Quiet Desolation by Mark A Fisher

Quiet Desolation

Mark A. Fisher

desert

heat

beating down

out of a blue sky

cloudless and unrelenting

waiting for the monsoon rains 

to pour down upon

the sun seared

sand

rolling through 

another train comes rolling through

Joshua Trees and creosote 

through the great empty Mojave

towards one coast or the other

horn blaring loud past the crossings

another train comes rolling through

slowing and grinding to a stop

cutting one side from another 

studying the cars’ graffiti 

telling tales of distant places

another train comes rolling through

traveling on to somewhere else

past the sands of diamond deserts

with no ears to hear the music

echoing off the rocks until

another train comes rolling through

petition

“nothing grows here” said the geologist standing atop ten species of flowers

while the student smiles knowingly since despite the lecture she sees the flowers

all the magic comes wrapped up in bright colors that we will never hope to see

it takes no miracle from god to know the beauty found by bees in flowers

a child in a meadow chases butterflies in some kind of wild abandon

trailing behind, his wake, footprints in the grass and broken pieces of flowers

a neanderthal skeleton was found buried seemingly with compassion

mourned by the people that loved them and so covered them it seems with flowers

I watch daily feeling so helpless as the world’s temperature keeps going up 

while humanity still continues ignoring the entreaties of flowers

bloom

brightly the sun shining down

upon Mojave sand warmly

creosote spotted lazy lizard

bears witness waiting 

these empty months patiently 

before the rains and a return

to the tenacity of life

in the desert bursting

past adversity filling itself

      with wildflowers

rock art

epic paintings hide in sacred spaces 

each one holds the shadow of a story 

washed away by time into mere traces

acutely dimmed from their former glory 

what words would have slide along the stone walls

as paint traced out images onto stone

of dreams or memories that must be scrawled 

to try to make sense of the world unknown

becoming meaning as they become myth

changing with each new teller of the tales

and new paintings cover those underneath

until none can still recall what was veiled 

we can only see the art upon rock

yet if there was a way for it to talk

Kelso

I have stood on silent drum sands

where lizards swim like fish

and the sex lives of blister beetles

roll on like endless waves

where lizards swim like fish

through these sandy dune seas

roll on like endless waves

touched by unknown tides

through these sandy dune seas

deserted and still forgotten

touched by unknown tides

in distant human affairs

deserted and still forgotten

with the ghosts of many years

in distant human affairs

remote and nameless 

with the ghosts of many years

and the sex lives of blister beetles

remote and nameless 

I have stood on silent drum sands

Mojave 

empty miles of sand and stone

and  hidden wildflower seeds 

where twisted Joshua Trees

cast their shadows onto 

the dry and dusty memories 

of the seas they used to be

as ravens imagine they’re seagulls

calling to the mirage’s waves

washing across desert varnished basalt 

covered in petrogylphs 

whispering stories in forgotten languages

from before the awareness of gold

drew the tsunami 

and the flotsam of the storm

leaving holes and metal cans

across the desert bed 

now crossed with off-road scars

in torn up creosote

and still years are piling up

as the faults slowly move

while the desert dreams

it’s a sea 

once again

grain

I will be the unsilent sand

the end of hard stone

no longer strong

worn down by wind and rain

over these long ages

ground down through washes and arroyos 

to be lifted above the creosote

with hiss and howl

on dust devil winds

where I will wander the desert

here and there

then back again

in that slow tide of dune seas

I will find new voice

in the scratching grains

against foot and belly

that mark trails 

across dunes risen far above

and there in our unison

we will sing out

in booming voice

I am the unsilent sand

This Death Valley 

oh coyote please, tell me what you know

living with mesquite, and with salt, and sand

and remembering where waters still flow

what can you see, in this not empty land

so much is hidden away from the sun 

living with mesquite, and with salt, and sand

shaded and sleeping bright daylight to shun

waiting, and waiting, until comes the night

so much is hidden away from the sun 

oh coyote, stealthy through the campsite 

seldom noticed, and seldom ever seen 

waiting, and waiting, until comes the night

tiny belly flowers growing and green

back away from the roads, still living wild

seldom noticed, and seldom ever seen 

so deep in this desert nearly exiled 

oh coyote please, tell me what you know

back away from the roads, still living wild

and remembering where waters still flow

desert bloom

now comes another spring

pretty wildflowers

smeared across the hillsides,

impermanent 

impressionist paintings, 

before scoured

away by summer sun, 

a canvas dreamt

enough

it was small

a belly 

flower bloom

growing in

desert sand

unnoticed

except by

perhaps a

single bee

the end of Zzyzx Road

A herd of desert bighorn 

come out of the rocks 

looking for a drink.

