopeless rush

of midnight light.

There are nights

like wild rushing rivers

that sweep along the countryside

through dreams of wild slivers

sitting on the carcasses of washing machines

watching colours erupt

in firework lights down the interstate- in the distance,

emptied serene flights.

Waiting for the endless engines

to stop in the dark

holding the breath,

not knowing when to dream

where the Fall weathers the skin-

you'll feel it beside burning trees

as they, too,

die at times

but burn within many dreams.

We've been lost

as yesterday's snow

rushing down the roads

past hopeful

down

to cover the ground, where-

in night, through a park-

birds

whistling

over a patch of paper:

letters to hopeless love,

now hidden to vanish

underneath the pale moon,

just like the snowflakes in New York state.