From the series, Japan Poems.
Words,
well-warmed
by the soft buttery spread
and halo of naked bulbs–
In tenderest solitude,
texts run on,
deviant, unfinished,
bare to the trespasses
of touch and longing.

From the series, Japan Poems.
Words,
well-warmed
by the soft buttery spread
and halo of naked bulbs–
In tenderest solitude,
texts run on,
deviant, unfinished,
bare to the trespasses
of touch and longing.

From the series, Japan Poems.
Given over
to the immaculate tedium of dreaming,
to spells of cherished solitude,
notes are passed in silence,
while absence swells the heart
to fondest proportions
and muted nostalgia.

From the series, Japan Poems
In the lotus pond,
ripples and respite echo in sync–
Romance tenders its wake.

From the series, Japan Poems.
We enter forests
at the liminal risk
of time lost
to the vagrancies of dreaming
and silence of choir–
Engendered by echoes
and bated tense
we move on
at the mercy
of mirrorless haunt.

From the series, Japan Poems
At the rooted center
and trembling wake
of this elegant
haunted universe
symmetry and chorus
call upon us intimately
as first and last witnesses
emptying out
to the grief and cherish
of every taken breath
immeasurably spent.

From the series, Japan Poems.
In the shadow-stained haunt
beneath the stone bridge
a pair of empty rowboats
have gently digressed
and gone adrift
from merrily merrily merrily
to the edges of solitude
mirroring the span and proof
that life is but a dream.

From the series, Japan Poems.
Where the moss grows wilder,
clamoring to efface or colonize,
or perhaps model a seasonable fashion makeover
to the stone deity lotus-locked in stunning repose,
who long since
ceded his material crown
to the menial grace of Time’s scalpel,
with silence sounding favorably
in due course.

From the series, Japan Poems.
Side by side,
farmers reigning symmetry
in repose–
The sky, blue to the taste,
with chalky traces of cloud
powdering the empty course–
Images of the floating world
persist in material means
and long takes reaped.

From the series, Japan Poems.
We are here, but briefly,
finite exhales
threaded to infinite digressions,
nowhere
and
now here
minding a slip of the tongue,
a merciful spell of passage
shedding lightly
to no known ends.

From the series, Japan Poems.
Here,
a plot of overgrown grass
and conjugal motives–
A desirously bowing limb
decked out in pink and green,
caressing the time-darkened stone
of one who has passed from now
to now-again…
The enduring portrait of a love story,
without witnesesses,
ministered by the migrating wind.