Tui chub eke out their lives 

in the springs 

where the Mojave River ends.

at the end of Zzyzx Road

Darkling beetles stroll 

the sands between the stands 

of rocks, oblivious.

While the nightly hunts 

of scorpions and snakes 

are lost in the darkness.

Till the sun comes up over 

the distant brown hills 

beyond the lake bed.

at the end of Zzyzx Road

There is no simple answer 

to the mystery of the sign 

they see.

Still cars in their thousands 

drive on by and think 

that next time they will stop

at the end of Zzyzx Road

odyssey

quest

across

all the earth 

looking for home

~~~~~

never finding it 

until I stumbled hither 

where desert sun will wither 

all the dreams I had

~~~~~

like in a kiln

firing clay

into

bricks

upon

which I will

produce new dreams

~~~~~

like great pyramids

standing high in the desert

unmoving firm and inert 

yet remain fragile 

~~~~~

impermanent 

like the stars

trekking

‘cross

the sky

that still thwarts

all my longing 

~~~~~

for eternity

for a place that will hold me

comfortable and be key

like what home I want

~~~~~

where everything 

remembers

who I

was

Previously Published poems:

“desert” – Four Feathers Press June 2023

“rolling through” – Four Feathers Press July 2023

“petition” – Four Feathers Press August 2023

“bloom” – Last Leaves 2022 

“rock art” – Eternal Haunted Summer June 2023

“Kelso” – Scenes of Southern California September 2022

“Mojave” – Altadena Poetry Review 2020

“grain” – Magee Park Poets 2017

“This Death Valley” – Gyroscope Review 2021 

“desert bloom” – Spectrum Feb 2023

Becoming by Savannah Hernandez, Ammanda Selethia Moore, and CLS Sandoval

Becoming

Savannah Hernandez

Ammanda Selethia Moore

CLS Sandoval

 

