I love poetry and writing. Technically, most of it isn’t poetry, because it doesn’t 

rhyme, although this style has some name that I can’t remember, but it counts as poetry in the modern day. I have a great ability to describe a minor event in enormous detail, which is partially why people say it’s “beautiful poetry”.

Here I have poems of many types, funny and serious, beautiful and blunt. I have sonnets, haikus, limericks, all of it. Please, if you want to copy my poetry or share it someone else, please credit it to me. I went through much trouble writing it and it is my choice to share it with the world, but I would still appreciate being acknowledged for my own creativity.




There is a poem in my head.

I have a poem running

through my head,

and if I don’t write it down I am going to lose it,

if I don’t set it free

and release it

into the world, then forever will I be haunted by the poem

that I never wrote,

that never was, that was born

and died from suffocation in my head.

So I give it form,

I take my tool,

my pencil,

my magic wand that creates

something in nothing,

and I touch it to my page

and give the poem

form, give it life,

let it breathe,

and be.

But now…

It’s chained,

chained to the page, locked in paper and lead,

left flat and imprisoned, at the mercy

of the reader as to whether it has form,

locked inside two dimensions

and is left to be how it can’t be,

where it can’t live as itself,

and sculpt the words that create it;


chained to the page,

the reader sculpts the words, makes them be

what they’re not,

what they never were

or meant to be. And no poem,

deserves that fate, not even if it’s a night light

and a light night, it doesn’t deserve

not to live,

not to be. And I have to set it

free, to give it my words

and be,

to sculpt itself,

to take control of my body and my words

like it did when it coursed hot and new

through my pencil and was preserved

so that I could bring it to be,

so it can live in the air,

turn into something

that transcends all reality

and is, now,

it’s not me who’s speaking, it’s the poem,

the poem that named itself and formed itself

in the same breath of being, of existence.

And it breathes,

and it is,

released and untethered, unrestrained…

and it never was the poem that never was;

it is.

Drip, Slip

The gray

slipping through the leaves,

a backdrop of tea against colors so vivid

that you’d swear they’re burning

through the rain.

Deeper, brighter, stronger,

as the crystal falls and drips

and slips,

so slow,



from a swollen sky, bloated, gray,

and airbrushed in patches

of blue.

The earth too grows thick and swollen

and oozes, can’t take any more,

pooling in puddles of gray and streams

of paint running downhill.

The gray slips and falls and drips,

tears for yesterdays

and what have beens

as it cleans the slate

for tomorrows and will bes,

and the will bees

that buzz,

sedated, wondering why

they’re flying in the rain.

Feel Fall

Can’t you feel

that breath of fall in the air,

lingering like the haunting scent of flowers after a funeral?

The sun, pale, frail,

weak and unable to warm

thoroughly. Don’t you feel

the bite of the wind whipping from the north,

a bitter hiss. Can you smell it,

crisp and frozen, thin,

of winter and snow and ice and dark

and of a time when the whole world lies sleeping,

a whiff that betrays its inexorable arrival.

Do you see

the trees toss and move

uncertain, waiting, breathless,

for the balance to change and the beam to crash

down at one end,

leaving cold in its wake. Can’t you see

the colors have bleached and intensified


the vibrant greens turned brown to golds and reds?

The life is withdrawn and the leaves fly loose,

released and fly helpless on the bitter wind, leaving

brown sleeping skeletons against the intense blue of the sky.

Do you taste those colors dead but so alive

against the cold, those colors of fire

like Halloween candy? Can’t you feel

the summer slipping,

taste the hint of snow upon the wind,

see the colors faded intensified;

can’t you see,

can’t you hear,

can’t you tell,

can’t you feel

that fall is here?

Never Never

Always always,

there are more words for always

than there are for



not ever begun,

not ever achieved,

not ever dreamed,

not ever done.

And forever,


is therefore consistantly more


than never ever ever.

Never say never,

always, say “Ever!”


X’s and O’s

Delicate wetness,

soft kisses brushing your cheek in greeting

from the clouds above

since Valentine’s day

is right around the corner;

falling in tiny x’s

and o’s.

They accumulate upon the dry brown

ground and hide

the tired grass with

clean whiteness, a shade

purer than anything else could ever be,

the color of its mother, the clouds,

like when they’re seen from above.

Pure soft and thick,

like the world’s heaviest fluffiest down comforter

in the entire world,

soft  and wet.

