A cool small evening shrunk to a dog bark and the clank of a bucket -
And you listening.
A spider's web, tense for the dew's touch.
A pail lifted, still and brimming - mirror
To tempt a first star to a tremor.

Cows are going home in the lane there, looping the hedges with their warm
wreaths of breath -
A dark river of blood, many boulders,
Balancing unspilled milk.
'Moon!' you cry suddenly, 'Moon! Moon!'

The moon has stepped back like an artist gazing amazed at a work
That points at him amazed.

i
wish
that
i
could
tell
you,

like
soured
milk,
so long
overdue.

like
birds
that
fly
south
before
the
snow,

i wish
it
had
flown
from
my lips,
long
long
ago.

like
a
rose
in
full
bloom
and
the
bee
that
buzzes
above,

i'll
have
to
fly
away
in
peace,
just
as
a
graceful
dove.

some
things
can
never
be
spoken,
some
things
can
just
never
be,

some
thoughts
get
treated
as a
lifetime
prisoner,
...

never
to
be
freed.

My city spews poetry like smoke,
In vicious columns of abstracts,
Of unspilled blood, untold hurts,
Unsung love and unrestrained joy.
Neck of an old refill snapped
absent-mindedly,
Sploshes a tiny blob of red ink,
On the table cloth,
And so flows musings and rants.
Smell of twilight rain mingles with
Incense fragrance of evening prayers
Triggering a burst of longing and love.
Electric bulbs and rainbows coexist
And emit more than just light.
My city breeds more poets than
The Lakes ever did.

If these petals are soaked in blood,
Then it is the blood
of soldiers
shot before
they could return the favor.

If these petals are soaked in blood,
Then it the blood
leaking down teenage arms
those that so dearly
want pain to end.

If these petals are soaked in blood,
Then it is the blood
of those murdered
whose lives ended
without meaning.

If these petals are soaked in blood,
Then it is the blood
of a broken heart
that doesn’t bleed,
but wishes it did.

If these petals are soaked in blood,
Then it is the blood left unspilled
that lives to let live
and dies only when death takes it
to soak these petals.

Look through the fence, you see that beast there?
  That tense lump of muscle and mange-ridden hair?
That's old Scrapyard Spike, and this is his lair;
  Don't tread in his yard on adventure nor dare.

Old Scrapyard Spike, he's been a-weathered for years;
  In his chain-link domain, rain-soaked despair.
Unfed in the morning, watered only with tears;
  Unsheltered from squalls, corroded by glare.

Now poor Scrapyard Spike wasn't always so old,
  When he was a puppy, they told him they loved him;
But when he grew up, he had to make friends with the cold,
  For with the clink of a fence, he was thrown out on a whim

So Spike spent his days alone with his chain;
  He sweltered at noon and slept wet with the rain;
And all those who passed him discounted his pain:
  "He's just an old cur" was the daily refrain

And then one cold day, a girl found her way in;
  Her flesh on her bones, blood coursing unspilled.
Old Spike smelled her first, his chain went a-slitherin'
  And the lost child stood rooted, her every nerve chilled.

The silence of metal, broken plastic and glass,
  The beast came a-running, his chain length a ploy;
And jaws opened wide as he lunged for the lass;
  But when his head pressed her thigh, he whimpered with joy.

Old Spike raised the call with a manticore's thunder;
  A summoning cast with his lungs' every strain.
She petted him gently, whose care she was under,
  Though his poor heart convulsed as he looked back at his chain.

The clangor succeeded, a blue-clad protector
  Saw the beast at her heel, and he drew as he lept;
An ounce of hot metal found Scrapyard Spike's skull,
  And the last thing he heard was his friend as she wept.

Red Flame

Once again
Beauty
Reflected
In the Context of the World
How many times?
Can Love say No to Itself
From the Perception
Of Difference?

Writers Ink,  
Unspilled

When a Flag comes out
Is there no longer One?

Are the Words Spoken
In Another's Language
Really  the Threat
Of an impoverished Life?
Or the Words of another
Persons Faith
....heretic?