Possibilities by CLS Sandoval

The Woman in the Mirror

       by Savannah Hernandez, Ammanda Selethia Moore, and CLS Sandoval 

       Reflection in Hand by Savannah Hernandez 3

Family Reunion by Ammanda Selethia Moore

       Remains of the Rain by CLS Sandoval 4

Sneakers by Savannah Hernandez

      Gold Studs in the Mud by CLS Sandoval 5

Decades After BHMS by CLS Sandoval

      View of Suburban Pyramids by CLS Sandoval 6

All the Men I Never Wanted

       by Ammanda Selethia Moore and CLS Sandoval

      Gnarled Branches by Savannah Hernandez 7

The Biopsy by CLS Sandoval 

       Gazing into Echeveria’s Eye by Savannah Hernandez 9

Panic on the Living Room Floor 

       by  Savannah Hernandez and Ammanda Selethia Moore

       Trees After Rainfall by Savannah Hernandez 10

Medically Neglected 

       by Savannah Hernandez and Ammanda Selethia Moore

       Life Above Hidden Decay by Savannah Hernandez 11

I Didn’t Mean to Be So Obvious by CLS Sandoval

       Tree Puddles by CLS Sandoval 12

Ode to My Body by CLS Sandoval

       Survivor by CLS Sandoval 12

No Rest for the Martyr Savannah Hernandez

        Awake at Dusk by Savannah Hernandez 14

Alone Under the Moon by Ammanda Selethia Moore

       Playground Perch by CLS Sandoval 15

Control by CLS Sandoval

       The Moon Also Rises by CLS Sandoval 16

Estranged Voice by Savannah Hernandez

     Wooden Tunnel by Savannah Hernandez 17

Celebrating Our Birthdays Together by Savannah Hernandez

       Laugh Lines by Savannah Hernandez 18

Still Becoming by Ammanda Selethia Moore

        Liberated Rose by CLS Sandoval 19

Photos edited by Savannah Hernandez

The Woman in the Mirror

Every time I see a photo

I cringe at the image of myself

I’m not that youthful twentysomething

With a flowing scarf and slender legs

I had so many plans for that girl

That beautiful, fit, young girl

I don’t recognize the person

That I grew up seeing

Almost concave, flat stomach

Thick hairline, full, wavy locks

Arms toned and muscular  

Porcelain complexion 

I never thought of what to do 

With this thicker, older version

Crows’ feet, grayed-purple bags

Beneath the puffy lids that pillow my dark eyes

Laugh lines fading, mouth corners hang heavy

Emotional bruising and scrapes evident in my reflection

My youth prematurely weathered by threats of loss and grief

I pound the mirror until something breaks

I avoid my reflection as I pass

To cushion the initial shock

And the tears that come to my eyes

I compare my new body, my used body

With all the bodies of my past

Every new scar a marring of the original

Every stretch mark is a reminder

Of what came before

Family Reunion

Their eyes look at me

They recognize my face

Even though I barely do

When I look at myself in the mirror

Returning here, to see family again,

Unsettles me

My eyes dart back and forth 

Judging their expressions 

Hyper vigilant in their presence

Have they noticed how my face has changed?

Would they shame me for the weight I’ve gained?

I suck in my stomach as far as I can

But my stomach will still protrude

I breathe in and out slowly

Willing myself to calm

I return their gaze and smile

  

Sneakers

I do not see Freedom or Play–

Grief seeps up from the Crevices of my Mind,

Like Rainwater streaming along Concrete Streets,

At the Sight of Abandoned Shoes–

Reminders of Unspoken Farewells

Perhaps they were Lost, Forgotten in a Childish Game

But my mind goes to Dark Memories–

Shaped by Crises and Left-Behind-Things

Made by those who Tried to Leave

With Unspoken Farewells

  

Decades After BHMS

Pyramid School, we called it

matching the new high school

built right next to it

a little over a decade after

Bernardo Heights Middle School 

opened

I walked those halls cradling my wounds, worries, and aspirations 

I performed three musicals, countless songs, 

and kissed most of the boys in my grade behind the choir room 

I started my period, saw OJ get acquitted, and passed notes in the hall

I threatened to walk off campus, chewed gum, and ran an 8 minute mile on that field

My friend was busted for hiding the word “Sex” on the yearbook cover design

My sister went to that high school years later

One day she forgot her lunch

I parked and walked into the office

The yard duty threatened me with a pink slip

Didn’t believe I was now a college student

Now that’s been years ago

I half expect to see my classmates and teachers

still on that campus

but the faces are all new

only the haunt of the place remains for me there

 

All the Men I Never Wanted

The first time, he just wanted to see me naked

And he opened the door 

To the bathroom for “Just a Peek”