Looking out the window,

it looks like someone

spilled a gigantic bag of clumpy granulated sugar

all over the countryside.

But it’s all dirty from the floor,

so don’t

eat it.



Why do kids always ask


Why do parents always say


Why don’t parents say

‘I don’t know’?

Why do the kids grow up like that?

Why can’t they admit

their ignorance?

Are they only proud or is it


How do you stop one of these

vicious cycles?

And how do you finally get

an answer?


in algebra

don’t you solve for variables in polynomials?

Why do you


but don’t search for a simplified


What is a real


What is

the only real number?

Why is

 the only real number


Why am I asking and answering

these questions?

Why am I so serious

about them?

Why am I still unanswered?

Why do I still not know

the answers to the unanswered?

Why can no question be answered

without another being asked?

Why can curiosity never be


Why must we

leave a question alone?

Why is there

never one completing answer that

argues and satisfies the question

and all its curiosity?

Why is

‘that’s the way it is’

not a satisfactory answer?

Because that’s

the way it is, because

we cannot always understand it.

A question unanswered is like a

variable without an identity.


but you can’t

solve it.


Mujer Mejor

No estoy perfecta, (I am not perfect)

pero mi amor: (but my love)

lo me construye mejor, (It builds me better)

mejor que antes. (better than before)

Antes hoy (Before today)

estoy (I am)

en mi personalidad (in my personality)

fea, no feliz, (ugly, not happy)

cruel a todo circademe. (cruel to all around me)

Pero hoy, (but today)

contigo, (with you)

con el amor tuyo (with the love of yours)

que te dame (that you give me)

estoy hoy (I am today)

una mujer mejor, (a better woman)

una mujer con pasion (a woman with passion)

una mujer con razon (a woman with reason)

estar vivando, (to be living)

todo porque (all because)

te andas en mi corazon (you walk into my heart)

y te abrazas la buena y la mala (and you embrace the good and the bad)

juntos. (together)


Fog and Me

I’ve been everywhere with fog.

It creeps up behind me like a

playful jaguar and pounces,

wrapping around me and tugging to pull

my spirit out by the arm and take me along.

Riding in, upon, and beside her,

perched on top and holding misty reigns or

flying next to her and exploring.

One creature here,

existing in another dimension so that

even though she appears blocked or broken

she is everywhere.

Playful, alone,

it’s always just fog and me.

Looking at each other,

whether she’s embodied in the foghorn,

her voice to her silence in creeping up to envelop,

or in angry blue rain clouds high away from me,

too mad to socialize,

it’s like we share a secret,

just fog and me.

She’s my BFF and sister,

always there and waiting

for that simple understanding of the other’s feelings,


no matter what and even though

we can’t comprehend each other’s shape;

to each, the other “isn’t physical”, “isn’t real”.

And she can be he too,

secret love–

it’s confusing when your BFF girlfriend is also

your boyfriend,

isn’t it?

Oh, sorry, I forgot that

you wouldn’t know.

You see fog?

Hmm, well,

you know, I see fog too,

but I’m sure that she no esta as they say in Spanish,

genderless third person,

no she’s not what you think.

Because fog and I are on the best of terms,

we’ve been everywhere, are everywhere, together.

Sometimes me in her, sharing her world

of rolling mist and shapes that do not restrict her,

sometimes she in me, sharing mine,

of solid things that do restrict me.

Whichever, it’s as

it’s been always:

fog and me,

me, and fog.


Astral Koi

Beneath my silken waters flow

orange fish with silver below.

The water and places that they go

are secrets only they will know.


As the moonbeams fall down on the pond

fish swim through it and upon.

Silver fins on some, waving as a silver wand,

other ones, crowns silver donned.


From the sky bright moonbeams stream,

and up them swim the kings and queens

fins waving, the scales! how they gleam!

Then to vanish, gone, ‘tall a dream.


A dream only, and one quite queer,

for koi-fish never disappear.

But…for truth? it does appear

remains in the pond a single silver tear.


From a koi-fish swimming from his home,

was cast this tear, and it alone.

The last he called swimming into the sky

was “Goodbye, mine pond, goodbye!”


Now these orange fish of ours

swim themselves among the stars.

Look up one night, away  from this Earth of ours,

and see a fish-shape, swimming way afar.


High up in the skies do show

orange fish that silver glow.

The stars and places that they go

are secrets that only they will know.


Wisps That Are Alive

Low ceiling wispy cloud-fog,

like a blanket draped over the world.

