Not Rain


Don’t call it rain

It’s not a storm

Don’t call it wind

It’s not a tornado

Don’t call it earth

It’s not quaking

Don’t call it rain

Don’t call it rain.


Sleep is difficult when the lights are on

And the sun shows its face in the window.

But it’s 5am and the birds chirp loudly

When they first awake to call to their kin.

I’ve been up all night writing a draft

Of a note of an essay to someone,

Who won’t ever see it, not if I have a say.

I can’t rest when my mind reels back

From the roller-coaster of writing again

To an unknown soldier person carefully;

It starts like all notes do, with one word

Carefully, meticulously chosen: “Dear.”


Eagle Eyes



Omniscient eyes like those of eagles

judging glances and backward stares

mirroring like eagles would in the air

energetic and serene quickness, alacrity

with intelligence, hubris and humility,

modesty in the multicolored feathers soaring

like airplanes at night, under the cover of

Dusk and the darkness associated with it.


Words flung across sidewalks to loiterers

Relaxing with their backs arched sideways

in lazy poses mimicking each other

praising the gods of technology and machinery

for their kindness and grace for granting the

undeserving the power of omniscience,

the eyes of an eagle, controlling the natural

like a tailor to a spool of cloth.

Blue sky


I love the blue skies.

I lay down on the grass and enjoy the scene I’m seeing. It’s one of the first spring days to feel like a real spring day. Not often is the wind blowing at such a dead calm that it’s not a nuisance but is noticeable all the same. By all counts I imagine the speechless masses emitting sounds and shrieks of anticipation toward the summer, but what of spring? There’s rain, allergies, and sickness, but also a subtle natural brilliance that puts even the most anxious and irritated of people to rest. The leaves of trees grow once more after a long season of ineffable dread. The colors radiate like the birds soaring northward, back home. I love the blue skies because they remind me of spring.

Green Trees


I like it when the trees are green

because then everything is normal,

nothing unexpected would ever happen

nothing unwanted would ruin my day.

I like it when the trees are green

but sometimes they are brown,

in August they are brown and yellow

and not green anymore, not green at all.

I like it when the trees are green

even though sometimes they are gone

completely, completely gone, with

nothing on their branches in December.

I like it when the trees are green

again in the spring, like it is now,

rebirth, rejuvenation, revitalization

once more, and I’m happy today because

I like it when the trees are green.



Said once in a tunnel below the city

We’re gonna make it out of here someday

Said twice by the riverbank in the wood

We’re gonna clean up this trash someday.

Said three times on the daily commute

We’re gonna take the bus instead someday

But I don’t see it ever being done.



coated sparkling golds and silvers

lathered platinum angels and

anticipated arrival but as it

came I turned


conscious of the world but

focused on a moment that’s fleeting nature

confounded me and I must

oust the memory from my mind

before it consumes me.



trees of ivy

stretching skyward into

boundless oblivions

where giants roam and

skyscrapers loom cautiously

in wanton sacrilege to the heavens above them.

dreams of snowflakes

soaring like plastic airplanes catching wind and

plummeting to the ground where we lay.

it’s wintertime

but it feels like summer

and the ivy trees sway also with the wind

that brushes your hair across your face

as you smile and dance with the seas that

shape the world.

The Rains



The marshlands were always a place of prosperity and grace. They lived harmoniously. When the rain came, the marsh people rejoiced and returned to their activities, yet for weeks the marshlands lacked the rain they came to depend on.

To those who lived in the marshes, it seemed longer than weeks; the drought drained them of their energy, like a vacuum sucks up dirt and dust from a hardwood floor. They needed the rain. They dined during times to avoid the rain. They hunted for food when the rain had come. They fished when the rivers were high and populous. They worked day and night around the cycle of rain. But then, when the rain disappeared, they became chickens with their heads on backward. In desolation they starved. Their naivety and dependence caused their downfall, but they would not accept that truth yet. Soon, the inhabitants of the marshlands came to the realization that singing “Kumbaya” around the fire would not fix their problems, at least not yet. Sending smoke into the air would not order the rain to return home. Lighting a signal fire would not save them now. A few choreographed rain dances and cheers would not save a dying land from drought. Who would rescue them? What would they be rescued from? Would anyone notice or care? Since the marsh people noticed their emergency, they fought between each other for resources. The lack of rain crazed them, just like the lack of interactive technology would craze a typical teenager.

But in the midst of the last of the fighting and the shouting and screaming and warring conflict between tribes for food and water, the rain returned to wash the blood from their faces.

Perhaps they needed to save themselves from themselves first.