Monsoon Season – June 2025
It’s monsooning in ohio
on the way to Erie
and I pull over into
the slow lane when im
afraid, like I did last Friday
when they told me you were gone
It’s monsooning in ohio
on the way to Erie
and I pull over into
the slow lane when im
afraid, like I did last Friday
when they told me you were gone
sometimes I caught
that look on her face
it hurt
on those nights I knew
what it meant
to be
on the edge
Death comes for us all.
You don’t notice when you are
Young and filled with fresh desire
Only when your cat gets hit by a car
And you long for your snuggle buddy
Whose face is now frozen in grimace
Or your grandmother dies,
Erasing the link to how it was when
Shutting off a part of you forever
Death becomes intimate when
Your mother, father, brother, son
Are only dust and memories
Then you see a darkness
Hovering close to your own
Worn mirrored face.
Yes, it comes for us all.
When Death beckons, let him
Take my hand to dance me away
i love you in the morning
when the moon is still showing up
in the brightening sky
i love you in the sunset
when the moon sometimes
makes an early appearance
i love you in the dead of night
when the moon is high above
i love you in the darkness
when the moon is new
i love you even when we can’t see her
when the moon is asleep and the sun
takes her place
i love you despite the phase
like the moon, you too go through phases
one day you are this
the next, that
i love you still, through it all
i hope you love me too
through the phases
like the moon
As storm nears, it lays a film over sky
& landscape—clouds yellow, rooftops
darken, fields lay subtler like antique
patches of baby’s breath/the barest of blue/
a thin pink. Winds sail over splintered-wood
church & speckled path, heading
for open fields.
Inside cornflower & poppy, spray, sprig, tail of fern,
rest in the glaze of vase whose pleats spin like a merry-
go-round.
Bedroom leans blue: pitcher, self-portraits,
absinthe windows, flaxen chairs, floorboards,
coat, towel, tea steam, all but the inhabitant,
absent behind his easel.
After storm, tree’s mauve flames char sky & curl cloud
edges, even daring to inflame sun into more beams & warm
moon into rosiness.
And now—how stars spin their frizzy
lemon light into lake paths, through splintered waves,
over trees curved green & heads
leaning into kisses.
another joyous year has passed
and I am greedy.
I want more
and more
and more
moments
with you.
there is always so much
love,
but there is never enough
time.
木漏れ日
Nothing Under the Sun
“Komorebi is a living painting, unframed,
still wet. It will touch you sometimes.”
— Coleman Davis
“He promised to give a light to him
and to his sons for ever.”
— Hebrews 6:7b
They are dancing. Look at the way
their silhouettes are shifting stages
of stagnancy—
—so distracting, so
intoxicating the downward spiral
of shadows masquerading verity
& veracious semblance of this
life.
Nothing is as beautiful as despair,
they say; anything is possible when
deception conceives desperation
begets choice.
But what is the finite
distance between Plato’s Cave &
Komorebi’s ballet? Can you measure
a minute beat amid the minuet
of meaning of
a life? Nothing
under the Sun is meaningless;
everything is a season & a secret
& still
wet. The body knows
the difference between seduction
& connection &
release.
Linger, here, my Love—
& know & be ye known in this
sweet truth: That even shadows
are the proof, the awkward hope,
the scions & the genesis
of light.
I love pink.
I see it everywhere.
It’s my favorite color.
but it wasn’t always my favorite color.
I used to hate pink.
I loved black and blue
and call those that liked pink too girly
and mean.
but there was one pink girl in my life,
my Mimi.
she wore pink every time she could.
she wore pink lipstick every day.
at her funeral, we put pink roses in her casket
that I kept before it was closed for forever.
After I felt her cross necklace rest on my chest,
everything changed.
and as I processed the grief,
I started to see pink everywhere.
I still see it everywhere.
And always will.
But even before,
When I was little,
my mom told me my dad would paint the sky pink for me,
from heaven.
I believe it.
When I worshiped and prayed in camp,
I closed my eyes,
physically feeling Jesus holding my hand,
while I pray for guidance.
I open my eyes to see
worship lights covering the room with pink.
pink isn’t just for “girly girls”
and clique-y mean girls,
it’s also for those that see
a personal, deeper meaning.
those that see it as a color of love across all.
I see it everywhere.
I love pink.
Polyphemus shouted, “Nobody is killing me!”
and I think about that too often.
How love can carve you up
but no one sees the blood.
You walk around half-blind, heart shattered
like a mirror, bits of you scattered,
echoing as you cry out but it’s just noise.
No thunderous storm, no sharp blade
or betrayal, just a soundless abandoning.
And you try to explain it to someone who’s never
loved wrong, but it sounds like you’re crazy or drunk
or trying too hard.
Nobody is killing me.
I’m fine.
It’s just that you were the one
and you’re not here.