You can touch it with your mind,

feel that staticy grey-silvery bluething,

but physically your puppeteered hand

passes through the

unbound molecules

of its heart.

A creature, alive,

but not constrained to any shape.

Senses of the mind and spirit,

parts vanishing and conjoining willy-nilly,

on an insane rhythm that sounds like a din to but the most carefully trained ear.

And that creature has a form of the mind,

thus a shape that exists

even though it’s not in this dimension;

perhaps the seventh.

But you cannot touch it with your hand

because only the mind of it holds the molecules together

so they scatter and fly, not the real creature but

the inanimate physical one,

so that it clings to your



Dawn Valley Rolling


sleepy sunrise,

silver moonspun misty tendrils

wafting over the hills.

Soft tone gentle “g”,

foghorn over the water,

echoing in the soft fog,

loosing itself, disembodied,

and coming from the fog itself.

The sun rolls over the hill to the east,

color spilling from the western side of the bowl-like valley,

rushing like a tidal wave of Technicolor or paint.

Suddenly gold sunshine on all things,

my room still in the cool spectrum,

streaming and reflecting off the fog that lingers,

the horn still calling, softly.

Fresh clean air,

combination of moonshine fog and sunspun light,

distributed by my fan.

By the very essence of this smell like thought, tender love,

I smell heat drenched by fog,

air still and heavy,

Birdsong sweet within like candy.

‘Twill be a warm day.



All is still under golden light,

holding its breath;

even the air.

Stark contrast between yellow-gold light

and silver-black shadow,

though even that doesn’t seem as dark

by comparison.

Birds are seen now,

their songs breaking like crystal

in turn breaking the silence.

The trees and breeze stir,

awakening to prepare for their day

while cheery wrens flit among their branches.


roused by the rising chatter,

people too stir from sleep,

cued by the brilliant stalwart sunrise,

cheered on by glorious birdsong,

they rise in their homes.

Suddenly the morning is a cacophony,

doors slamming, cars going, people calling,

motorcycles, lawn mowers, chainsaws,

planes, helicopters, and music.

Nature’s quiet beauty,

the sunrise, birdsong, and trees,

are drowned by incessant human overspill

throughout the day.

And still, deep into the night,

when nature has long ago silenced,

the people still move and roar,

yet afraid of night’s stillness by crickets.

But at last human activity slackens

around the smaller hours of the night,

while even the silence interrupts itself

with owls and the like-kind wildlife.



the light bleaching the night to the east,

like ultra-strong Clorox of the gods,

sky from black to indigo to Tiffany-box blue to powder blue

until in the bleached white portion

rises the sun,

a glorious fireball that no one can look at directly

even though it lies millions of miles away,

yet everyone admires directly.

Throwing light on every object its ethereal paintbrush can reach,

and at this time glorified into heaven’s stuffs

by that pure, pure light.

And now,


naught breaks nature’s silence

but itself.



Family gathered around the table,

the lights dimmed to a candle,

the food awaits us patiently.

Hands clasped, we say grace,

and give ritual to the giving of thanks,

before serving the traditional turkey.

‘Round the table, each

member of this stalwart event intones

his or her thanks for the year.

As we eat, each reflects

and is filled with thankful air.



Midnight Love

Come down, come down, come down the river to me,

Past graceful hedge, purple flower, and

shining silver tree.

Come down, come down, I long for you!

With your earnest heart, and love.

You sparkling eyes so blue!

Come down, come down, as the light begins to fade,

As the stars shine and faeries dance

Within the darkened glades.

Come down, come down, into the deepened night,

Past pooka’s lair and great hills,

Down into my sight.

Come down, come down, into my lightened home,

Where I await, and bread bakes,

Upon the warm hearth-stone.

Come down, come down, into my hidden heart,

And promise that you’ll love me,

And that we shall never part.


Tiny Spider

Using built-in climbing gear,

and silken lifelines, the spider

clambers up the table where I write.

with a minute

sigh of relief, he reaches his destination

of flat level-ness.

I gasp,


and leap away from it.

the size of my nail,

delicate motions,

drunkenly dancing across the table,

lifting its legs in a stomp that it can’t even hear.

A clear cup,

and white paper

removes Mr. Spider from the vicinity.

It soars by my hand out the door,

to a plant, where I release it.

James Bond

the size of a pinhead

drifts slowly to the leaf and hides,

on his next mission already.



Dark slowly surrounds

the quiet earth.

Gentle clouds spread overhead,

then settling down onto hills

like a thick

grey blanket.

