each bud
opens to its first day,
a leaf
dancing with the sun
like a lover
A soft spring sky hovers over the valley. The rain has come and gone. Without a care in the world, she’s skipping through a puddle, her clothes still wet from the downpour. There’s nothing quite like seeing your first rainbow.
I see a light through the keyhole while fumbling with the keys to my imagination. The faint sliver penetrates the darkness just enough that I can tell it’s there. I try the first key. It doesn’t fit. I try the next and the next. Each is another mismatch. Finally, the last one slips into place. The lock clicks as the key twists. I turn the knob. The door swings wide and daylight spills in.
spring morning…
I follow a bee
to the honey
no moon . . .
I take a breath
of silence
I’m in the mountains of West Virginia dead-set to cross them before daybreak. Problem is, I need a ride and they appear to be in short supply. Finally, a pair of headlights, navigating slowly through the falling snow. I stick out my freezing thumb but to no avail. The car eases by.
30 minutes later . . . my ride arrives, two men in a beat-up station wagon. I climb into the backseat without hesitation. We make the usual hitchhiking small talk. I tell them I’m headed to Fort Campbell, Kentucky, returning from Christmas leave. They seem to like my military status.
“You’re lucky we came along,” the driver quips. “We help the police patrol these roads for hitchhikers. It’s dangerous out here.”
chilly wind
that knowing grin
in the rearview mirror
I study the rough face of the burly driver for a moment as I envision my body being dumped alongside the road. The skinny fellow in the passenger’s seat, chuckles. He passes something to the driver then turns around to look at me.
“You want some moonshine?” he asks. “It’ll warm you up. There’s a jar under the seat.”
Oh boy, I’m in a car with a couple of drunks who think they work for the police. I fumble under the seat and pull out the jar. The first sip burns my throat. The car continues on into the coal black night.
“Our turnoff’s just ahead,” one says. “but we’ll take you to the next town where it’ll be easier to get a ride.”
I thank them, welcoming the thought of civilization. Our conversation ambles as the liquor begins to warm my body. We talk about the military, patriotism and our love of freedom. We have a lot in common it seems.
Arriving in town, it appears deserted. The two men talk between themselves. Finally, the driver declares that they will take me a little further, to a better spot. Not wanting to step back out into the cold just now, I agree.
Each stop breeds a similar conversation and result, just a little bit further. All through the night, we travel.
Three-quarters of the way through the jar, I finally spot the welcoming glow of Charleston in the twilight.
going home
only my shadow
knows where I’ve been
First published in Narrow Road (2019, April Issue)
a bee
gathering pollen
flower to flower
touches the trigger hairs
of a venus flytrap
in the din of voices across the crowded room—in the sum of my consciousness—two smiles engage for the briefest of moments. that’s all it takes: magnets attract steel; brainwaves absorb the blow. we, the restless, seek to do no harm, yet we aim for the heart.
the fletcher
adds flights to two arrows
made for Cupid . . .
you and i with targets
on our chests
hourglass sand
slips through your fingers
one grain at a time
dawn breaks the stillness
and thunders through my brain
I stand on the threshold of tomorrow, examining the cracks in my psyche. Born with a blank slate, I’ve been filling it up for years now. First came play; then came disaster, the jolt of my first confusion. How could I go from frolicking to dripping like a sponge?
We were seven years old that day, a couple of peas nestled in the garden; ours was a childhood entrenched in adventure. The morning came, and another journey through time and space lifted off. The school bus delivered us to the place of learning, and we studied our way to recess. Tetherball.
Back and forth, the ball flew, each blow stinging my hand. You beat me three games in a row as we pummeled the object du jour. Every laugh heightened the play, drawing us closer together. The bell rang, but we continued the game until the playground cleared.
sunshine escape
impossible to resist
daydreams
meld into memories
guiding us through the moments
The last bell rang; we were on the bus toward home—you cracking jokes from the seat behind me, me in the front row. When we reached your stop, you passed me by, and we wished each other a “See you tomorrow.” You stepped into the street.
Bang!
tomorrow never comes
yesterday never was
when a friend passes
now is that day forever
locked in deafening silence
Contemporary Haibun Online 22:1, April 2026
Longevity: Poems in the Key of Helen
Poems written in the spirit of my grandmother who was one of the most lovable souls I’ve ever met. She was instrumental in my journey as a writer, fostering my every ambition. A kind, caring, supportive, and wise woman. Every poem in this book echoes her indomitable spirit. The focus of the book is positivity.
