Some wore armor,
those freshbread women
with plums for eyes.

The River God said,
a lot of good it will do you,
then sank down
into a water lily dream.

One went to him
holding a blade made of summer.
Some say he married her
but she never came back to say.

Some wore bracelets
made of fall leaves and owl call
with sorrows lined together like dolls.

The River God said,
one is wise, five are deceitful
and none can sing, or love.
Then the water iced over until spring.

The women went to the silent edge
bearing a robe made of crows and rushes
but when he didn't appear, then or at any other time,
they gave the robe to the morning.

Some wore armor,
but most wore willows.
They were freshbread women
with plums for eyes.

Remember when I asked you for space?
But what I really wanted was you.
7 nights before,
You kissed me 3 times,
Under the purple moon.
Your eyes filled with tears
And mine did too.
We left it all in the past,
When we said goodbye too soon.

People tell me
I should be

sad

Because
Life is hard

How

Can
I
Be

sad

When
Watching a
Pug

Carrying a stuffed
Hedgehog half
Her
Size

Up two flights of
Stairs

On her way to bed

Or being greeted by furry smiles
And optimistic tails
Every morning

Regardless of wind or rain
Heat or cold
Aching joints or creaking
Bones

I hope if I’m deserving

I come back with doggy optimism

The whimsy of a Pug
The strength of a Mastiff
The endurance of a Husky
The smarts of a Border Collie

Because then
I will be
Truly
Fortunate

It’s time to go when the miasma of guilt hanging in the corner
Stinks of apologies like a bed-wetting toddler.
Here’s an excuse, with the urgency of that pink slip
Inside your blind, seeking mouth,

Deluged with liquor to put out
The horrid taste of my own. I always overstayed my welcome before,
Polishing my picket fence teeth with the grease on your shoe;
Talking of future pets and bigger yards
Of weeds hiked up the knee like a chevron skirt
To warm the stake driven through my core.

Bigotedly, I held the same view,
Pacing a tank domestic and half-full
As the airbag now sprung from the hemisphere of my lungs,
Stone-hard and hysteric in the cradle of your palms.

In a quiet bowl, a tale began,
Of a fish with tricks that fooled each man.
A beta fish with colors bold,
But Liarfish, as he’d be told.

He’d float belly-up, still as stone,
As if his soul had swiftly flown.
Panicked eyes would widen, stare—
“Is Liarfish no longer there?”

But with a sudden, secret glee,
He’d flick his fins and swim carefree.
Laughing bubbles on his way,
Another prank to start the day.

“Oh, Liarfish!” the people cried,
“You got us good—oh, how you lied!”
And so his name began to grow,
A symbol of a tricky show.

From village streets to busy towns,
His tale spread far, it gained renown.
And when someone would stretch the truth,
Liarfish’s name would slip out smooth.

“Caught in a lie!” the people say,
“That’s Liarfish at work today!”
A wink, a grin, a knowing smile—
They’d call out tricks from many a mile.

Now Liarfish is legend, grand,
A playful prank passed hand to hand.
His name still floats on whispered lips,
When truth and lies make clever flips.

So if you hear a tale askew,
Remember Liarfish, swift and true—
For in his playful, tricky art,
He’s the master of a lying heart.

I am
a collapsing moment—
the inhale before the truth lands.
The hush in the room
before someone breaks.

I am many a mickle
that made a muckle.
Small choices, tiny sparks,
scattered pieces
stitched into something
intricate.
Clever.
Quietly powerful.

I am willow-soft
and storm-shaped.
Bending
but rooted.
I weep when I need to.
Then I rise—
always differently than before.

I am crow-wise—
watchful, unblinking,
gathering what others drop:
lost things, sharp things, shiny truths.
I speak in symbols
and I speak in spirals.
I don’t walk straight lines
because the answers aren’t there.

I am octopus-minded.
I shift.
I solve.
I wrap myself around the moment
and feel it from all sides.
I live in the in-between—
between what was
and what’s becoming.

I am playful.
Don’t mistake that.
Play is holy to me.
It’s how I fight,
how I heal,
how I transmute.

I am moonlit and moody,
lit from within,
especially when the world turns dark.
Give me wind and mood lighting.
Give me thunder and space to breathe.
Give me dandelions
when no one’s watching.

I am a way finder—
not with maps,
but with language.
I follow kerning like constellations.
I trust the space
between the words
as much as the words themselves.

Thresholds are sacred.
The moment before the yes.
The breath before the no.
The choice that changes everything
but seems so small
you almost miss it.

But I don’t miss much.

I am not a victim.
I have bled.
I have bent.
But I name the storm
and I ride it.

I don’t just survive.
I reshape.
I reclaim.
I write my name in the wind
and dare it to forget me.

I am.
And that
is not an apology.

Walk to the edge of the pier
Look down at the
Unreflective
Nature
Of
The sea
And hope
That
There's
Something within
That you can
Talk about
With
Some
Of your family.

the mistakes i've made
have made me question -
the boy who wrote
his plan, as a freshman,
on piece of paper
so fragile, and brief -
it drifted away,
somewhere down the cliff.

sounded like the truth,  
but it’s not for me to say;
i better hold my tongue -
the lies are close; too grave -
to utter in vain with
but a forked tongue;
i must wipe the poison
off my plate.

there’s not enough blood
to quench the thirst -
of the beast that feeds
on the power of my lust;
i hope it finds
it’s peace, when i lay:
ashes to ashes,
dust to dust.

i better take my place:  
stand guard for the day -
at the palace of my mind,
where once, i would play;
a child of destiny -
fumbling to say the grace;
reading into his mistakes;

seemed the better way.