Category Archives: Poetry

Admitting the mosquitos won the war of open window, I have purchased screens. They come from factory instead of store. They look attractive but their presence means I won’t be reaching outside any more: my hand won’t touch the rain, … Continue reading →

I breakfasted on anger years ago. I took in news with coffee, always struck by crazy folks, surreal reports, a show of mob-bemused insanity. I’d buck at paragraphs that can’t be proven, know my mind and no one else’s, have … Continue reading →

Sarcastic death, ironic circumstance: the wit may be divine but it feels mean, undignified or futile, for the dance the reaper leads is not a noble scene. Or when it is, its rareness makes it so as much as principle … Continue reading →

They deemed it sinister, not long ago, to let a child write without his right. They must have thought the student didn’t know which hand would work the best; they loathed the sight. We hear they forced the child from … Continue reading →

Our transport is an armored war machine: a road unto itself in black and white. We wheel on inexorably between the contours of depression and delight. Anxiety and ecstasy and pain we know; we take the valley and the height, … Continue reading →

Like fans of green-on-yellow filigree, the fronds unfurl among the shaded vines. They ply their color light as silk and free as air upon the denser ivy lines. Like grapes, except the clusters rest on top of deeper sturdy green, … Continue reading →

I guess I have to call this mood depressed. It isn’t that I’m worried – I don’t frown or shout or cry or even feel too stressed – but time sits on my head and holds me down as if … Continue reading →

The plant matures to arid as days pass, withstands the wind more weakly every week till pummeled and untethered, makes a mass that tumbles free and frolicsome: a freak and vagabond that travels whither when and how the currents of … Continue reading →

The zircons in my lunch companion’s ears are much too large for Saturday at noon. Transparent as her ego, false as tears of petulance, each signals like the moon at dawn: a circle empty as a hole against a surface … Continue reading →