My back

is strong

like a piece of bark

it has its edges

but it is stable,

it stands tall–

it is stillness

and silence

and me.


These elements

of control

have never been

my friend.


Illusive fears

of loosing

a self

that I had forged

by lack of force

the word loss–

I could write odes

to loss

and sonnets

to loss

and haikus

to loss

and I would still



in the same sentiment


Who am I?


Where do these attachments

leave me?

Where did I acquire them?


Did death bring up something

deep inside of me

that always needed healing?


An unknowingness of stability,

the entrance of doubt?


I am here, writing,


thinking back to trees with hearts

written in their sides.


October 8, 2016



Write patiently,



Syllables don’t just


from cloud

to cloud

as if Noah’s Arc

was reinventing itself–––


a rainbow proclaiming

its glory.



is slow,

when you discover it

piece by folded shirt

by flowing grass blade

to the piece of hair

falling on your cheek

pushed back by a stranger,

a smooth talker.


It’s like the wind:

how you can’t see the meaning

in words, you can only feel them.


April 29, 2014