She hadn’t seen him in ten years,
But she recognized him at once
Standing there against the wall
Texting with a pensive look
On his face.

It was strange though,
The more she stared at him,
The less she could recognize him
Until he once again
Became a stranger
Before her eyes.


<- Anger | Home | Haiku – Oregon Coasts ->


Stars Come to Earth

How quickly the night draws in
When you are standing above the clouds.
Dark shades of purple start to crowd out
The last hints of a golden orange.

The black of the earth and the water
With just a hint of silver striking it
From the brightness of a full moon
Shining in the sky like a search light,

That is all you can see at this moment
Searching longingly for a hint of home,
Waiting for this unending journey to be over
And for this anxiousness to drain away.

Of Power and Politics

It stank.

This mud pot cesspool of politics stank worse than sewers.
Power was so important to these corrupt individuals
That they failed to notice their rotting base.

It was about to fall apart
All because they caused the people
Who were their source of power, their support,
To be sucked dry of everything they owned,
Then thoroughly soaked in their own blood, sweat, and tears.

It made them rot in starvation and desperation.

Yeah, this country won’t last much longer.

Much like if a wooden support beam were to break,
Everything would collapse and
There would be a house standing no longer,
Only rubble and dust that slowly rises into the air.


<- Journey Home | Home | Stars Come to Earth ->

Journey Home

The butterfly breaks through the mist that rises early morning.
The fire from the war still smolders long after the moon is gone.

Now they can finally go home.

Alone in the wild the small band wanders.
A mountain pass rises in the distance and
A plain strewn with bodies lies behind.

How did they get so far from home?

There before them stands a swamp none remembered traveling through.
“Dark magic” one in the company whispers.
Shivers crawl down their spines and a crow calls harshly.

They wish they were home.

A day of sloshing through tepid water.
The men are exhausted.
Mud clings like jealous lovers, and
Night falls quickly.
Creatures of the dark begin to prowl.

One wonders if he will make it home.

(I might rewrite this to be a short story. Tell me what you think)


<- Monsoon | Home | Of Power and Politics ->


Rain falls in torrents.

Water gushes and floods. 

Waves wash over the toes of street lamps, creeping at their shins. 

Cars float like boats down the streets or rest at the bottom like alligators in the mud. 

Houses swallow frothy liquid by the mouthful, their doors wide open and waving like lapping tongues. 

The skirts of mountains slip off under their waterlogged weight. 

They slosh over the roads, burying freight trains and fleeing mini vans. 

This is monsoon season, only it’s the worst storm of the year, of ten years, of six decades. 

The wind shrieks harder in its temper tantrum and the palm trees bend over from it, nearly scratching the ground. 

A trash can learns to fly, a car door as well, and an advertising billboard decides to join. 

They all dance the salsa up in the sky, slicing past the sky rises to unheard music. 

In this weather, it makes it hard to fly a helicopter.