When I yelled at him, he grabbed me

Pushed me down on the bed

Climbed on top of me and waited

Until I ceased to move beneath him

The second time, he just wanted to feel

His penis against my ass

Even though I was sleeping

He pulled up my skirt, and 

Pushed himself into me

Until I woke up

And he feigned shame until I apologized

The third time, he just wanted a kiss

And so he followed me onto the elevator

Threatened me, told me he was bigger

And pushed me against the wall

Pulling up my skirt

Until the doors opened

And I ran away

The fourth time, he just wanted to be friends

Or so he said, since I was dating his best friend

We watched Titanic in the theater

He went home, then came over later

Said he just wanted to talk

Then decided he wanted skin against skin

I think I said no, but my voice was raw by then

The fifth time, he just wanted to see how 

Many Long Islands I could chug

It was at least three

And he walked me home, like a gentleman

And then everything went cloudy

I don’t remember, but my body does

And I awoke next to one of his buddies

My door was left open

The sixth time, he just wanted to prove he could

He was so much older, someone I could rely on

He heard I was easy, always told me that he believed I wasn’t

Then fed me shots of vodka all night

I awoke, put together the evening before

Bolted from his apartment

Ended up at the police station

They talked me into a polygraph

I failed

He wasn’t a rapist, I was a liar 

The last time, he wanted sex

I don’t know if he realized I was blacked out

He took what he wanted, cuddled next to me

I cried in the morning, he apologized

I let it go and got sober, got therapy

Believed it was all my fault

Until I learned how to know it wasn’t

All these times 

All these different men

And still even if it were to happen again

I don’t know how I would act or not act

I’d like to think I’d fight back

Punch

Yell

But sometimes, I’m too shocked 

To move

The Biopsy

Husband and baby in the waiting room

Better that way, but I wanted to hear 

her gurgles and giggles 

for him to hold my hand

Met by a warm greeting before I undressed

I laid down in the flimsy paper gown

I closed my eyes 

the doctor inserted the transducer

like a large dildo 

projecting my intrauterine ultrasound 

she was searching for polyps

Your cervix is a bit off to the side 

she angled the transducer under one ovary 

to under the other

I clinched my teeth, held my breath,

I couldn’t stop it 

she dug around, pressing inside of me to find the polyp 

my eyes flooded, then overflowed

The hellish instrument paused

I can stop if you want  

I begged her to just finish 

I thought about my baby 

I would insist on being in the room

holding her hand, if she needed a biopsy like this  

the doctor held my uterus with a tenaculum, 

like forceps 

sliced a polyp to send to the lab 

Alone, I let myself sob for a moment, 

pulled on my jeans, went to my daughter

Panic on the Living Room Floor

Panic’s billowing wave crashes into me

I swim against its powerful riptides

My muscles stretching and straining

I struggle to keep my head above water

I breathe in shallow gasps

Fighting to bring more life into my body

I collapse on the shores of reality

Finding myself on the living room floor

I’m learning to breathe again

I inhale the lavender lotion on my skin

I run my hands along the shag carpet, so soft

I taste the salt of my tears

And I release the fear

 