These ears
of Listening
Are the Walk
Of Life..

There is
No Team
No Coin
No Fear

Just the
Opportunity
For Choice
To Love, and Listen

A Rainbow
Of Entry
Into a Room
Without Light

Love's Miracle
Unbroken
Sight

The mileage added up to just a grand
Not a lot for 20 days,
No crossing of a dateline
Or a continent’s divide.

But still that world seemed somewhat foreign
and I saw streams of amazing things,
That were echoes of my teenage self,
As different now as I was then.

A hazy forest, dark and damp
Where the mist turned into fairy snow
And we walked on in muddy shoes
To learn the mysteries of falling water.

A midas treasure of wave-borne findings
Spilling from a cavernous hall
Pieces of so many lives found
Floating on the morning tide.

Stories of a Nippon sailor’s life
From things that got thrown overboard
Images of fishing boats
In round glass ***** and floats of cork.

Carve the circle with a line
That led to a reunion of
The ones that I grew up beside
But never quite was welcomed in.

A rounding up of recollections
Shared at tables set for eight
Where those left out still don’t fit in
And bonhomie was the music played.

To the ocean of my childhood days
Waves that tell me who I am
And fill up all the empty spaces
City life drained out of me.

A shining tower with ninety steps
That wound around like pizza slices
And tripped me up to ******* blood
As balsa airplanes spiraled to the ground.

No time for wounding on the schedule
Shedding blood but never tears
The leader of the band played on
Admiring a Tsunami boat

Come all the way from far Japan
With cargo of the local fish
Still swimming in the unspilled sea.
A miracle born from true disaster.

Another beach, not like my own
A warmer, calmer span of sand
With jutting rocks in shallow surf
That dare you out to climb them.

Drawn once more to city lights
And the grassy ***** where mother lies
There were other gardens to enjoy and
And contrivances with just two wheels.

How quickly we grew shuttered in-
Just two days in big city life,
The restaurants and funny shows
Still told us it was time to go.

Longing for the beauty of the Gorge
We were met by smoke and blackened stumps
And exits blocked to waterfalls, ravaged
By the fires of hell, and ugly now for 50 years.

A teenage boy with fireworks and no sense
Destroyed the loveliest drive on earth
And bragged to all his awestruck friends
That all the news stories were about him.

With fingers crossed at Mount Rainier,
The sunny weather turned to slush and
Fell two inches in an hour.  I ate fresh snow
Off branches as we hiked, and froze my tongue.

We wore the heavy coats we almost didn’t bring
And cheered when sunshine took the snow away
And we could walk in forests once again
On trails we never knew were there.

A wonderland of cast off parts and metal bits
Became giraffes, seahorses and other marvels
In the hands of a roadside welding artist
Who sold a giant piece to my home town.

A visit with a sister who shared my youth but not my soul
Who grew one way and I another
Leaving not a thing in common for us
Except the love that comes from blood.

No way to avoid the final city
Hellish place of one way streets
Endless detours and construction
Pay all you own to park two hours.

Yet there was the comedy and
Segways once again to ride.
A troll under a hulking bridge and
Poor Rapunzel in the tower.

Passing up the tourist musts,
Visited in journeys past, we saw
The small and quirky things
That make a foreign city yours.

Twenty days, almost no rain
Unheard of in that rainy clime
A lot of sun, some cloudy skies
A bit of snow to frost the cake.

Twenty days to drive a circle
On the map of who I am
And where I came from
To bring it all back here with me.

To this place so vastly different
I wonder how I found a way
To fit inside this giant tumbler
And plant a seed that actually grew

A would-artist long ago
I wonder how I mixed the paint
To make a life so changed, in colors
Blended from Seattle’s soils.