Quiet falls too, but

the moon goes against gravity,

rising into the sky and turning

her gentle, cool face towards

our sleeping ones.

Crickets converse,

owls hunt,

and I smile happily in the







I Am

I’m a little waterfall,

the swiftly running tide,

I’m a roaring thunderstorm,

the sea that’s open wide.

I’m a little hidden creek,

an angel, misty blue,

I’m a single raindrop,

a person who speaks to you.


Who Is That Man?

A tall, rather handsome man,

in his middle age.

He smiles at every stranger,

and walks a lengthy stride.

He makes small-talk with the waitress,

chats with the valet,

He orders well-made dishes,

and wears well-made clothes.

His car is a Mercedes,

black with black inside.

He pulls into the driveway,

and opens up the door.

The moment he steps on concrete,

his children fly outside.

They hug him tightly, kiss him,

so glad that he is home.

Who is that man?

Who is that man,

who is friendly in each aspect?

Who is that man,

who is witty in his speech?

Who is that man,

Who is hugging his children?

Who is that man?

My father.


The Water Drops [Haiku]

Quivering–a drop.

It slips off and plunges down,

Then a minute splash.



It’s now.

There’s no time I love better.


Full of excitement and expectation for the future.


Full of content for the past.


When everything occurs.


The time to begin.


There’s no time I love better.


The Time

What time is it?

Past one oh clock.

What time does that mean?

Near time for my walk.

What day is it?

It just begun Wednesday.

What time does that mean?

A long day for your play.

What month is it?

I believe it’s still December.

What time does that mean?

Oh, can’t you remember

the time or the hour?!

Oh can’t you remember

that you have on a watch?!

Oh can’t you remember

that you have a calendar?!


The Blogger

There once was a blogger who could

not post, she just ate lots of pud’

She wrote about cards,

then sighed very hard,

saying, “I really must post this, I should!”



I wish that you would stop our silly rhymes,

although it’s nice I must say time to fly.

We must stop dreaming to stop being mimes.

Once we’re done we can reach the sky.

But now I’m caught up in pentameter,

And I cannot stop for anything or one.

Shakespeare was in the lovely theater,

And wrote up and had lots of fun.

Now my sonnet is almost all done,

and I say I am doing quite well.

Here comes a deliciously fresh bun,

Oh my, what a good, yummy smell.

This part is the last of the quartets,

Near the end of our very nice sonnet.

I’m sorry I do not have any pets,

and now I’ve tied up my big bonnet.

Two more lines is all the time I have

Ouch you dog leg go of my calf.


A Christmas Mystery

The multi-colored lights

that are wrapped around the tree

glow down on the

silver and gold

wrapping paper.

What is it?

No shaking.



On a warm

summer’s day,

the bright,

lime green

leaves over my head form

a living canopy.



Soft silver beams

fall on my face

slip through my fingers,

and shine on the water.

They make the pond

a pool of liquid




Gazing and longing,

wandering and looking.

What is it I want?

Impossible to tell.

Where is it?



 A hard rain.

A flash of pure light white,

and the living rumble of


the voice of the world,

a force too powerful

and magnificent for words.


Christmas Poem

I look out the window.

It is cloudy,



and sad.

“Let’s go!” calls my mother,

as car doors slam.

My jacket, as well as my gloves, and

my hat and scarf.

Downstairs, to the car.

Heater on, “We Wish You A Merry Christmas”.

Gravel parking lot, fluorescent lights.

A small forest of

cut trees of all sizes,

and that pine smell.

Breath is visible, such a cold, cold night!

“What about this one?”

Pay, load, drive.

“Silent Night”.

Tree down.

Tree up.

Decorations need to be taken from

the attic.

Out of boxes,

up on the tree.

Flashing lights, and a silver star.

And when I look out at the night,

from the merry atmosphere,

it’s not sad anymore.


A Haiku of a Star

On black velvet lies

a pin-prick of pure white light,

a beacon and guide.


A Haiku

Three white snowflakes fall

through the frigid air

to hit my window.



Cool, steel grey skies,

heavy with rain,

drip with precipitation.

Wet cement smell,

soft patter of raindrops on

leaves for miles around.


can’t see the garden,

hard pound of rain on the roof,

wonderful, and uplifting.


Christmas Cookies

A warm oven

produces its ever-loved items,

a batch of delicious,



spicy sugar cookies.

They warm my heart,

a Christmas present for my stomach.


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