Medically Neglected

My doctor doesn’t listen to me

My doctor doesn’t hear

The exhaustion and fear in my voice

I recount my medical history, my explanation 

She meets my concerns 

And stabbing pain in my lower abdomen

With huffs and rolled eyes

Same tests repeated, still undiagnosed

I hope she won’t say it’s in my head

But my doctor diagnoses me with anxiety

And tells me to lose some weight

I should probably switch to a new doctor

Someone who listens 

Someone who understands

I Didn’t Mean to Be So Obvious

Then there was a blank page before me 

to accept the boiling anxiety burning 

just below my thoughts

There were secrets on the outside of my head 

and passion surrounding my heart

Sentences fractured, fragmented, and faded away 

with shards of nonsensical words 

and comma splices

Under the ripples of the stream

my fingertips caressed each smooth pebble

and I saw the sun rise behind 

the thickening haze above the weeping willow canopy

I held just tight enough so that I wouldn’t forget 

I could lose all I had gained at any moment

I tried just a little too hard 

for anyone to believe that I was capable of relaxing

Like borrowing the steam from someone else’s shower

I let his kisses warm me from the inside out

then a fresh set of teardrops overtook me 

and slid down my cheeks

I fell to my knees in desperation

unsure whether to laugh at myself 

or slit my wrists

Ode to My Body

I should thank you

For your health

How well you support me

The fact that you aren’t falling apart

Your strength

How well you bounce back

Instead I try to under feed you

Then overfeed you

Expect you to shrink

Give you no understanding for expanding

Resent you for aging

As if you aren’t doing exactly what you were meant to do

No Rest for the Martyr

I’ve stayed Awake for Countless Days

Diffusing Loved Ones who tried to Self-Destruct

Swimming out into Raging Seas

To bring home Drowners to Safer Shores

I have Fought, and I have Warred–

But I don’t have Battle Scars to show at the End

Evidence of all that I have Suffered and Endured–

Washed away by Waves lapping at the Sands

Weary and Worn, I lay myself down–

I Breathe a Breath I didn’t know I held,

My Body never before felt so Heavy,

Giving way into a deep Slumber

Briars blanket me,

Fending off Reaching Hands

So I may not be Woken–

A Century or Two

Of Sleep will be

My Remedy

Alone Under the Moon

The silken moon shines bright tonight

And I’m alone underneath 

Here in the same park

Where my Mom scheduled playdates

And I played with my friends

Here where I kissed my first boyfriend on the swings

And we held hands

It’s so different in the moon’s glow

It’s so different now that I’m older and alone

The swings creak in the wind

The shadow of the jungle gym

Looks like a mottled monster

Crawling toward an unsuspecting city

How easy it was to make friends

A playdate scheduled every week

Mothers would chauffeur and chaperone

We’d eat ice cream in the hot sun

Now, it’s weeks without seeing anyone else

Outside of work, I’m alone

Weeks of solitude 

And the growing urge to scream

Pressing against my throat

Tonight the pressure sits there

Silent, waiting, building

And I look up to the moon

Up behind the palm trees

And let out a wail

Like the fizz of a balloon,

The wail wheezes out of me

The pressure relieved

As soon as I open my mouth  

Control

My therapist says it’s 

control that makes me anxious 

or rather the lack thereof 

When I want to shout out contradictions 

to what others perceive of me

When I want to introduce myself 

with far too much backstory

When I want to be the one 

who puts away the dishes 

and the groceries 

and the laundry

When I want to take 

everything out of the closet 

to reorganize

When I write myself 

as the hero 

of all the stories in my head 

and on paper

I want to control

She says 

some of my coping is healthy 

and some isn’t

So I made an inventory 

a list 

of all I can control 

and all I can’t

We’ll see how long 

until I try to 

conflate both columns   

Estranged Voice

I found my Voice–

In Smothered Screams and Desperate Pleas

Swimming against baseless Guilt and Shame

Lost in an Ocean that was not my Own

It Echoed the Rage and Misery

That Bled within Another’s barren Heart,

Of those who’ve Sunken Leagues Deep Beneath

Overlooked and Left alone in that Darkened Cave

It carved words of Comfort and Promises

Of Hopeful Futures to Revive their dying Dreams

To Pierce against Dreams of Dying, a Fight to Survive–

To be a Wick for their Candlelight

I found my Voice–

It returned Home to my Throat, 

But it Forgot how to Rest Peacefully

Within my Chest 

Celebrating Our Birthdays Together

I praise the Wrinkles that build Homes on our Faces–

Of Crows’ Feet that Scrape the Corners of our Eyes

And the Lines that Frame our imperfect Smiles like Paintings– 

Designed by our Cheeks rising in Loud and Gasping Laughter

We count and compare our Strands of Gray

That Look like Silver-Starlight against our Dark Hair

And Trace our Stretch Marks that Tattoo our Hips

Gazing at our Reflections without Comments of Rejection

We don our Aging Transformations like Medals of Honor,

Evidence that our Body is Alive and Ever Changing in Time

Celebrating Everyday as my Loved Ones come Closer to 30–

Because some didn’t believe they’d even make it to see 20,

So I praise the Wrinkles that Build Homes on our Faces

Still Becoming

I court the new woman I’ve become

I buy her flowers, write sweet notes,

I take her out for dinner in town

And strolls in the countryside

I’m learning her

Like a rider learns their horse

So that they may become one

A Fool's Paradise by Diosa Xochiquetzalcoatl

A Fool’s Paradise

by Diosa Xochiquetzalcoatl 

HOLLER

Holler, dollar. No more squalor.

Buying dreams we can’t devour.

Making green peeps turn to sour.

Weeds-a-plenty versus flowers. 

Time to wash. Get in the shower.

Halt the life consumeristic,

Being pro-materialistic.

Time to stop the modern sheeple.

Go and make the world a steeple.

Holler! Stop the dollar, dreamer!

Wake from slumber! Kill the reaper!

Wake you silly, dormant sleeper!

Holler! Louder! Wake the masses!

Time! Dismantle human classes!

Fucking categorical molasses!

Pinches reglas made by asses!

Holler! Louder! Fuck you, dollar!

Fuck the systems! Disempower!

Set aflame! Today’s your hour!

Rise my peeps, and feel your power!

Kill the dollar! Kill the greed!

Kill the ass who thinks it’s steed!

No time left for make believe.

Hear the message, please take heed. 

Holler!! Scream!! Today’s the hour!!

Rise my peeps, and feel your power!!

I Want a Love Like Lewis and Gresham

I don’t want the kind of husband with whom to sleep with through the night.

I do not seek validation in times of celebration or on occasions of terrible fright.

I want a lover who is willing to grasp my hand in that moment -my darkest hour,

one who is willing to hold me during the last crumblings of my human tower.

I want a husband who will let me live independently and all alone, 

and let me die in his loving arms when it is time for me to go home. 

 

Do You Hear What I Hear?

The winds do call.

What say they?

Are you anchored?