Available from Red Moon Press
i conjure this necessity, razor-sharp, surging blood, with unmortgaged reason, no compromised beliefs or treaties of the heart, just commitment brewed to the maximum proof.
to the icons of corruption—of morality’s resonance dulled blunt—
tanglers of truth, incumbents of delusion draining the
stereophonic brainwaves we pray.
to the mire of humanity with toilets of gold
flushing the taste of excrement coated on twisted tongues,
roughshod riders from the haunts of Hades,
jugglers of mental dis-configuration.
to the gods of spite, dream-breakers, wielders of illusion, dreads of the mind,
creators of landmines, and all the freak-show heads
politicking Earth, wasting oxygen for viral misdirection.
to wolves dressed in shepherd’s raiment, criminals of salvation,
Pied Pipers on cable TV, nightmare weavers drilling
holes in our craniums to see if mass hysteria fits.
to the pickpockets of our souls,
con-junkies—Ponzi pushers, dice loaders,
bullshit artists, and men in three-piece suits
peddling counterfeit purity.
to all the gurus of superiority—manifestations of volcanic ash
smothering the land in particles of hate—
adulterers of cognition, zealots of complicit idolatry.
to each Midas of wealth and power
tearing pages from the rulebook of life, every two-bit hustler with
with a fantasy to sell, any broker of fabricated information.
to the tyrants of the world, and the supposed guardians of our souls,
merchants of war and death, traders of hope for fear,
exploiters of the weak and polluters of the public trust.
to ye royalty of division’s moat
yes, we’re drowning in your shit!
ye kings warring on chessboards, hiding behind your pawns
ye with the power to destroy us all.
I say in a language you can understand: fuck you!
kneeling on the cutting room floor, i gather snippets of time,
fragments of countless lives—tortured flickers
in celluloid, the confused coagulation of hearts and minds,
debris, no longer written into the script.
from scraps strewn haphazardly and trampled underfoot
a million odysseys untraveled—miles of Earth unread.
from Plymouth Rock to the Golden Gate, the empty gait
of invisible rhymes. My maker left me with a single dime
to place a futile call for help. It’s a suicide mission just to
stay alive.
from this hell-done-escaped from this well of wishes,
this den of crooks and leeches breeding
toxic fumes, solid waste, and enough hot air to resurrect
the Hindenburg, to Disneyland-goers offering lollipop balms for
those lacking sobriety—that brain-scrubbing numbness
come from Xanax bottles, chasing hasty gulps of rye.
through this kaleidoscope of lies, they say the sun won’t rise again.
so i acquire a set of night vision goggles, found on Google, of course;
got to keep my head above the rancid water, even if i drown.
over time, i’ve found a few minds like mine bubbling to the surface,
percolating resistance to the current
flowing through the power lines of society, generating
electricity to a sea of Tesla coils casting light in the
unswept corners left by the “custodians” of the human
race—those robots blind to its resilience.
i see the machinery of those seeking freedom
primed and ready for action.
through the maelstrom of life’s atrocities, in this storm of guile and vulgarity,
the breakers of backs, shredders of facts hack their way
toward some perfect mirage of a mad hatter’s charade,
but insanity’s just their ruse used to spin
the world off its axis. to the players, it’s just a game,
but for onlookers like us, it’s a railroad train headed for a
brick palisade.
the engineer accepts no blame.
‘twas a steel-screeching, air-raid siren serenade to the last dregs of pain,
but we’ve been down these tracks before,
so slam on the brakes, close the barn door, pull back the
curtain, and voila! you’ll find a one-trick pony.
don’t feed it!
The corridors of enlightenment stand dusty and stained with years. I walk the halls in silence, pondering the moments that came before me. Weathered statues of ancient gods cast disapproving shadows over the cracked marble. I’m searching for an answer. Why are these passages dank and disregarded? Am I living in the Dark Ages? Is there no technology capable of illuminating this hour?
Boots of soldiers, now stirring the dust, lead to this moment of fragility. The chalice of independent thought oozes the smoke of war. The blossom of humanity has fallen. In its place, the calamity of division, dripping guns and ammunition, a recipe for annihilation. All across the airwaves, ads coaxing me to settle into the fray.
But here I stand, arms outstretched, light seeping through holes in the walls. With We the People at my side, the world looks not so bleary. Comes a maelstrom of lies to shield me from the dawn, but dawn arrives, leaving me to wonder why I ever was so blind to the ramblings of a tyrant bent on my destruction?
an oath broken
to reject the masses’ will
to survive
while the oak has lost its leaves
the heartwood remains
Resistance
A sharp critique of fascism in America (no holds barred). Topics include fascism, oligarchy, kleptocracy, and dictatorial rule along with propaganda and grifting.
Perspective (chapbook):
Haibun and tanka prose poems with images. Black & White.
