With thanks to a Facebook Ad


I used my prose way back in May
When I had useful things to say

And then in June I wondered why
My well of words was cracked and dry

I used my prose – such lovely thoughts
I wrote them out, those nimble plots

Those thankless letters left me there
Stuck with August everywhere

I scratched out words one at a time
I seeded prose in autumn rime

Ruminating through the cold
I felt the silence taking hold

I used my words way back in May
In March I had nothing to say

Till suddenly the prose came home
And settled in my finger bones

Perhaps I have new things to say
I only hope to last past May…


I saw a Facebook ad that was about a shampoo or something. In my haste to scroll by, my brain simplified the first sentence to “I started using prose in May.” The rest wrote itself very quickly, until the end. I have difficultly telling when my brain wants to end something hopefully for real, or if it’s pretending to ignore a reality that I don’t want to face. Not writing for months, for example, in any format. All my writing has been on ice for what feels like ages.

NaPoWriMo is starting in a week. I hope that gets my creative muscles flexing again.

A Jazzy tune for Trudging


A Jazzy Tune for Trudging

Under the soles of my feet
These Yokohama streets roll by and by
Ants in a rat race
Rats in a shark tank
Watching all the people scurry by
Pressing, pressing,
Onward and ever upward and outward
Pressing, pressing,
Onward and upward and outward
And sky high

Through the souls of the streets
A hundred thousand feet walk by
Jumping for the brass rings
Jostling in the straightaways
Eyes never looking to the sky
Pressing, pressing,
Forward and up toward with eyes cast downward
Pressing, pressing
Working till the bones run dry

Under the soles of my feet
These Yokohama streets pass by

All that a Writer Can Do


All That a Writer Can do

When my tires went flat
I mused and sat
Out on the grass of a hill

By the freeway’s shoulder
Upon a boulder
I took out my modern quill

And composition
In such a position
Is all that a writer can do

To pass idle time
With humor and rhyme
Until the tow truck comes through

When my heart got broken
I pulled out your token
And promised never again

Reclining in bed
With an angry head
I took out my ballpoint pen

And composition
In such a position
Is all that a writer can do

To soothe the hurt feelings
With drama and peelings
Until the heart mends anew

When the sun shone upon me
I walked in its bounty
Through parks and fields fair

And out in the flowers
Spent carefree hours
Writing my musings there

And composition
In such a position
Is all that a writer can do

To capture sublime
In meager rhyme
Apologizing when through

And when I die
I will not cry
I’ll hand the journal to you

To write me with care
Be I foul or fair
So long as you write me true

And composition
In such a position
Is all that a writer can do

To send me on
To the great beyond
Where I’ll write something new.

Passing a House


Passing a House

Returning to work I pass a house.
Repainted four times, that house.
I remember when it was white.
Sort of.
What I really remember is the moon –
A sort of full moon
And a few dwindling stars in a sky full of slate.
The sun was not up, but we were.
I felt the heater’s hot air on my tiny arms
And I looked up at the cold moon.

I could not tell you the name
Of the family that watched me those early mornings
When Mom had to go to Chicago to teach,
When I had school,
When Dad was off flying helicopters in a war.
But I remember their maple wood table, deep amber wood,
I remember chocolate chip pancakes.
Dry pancakes, moist chips,
And a sort of full moon.





This chair is making me shrink.
In my calves, in my thighs I can feel it.
I’m growing a hair’s breadth shorter.
It’s a death to do nothing but sit.

This chair is making me tight.
In my back, in my arms I can sense it
My bones are forgetting their rhythms
I’ll be turning to mud in a bit.

This chair is making me dull.
In my fingers and toes I can name it
My blood oozes on in frustration.
I chomp an invisible bit.

This chair is making me blank.
In my eyes and my mind I do fear it.
I hear the sun calling my name
Under each monotonous clock tick.

This chair is making me shrink.
I better break the chair into pieces
Better run through the wild grass fields
Better tackle the nephews and nieces.

I know that we’re all slowly dying
Of the inevitable fate I’m aware
But I’ll not go out without trying
To get out of this god-cursed chair!

But alas it’s my job to just sit here.
Stagnant, with nothing to do.
So I’ll write up a quick ode to freedom
In the hopes it will inspire you!