Painted on a Portland canvas
With a brush of Longview bristles
Wetted with Pacific water
To present my image to the world.
                       ljm

All of your sincerity can nay make me believe
There is an egg hatched within these words
A broken ***** unspilled with lusting
Doesn't a new father and a mother bring
We just carry on with odd shuddering
The benevolent shot of blind oxytocin
Rings the bells of this sweet typing
Until the critic sets in.

the milk is
       left untouched,
the cookies
      left uneaten,
                               "santa didn't come
                                     this time."
gifts
      left unopened,
words
      left unspoken,
                                "when will he
                                     be back?"
secrets
      left unspilled,
and sobs
      too quiet to hear.
                                 "maybe
                                       next
                                           year."

no. 1: nothing is ever elemental
it's never only this or only that
which is probably why we overuse the word
B I T T E R S W E E T

no. 2: it's better to tell someone you love them than to not
at least if you die now,
you won't regret leaving those words on the edge of the table
a glass of milk unspilled

no. 3: this world is too beautiful to explore alone
that's why i go to the movies with my friends
and lay in the grass with my sister,
counting clouds and singing songs from the '00s

I hear almost silent whisp’rings
Hist’ry
Tells me you’ll soon be gone
I promise not to cry o’er unspilled drinks
I think
It may be time to move on
This is selfish self protection
Prevention
From pains once felt before
I’ll take my heart from your grasp
Safer that
It just stay on the floor

The last moments
float on unspilled words.
I will give you a call―
from body to body,
to reach my voice― across the time,
zones and history.

You wouldn't dream me.

I'm not ready to give up. A
moth takes the flight― strikes
a hot teardrop shaped light bulb.
Brick walls hold back the sea.

The rage attacks a black sun?

Why do you think of
vanishing without a cause?
Hairless the moon cries.

Pink peony waits for the
sick gods.

Vocal cords vibrate.
No vowels come out. A naked
speech becomes museum.

Faded eyeliner
Empty monster cans
Tears unspilled
Clouding up my vision
While everyone in class
Laughs around me
Hip hop songs about suicide
And dark trap about death
Clothes strewn across my floor
Bed left unmade
Uncomfortable classroom chairs
Flannels and sweats
Big hoodies and pajama pants
Dyed hair with the roots growing in
Fingers torn and ripped to ****
Eyeshadow on my arm
Masquerading as bruises
Bad skin and dark circles
Gently faded scars
That's my new aesthetic
The face of resenting you

I know distance more than I know company,
and when my family pinches at the fat around my
waist I am taken back to the motherland for a
brief moment. my grandmother is sitting in the
backyard, drinking the cafe bustelo my mother
sent her and smiling, she beckons me towards her
and I set on her lap blissful and naive to what the
next twelve years of my life will become. the moment
ends almost as quickly as it started and my aunt is
questioning if I eat enough at home, my cousin is
grimacing as her curves are compared to the angles
my body is made out of and both of our bodies
have become spilled coffee stains on the floor for
other people to step on; everyone in my aunt's
too small kitchen is laughing and I feel as if somebody
had set me on fire. my skin begins to feel like paper
and my skeleton becomes full of the debris I tried
so desperately to sweep under the rug my twelve
year old insecurities come flying out again like a genie
from a magic lamp simply by the sound of drunken
family laughter and I cannot breathe. I have never
smoked before but in that moment I swear there is not
oxygen in the world and my lungs are filled with
tobacco made from the scars on my body that never
healed and nicotine-like unspilled tears. my cousin is
blushing and I know that it bothers her that her father's
friend is staring at her in a way less than appropriate because
it bothers me that my father's friend is staring at me as
if I were a blow up doll made simply for his pleasure.
the twelve year old inside of me, filled with insecurities is
screaming with shame but the fourteen year old me is
sighing because she knows-
we've been through this process so many times we
know it by heart, it is wrong but it is to be expected and
the newly fifteen year old girl I have become stays silent.
I pretend that my aunt's sharp fingernails poking me
don't feel like knives, I smile and laugh with them,
when my aunt says that my hips are finally growing in
I do not say that this is not an accomplishment, that
my body growing is not a trophy for the public to stare
at. instead I nod and feel my throat constrict with
anger so immense it is like a monsoon inside of me. but
I do not speak. my obedience has become a habit too
hard to break. I know distance more than I know
company because even if my body is an abandoned home
that grows only weeds in the backyard it is my
abandoned home.