History of Water


Apart from the tales heard,
exists separate truth.

Between fingers
lies a stranded

Curious, you find that tears
don’t spill,
they flow inwards.
Grief of abandonment,
Grief over absence.

Streams around home
come and go,
but what of the forgotten blackberries,
hollow of any water?


A Study of Flowers by the Naked Eye


Aster looks like a sponge
Calla like a flute
A kinky set of Chrysanthemum hair
Mums freedom all over town
When Fuji, wild and careless, jaunts

But who can forget the daffodil?
For years and years it does not cease
Calling my name
Though I’ve only seen it closed
Those lazy eyelids give me bedroom thoughts all day

Buzzing around my Gardenia
Bird songs implore for a white petal
Placed casually by my hair

Hyacinth, the toilet brush
What can I say of first impressions?

Anything Egyptian of Iris
Remains lost in the regal purple
Meanwhile, under a canopy of shade
Lily, the vengeful queen
Hurts my teeth each time I look at her

So I leave at evening with
One incomplete whisper, given to
Orchids, those shapely ears
Erect for some private thought

My secret here I see him

Narcissus, how I do love you
I love looking at white
Flying – No, falling, unrestrainedly falling
Like a poet on the verge of disappearing.

A Cloudy Sky


I felt the loneliness of this winter
softly sweeping away the converging parts of the sun

I heard the proud moans of the afternoon
over the empty trees. The humble silence
grabbed their looks,
and just as if they were

their mouths wobbled, bemused

shrouds of comfort.
This loneliness emerging out of
keepsakes snug
inside my pocket, burst forth
in the tepid air

It was winter in Los Angeles

My mother grew older,
and we remained up on the corner
where birds faced east, ah-
up the dust turned grainy in the cold wind
(It bothered me finding it on the windowsill)

Hopes that
ran away from me
bespoke of little change in the cerulean sky;
there were no differences, no hidden lies

The hills suppressed under weighty skyscrapers
slurred through the senseless feet
of suits
running out of time
like my mother, except
their visions floated,
not yet trapped,
ready to tap
into some shroud of light

Any day now in cloudy Los Angeles.

Cities Past Dreams


That one day, when the city has fallen

asleep and dim housing lights, sullen,

are outshined by the stars,

we will turn our ears past the violence that mars

the fluorescent tulips in my turbulent backyard.

Wheels that spin forward

under the shadow of lurking skyscrapers behind

a choleric sun, inconsistently halt and grind.


After erroneous decisions we will then seek

the rhythm of our desires, no longer meek

but pulsing – a thumping singular to only our ears

And in the shards of windows, the years

ahead gleam like clean walkways

where shine the moon’s rays,

cloaking cities of clamor with drowsiness,

ahead will come the sleep of gods and goddesses.

Rote Beginnings


Through lonely mountain
a timid wind flows by

arresting the sun’s attention
just briefly
from a hard day’s routine

across from where people stand
this is unnoticeable

objects are objects
emotions as well as reactions are transposed
in the light
but at night
others can tell the lie

Fiddlehead Riot


The fiddle in the middle, like idle Maddie, is made of strong mettle. The throng of go seers left the farms a long time ago. The electric strings charm lines of people. Once, hanging fruits for the thieves stood strong; troops that the leaves hid. Amid the turbulent dry spell, the fathers left the mothers, irrigated once they were irritated with little water. Everything mattered -even loose teeth had depth, a meaning for falling, it foretold even more precise gleaning this season. But men’s hands deteriorated during the Fiddlehead Riot where lands lying beyond the fence swept under the lazy dim sun with little rain running back.