Are you rooted like the mighty Redwood?

If so, are those roots strong and vibrant and in good health?

For you will never know which way the winds will come.

You will never know their true depth

be they Red or Blue or White or Black. 

Are you ready for what they bring?

Are you strong enough to hold firm?

Flexible enough to bend not break?

Be at peace

knowing you know enough

to know you know nothing. 

Be at peace

knowing you are fully prepared 

for that which we can never expect.

Il Paradiso

Where all your dreams come true!

Vieni qui!

Wake up you silly rabbit!

There is a reason dreams only come true in your sleep.

In your waking state, you’ve gotta work hard

to make your needs, wants, and desires a reality.

 

Dance of the Arachnids

Walk like a spider.

Never linear.

Never steady-paced.

Maybe it is more of a dance than a walk.

We, the spiders and I, seem to move 

in a rhythmically arrhythmic sort of way.

The more I observe, 

the more I realize,

it is a tango we tangle with.

Two steps forward.

Pause.

Two steps back.

Pause.

Slide to the side.

Turn.

Hop-skip across the floor.

Slowly glide back 

in zig-zag motion.

The spiders and I,

we love to tangle with the tango.

Even Assholes Need Allies

And no, not to a-lie for them! To call them out on their shit!

To be a shoulder to lean and cry on when their ego takes a hit.

An ally is a helper, the one who supports an ongoing struggle.

Yet, an ally is not the one to make magic in the world of an asshole muggle.

Everyone makes mistakes and deserves a second chance.

But if the asshole refuses to change, they’ll lose the ally’s supportive stance.

The asshole will ultimately suffer the loss of the only assistance left.

And once deprived of that last support, his only friend will then be Death.

Because no one can forgive a second chance!

And if they do, they’d better be ready to join that muther fucker in hell! 

Por tonta

Cuando más te quise, no estuviste.

Y todo por mi maldito orgullo.

Tu querías, pero yo no.

Tú me amabas, pero yo no.

Y ahora que me encuentro naufragando entre los recuerdos.

Como anhelo aquellos momentos.

Aquellas sonrisas.

Aquellas desveladas sin ningún sentido.

Que se sentían como sueño hecho realidad.

Sueños que nunca imagine poder tener.

Sueños que nunca más tendré. 

Por orgullo. No, por miedo.

Aunque nunca entendiste ese pavor del cual yo sufría silenciosamente.

Y que nunca llegaras a entender.

Lo que más temía, ocurre precisamente.

Cuando más te quiero, más me olvidas.

Por tonta.

Por siempre. 

Hot Potatoes

In the past, 

I would have dropped them like hot potatoes. 

But now, 

I throw on a pair of pot holders. 

I pick them back up. 

I revisit. 

I observe.

I learn. 

My, my Adrianita! 

How you've grown!

The Definition of Community

U is for universal, the place where we become one.

N is no, you are not alone, where ties are never undone.

I is for interconnection, the web that we all weave.

T is for togetherness, the support that we give and receive.

Y is for you and I and every single human that breathes,

- the why we seek peace and freedom for generations to come.

 

Nomad Whispers by Dean Okamura

Nomad whispers: 

a wandering libretto

Dean Okamura

 

Nomad whispers

 

You start with silence, 

and then silence moves faster. 

You wait, 

clutching your latest present, 

walking down the street 

until you come to a point. 

Will you drop everything and listen to … 

 

fresh, free silence. 

 

She doesn’t know 

what she is waiting for. 

Looking off into distant places 

beyond the horizon, 

something appears in the blue sky. 

Could it be? 

The long-awaited lover? 

Could it be? 

The long-awaited teacher? 

Could it be? 

Just another fool? 

 

An angel passes, 

colored wings fluttering in the air, 

blowing sweet, gentle breezes and … 

 

that’s all we ever felt. 

 

 

Man’s drifting 

 

The homeless man 

pushed his precious cart. 

A bandana 

bound to sweating brow. 

 

Steps quickened a- 

cross the parking lot, past 

rows of autos. 

He dodged as they drove by. 

 

Our planet 

among celestial bodies 

must seem a- 

drift like the homeless man. 

 

All these con- 

sequences of unchecked 

Eons of 

the pleasures of Man. 

 

Withered leaves 

scattered in the Evil wind. 

