POEM: The Ekstasis of a Warm Bed [in a Cold, Snowy Land]

-To watch powder cling to sill and muntin through the frosted panes,
but not be chilled by that crisp whiteness

-To slacken on the back of spastic release – lulled by discordant heartbeats,
while feeling that they — and all — are in perfect accord

-To drift into slumber with no urgency and to awaken noncommittally,
sinking ever deeper into mattress and mind

-To love the snow for its beauty
as much as for its lack of reach

POEM: Plummeting Arrow [Triolet]

That arrow can’t be meant for me
though it plummets toward my chest.
This is no time to turn and flee —
that arrow can’t be meant for me.
If I ran now, who would I be —
one of the crowd, just like the rest.
That arrow can’t be meant for me
though it plummets toward my chest.

POEM: Lulled into the End Times

The criers are calling, “The End is nigh!”
as boats are languidly rolling offshore.
Their sway, it sings a kind of lullaby,
and by rocket glare, I begin to snore.
No one has slept through a world war before,
and though I might well die before waking,
I will be spared the futile bellyaching.

Three Ugly Kyōka

a gnarled branch
twists its sinewy limb
from a crag;
its grotesque beauty
reminds me of me

on the rice paddies
show the sky
in an angry gray,
but dampen its scowl

glacier melt
leaves a great scar
gouged in the earth;
the gray and brown wound
looks like man’s doing


POEM: Unsuspecting: or, Lucretia’s Plight

He sits outside and tells the tale,
but never lets her know
the story features future her,
and hopes for a hero.

She’ll play the lover and the mother
made wise too late to fly —
a mark with many a booster
but not one true ally.

She’s too naïve, too laidback, and
under-classed to wrestle —
a jungle lamb who, thus, becomes
the bled and the vessel.

They’ll quibble over right and wrong
as she lays in the way,
and will conclude evil was done
too late in her last day.

And sitting on an upturned crate
she would never suspect
that a listener would become
this yarn’s shattered object.