Poetry

I embark
on a vision quest
to find my identity
but forget to bring
my wallet

We reach the top of Feather Falls at about 9 a.m. KC explains that it’s one of the tallest waterfalls in the United States and says he knows a way to the bottom. The three of us follow him down the steep incline and into the gorge. The air is hot, and the LSD is starting to kick in.

Halfway into our descent, we come to a drop-off. KC seems confused about which way to go. We debate the issue and finally decide that each of us should find our own way down. The hiking is arduous, but soon I discover a steep slope of loose gravel and rock. I sit down and bump my way all the way to the bottom.

No one else is here. Boulders, standing taller than me, covered in blankets of thick, slick moss, line the banks. The chilly water is flowing fast. There is mist in the air, and every way I turn, I see rainbows, full-circle rainbows. I wait for a while, but no one shows up. Drenched in sweat from this excursion, I strip off my clothes and wade into the stream.

a white moth
flits into my thoughts . . .
I cradle it
in my hands
as it falls asleep

Carefully, I work my way toward the roar of the falls. Around the bend, I come upon the rest of the troupe, all similarly defrocked. My chemically altered body and mind vibrate numbly as I pull myself up onto a low rock already warm from the morning sun. The rainbows are even more prolific here where water flows like a feather from the side of the mountain and crashes into the jumble of rocks below. We gather around and grin.

Steve, our resident Zen enthusiast, starts proffering questions. “Where do these rainbows go when the sun goes down? Where does the wind go when it’s not blowing? Who’s got the sunscreen?”

Opening our backpacks, we start laying out a picnic while each of us tries to come up with our own Zen-like mystery.

We bask in the sun for most of the day. Frank begins to stack rocks, and then we all pitch in. Soon the bank becomes littered with cairns. It is the Day of the Rock, it seems. Satisfied with our ephemeral art display, we gather our things and plan the trip back, deciding to go it alone again.

pine shadows
evaporate
before my eyes . . .
the long way home
through mountains of glass

I place my hand on the smooth, stone surface, studying a narrow fissure that runs from the bottom of the cliff all the way to the top, some 80 feet over my head. It looks doable, so I wedge myself into the crevice and start to climb. The first forty feet are easy, with many handholds and footholds, but now the crack is only about five or six inches wide. My knee is wedged in it to support my weight. Slowly, I inch my way up the sheer rock face, pulling up with my hands while repositioning my knee into the crack. It’s slow going, and there’s been progress, until now.

There it is, a rock wedged into the crack where my knee wants to be. There’s a nice space above the rock, but I can’t find anything to hold onto that will support my full weight as I try to pull myself over the obstacle. I’m stuck. Panic begins to set in. I contemplate going back down, though it’s really not an option. Climbing up is much easier than going down. I ask myself how I got into this mess. I envision my death.

Breathe. Concentrate. Focus. Think it through. I’m in the contemplative phase of an acid trip. A sense of calm overcomes me as I let go of my fear.

After 20 minutes of indecision and fumbling around, I find one small protrusion for my hand and another for one foot. I rehearse my next move several times before putting the plan into action. Carefully, I pull my knee out of the crack and for a moment am floating in space. It takes every bit of my strength and agility, but I’m finally wedged in again above the rock. The climb concludes without further incident. At the top, I’m greeted by a tangle of poison oak bushes, which I crawl through without hesitation.

I find my totem
in a dream . . .
the white moth wakes
flicks its wings
and flies away

First published in Atlas Poetica

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.

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