 

 

Wrappers of conflict

 

It is not a war. 

     Super scary space aliens are not invading, 

          and your neighbor is not your enemy. 

     He doesn't have all the answers you need. 

Tonight was not a win, 

     but made everything worse. 

It is not a war. 

     Ultra-violent immigrants are not invading, 

           and your government is not your enemy. 

      She doesn't have all the answers we need. 

Tonight was not a win, 

     but made hope sail away. 

It is not a war. 

      Big bad Communist China is not invading, 

           and your teachers are not your enemy. 

     They don't have all the answers our world needs. 

Tonight was not a win, 

     but made bleak verses get longer. 

 

Reviving Ichabod

 

A scream of anguish rocked the Land, 

disturbing the peace of the Land, and 

the Land resisted as we (greedy) people 

tore society into pieces, into factions, 

destroying hard earned achievements 

forged with sweat and tears. 

I am starting where I am, 

holding what remains. 

The Land swept clean, and 

the Land waits while 

its dead laid to rest and 

creation forgets — 

four times fallow with 

deep barren wells 

and lost rains 

kidnapped away. 

 

Harvest seasons are past. 

The Land spent. 

We enter an era of reclamation. 

Not times of blessing, 

but glory departed, and 

we name our sons Ichabod. 

We are starting where we are, 

holding what good remains. 

 

Sunrise

 

let's destroy monsters of fear 

liberation from chaos 

play in clouds of joy 

at least in corners 

of our minds 

 

Tranquility tanka

 

a veteran 

comes with a damaged spirit 

to the garden 

she stops by a peaceful pool 

under red maple branches 

A silent splash haiku

 

a silent splash 

and this roaring breeze wash 

my stagnant heart 

 

To push us

 

There is something to learn from 

          the elderly man 

                    walking with a cane, 

in the slow pace 

the quiet determination. 

He moves untied to the energy of 

          his grandchildren 

                    dancing in their seats 

talking, laughing while 

eating their food. 

So easy to be enchanted by the children. 

Easier to look away from the old man. 

Ignore the crowds of people rushing around. 

It's then we see the diversity of 

          people moving 

                    at different paces 

in their life journey 

in this marketplace. 

Yet, today, the silent cane strikes loud 

          it strikes us how 

                    it does not thud, 

not to push him 

nor power each step. 

We imagine the cane has become 

          invisible to him 

                    a level of protection, 

reestablish balance 

avert total collapse. 

His demeanor shows he accepts 

          his faithful body 

                    despite its weakness, 

today's troubles 

will be settled. 

He has advanced to another decade 

          found peace where 

                    worry once reigned, 

solace in a time of 

constant chaos. 

We asked him, what was the greatest 

          lesson that you learned 

                    during your lifetime? 

He stared at the wall 

put his hand in his pocket. 

The elderly man walked without a word, 

          paused, turned 

                    toward us, 

smiled and said, 

I know nothing. 

I know nothing. Excuse me, 

          we are going to the park. 

                    I have to push 

my grandkids 

on the swings. 

 

 

oak (haibun: haiku with prose) 

 

I sit at a cafe. Constant noises of business and loud voices rumble like a factory. 

Meanwhile, a large silent oak tree sways in late afternoon sunlight. It has no big plans for today or tomorrow. This tree stands tall with total absence of attention getting. It is stability amidst a changing world, reaching every direction, even behind my ears, and before me …

the oak stands tall 

silent witness to the changing 

parade of life 

 

it could have been

 

I saw 

the poet 

transfixed 

along 

the lakeshore 

crescent moon 

rising 

sparkles 

of gold 

on water 

it 

could 

have been 

stardust 

or 

brilliant 

poems 

 

Natural connection

 

Sometimes, we die 

and go back to a time before 

the world built libraries, before 

books about science, before 

holy revelations, before 

civilizations, before 

tales to calm our troubling doubts. 

Did the sun shine truer? 

Were Spring rains purer? 

When animals ran, 

did they run straighter? 

After the amazement fades 

from moments of natural absorption, 

the mind tries to conquer 

what the captivated soul felt. 

Perhaps to brag, 

else to understand, 

returning us to the present 

era of libraries. 

When we complete the books, 

we feel more lost. 

Regret we chose 

the latest fashion 

over primeval connections 

we shared in earlier ignorance.