water shines like dreams that mystify their depth
in nights without moon by the sea the solitude of breath is even stronger
a savage sea feeds on the memory of light, but only the sand carries its age
its black heart rumbles a white rage
a watery path their dreams, they travelled by sea or the surface of time
they envisioned us perhaps
in the randomness of waves

the breaking edge of waves consumes me
wind, sand, water, light meet
in the love story of a time
surfing its waves

I had a planet,
just a little one
but still.

it had activities--
recreational
illicit
volcanic.

from a promontory above one of its seas,
I pondered what to do with a drunken sailor
early in the morning.

I had to rent out my little planet
due to the commute.
Years passed.

When I returned and saw
what the renters had done,
I brought the flood in my righteous anger.

Things are better now,
lo these many months gone by.

I have a koi pond with native goldfish.
I sleep in until lazy o'clock
or until the stars wheel above my gingerbread cottage.

The sailor got sober, survived the flood,
and sings, "Weigh-hay and up she rises"
when I stir

both my happy ***,
and the coffee he has kindly fixed
the way he knows I like it.

I have a planet,
just a little one
but still.

To My Red Pen
When did you grow so gentle?
You, once sharp with correction
Marking every stumble
A judge in crimson ink
Now you spill like sunlight
Waltzing across the page
Not to scold
But to sing
What the hell changed—and why?
I'm left wounded, wondering
When right began to feel so wrong?

I don’t know the ocean
And she doesn’t know me
Surely she remembers more
But I’m a mountains and trees girl
Patience is key

Residue of a storm, left behind and round.
A spa for those who croak.
Nature's water fountain for those too small to ask.
A vacation in rock. Minor invertebrate have a home.
More adding into; a ripple effect.
Bespattered by its surrounding walls, some clear instead.

A new stand laced up, a day to face.
A stride cut off by some plash, the sky!
Dark and your steps now dampened too deep.
Look at it this way, the earth had a laugh.
The best you can do is entertain it.

How numb
Can your toes be?
That the horseshoe *****
Who don’t even have the means,
Can pinch your skin and make you scream?

“Throw her into the deep end,”
they said.
“She’ll learn to swim soon enough.”

Maybe she will,
but you know,
it won’t be easy
the tides will grasp her firm
and try to drag her under
her lungs will scream
she may wail
and desperately thrash
the tumultuous current will beat her down
her arms ache, so does her heart
she’ll sink once or twice,
wonder whether it’s worth the fight,
but with time
and I can’t say how much
she will gain strength
and slowly but surely
she will begin to swim against the current
claw her way back
to the shallow end
and she’ll be able
to look them all in the eye
scars bare, clothes torn
but a wicked smile.

The sea rose,
a basswood tree
restlessly kept;

perhaps, in due time,
won’t it fall?

It’s wood,
perhaps,
it would.

A lonely buoy sways in the waves of indecision,
bobbing up and down, and up and down
pacing back and forth, and back and forth,
from side to side and again under the amber road, moonlit.

The tides are calm but large, but the buoy doesn't sink.
It's prepared, designed, taught what to do
in moments like these: to swim back,
back to shore, back to safety, turn a back
to the great, lethal liquid land beyond our own.

But this time, that glow of golden light,
that hails from the incandescent majesty of the gloomy night-sky,
goes far into and over the horizon, glistening in the void sea,
glimmering on the bouy like golden lunacy,
capturing it, alluring it, cradling it gently,
shining on it like glitter and exposing it to a totally novel colour,
totally radiating and tranquilising — or so it would be
if not for the distant, real winds.

The such similar shade of orange, shared
by the sky-light and the streetlamps,
depict a tale of unfulfilled greatness and mimicry
(though I don't mean to insinuate that the lunacy is itself not enlightened)

Perhaps this is the way, to mimic
a mere fraction of the power of the giants
whose great shoulders we stand upon without gratitude,
unaware of how unfulfilled and untouched
and unkept our passions meet end.

The buoy battles with risk and reward, screaming and cursing
silently,
crashing out on the waves of both sides,
ripping and parting its poor soul;
the dark void at the horizon that divides the path
from the moon,
invites it, coaxes it, charms and enchants it to take a chance:
the leap of faith.

But the buoy sways on in the wind.