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TWINKLE, TWINKLE LITTLE STAR
He says what he wants most is to own a star, outright, no sharing. She says that he already does, at least a part of one, and he should be happy with that. He laughs at her, and reminds her that stars are huge, and even a part of one would light the room and…
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FERRYMAN
He comes to me in the dead hour of night the old shriveled man poling his poor ferry across the river of my dreams. He comes when the moon has fled and the stars fall mute and he beckons me holding out the copper coins stating his fare. He comes to me, beckoning, and for…
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ROAD TRIP
Two nights gone and sleep has come fitfully, and I stir each time I reach across the bed and you aren’t there, and there is only the faintest smell of bleach and cleaning solvent. I want very much to dream of you, to trace your cheek with dream fingers, to taste your lips on mine,…
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MORNING BECOMES
We awaken and look at each other as though we are meeting for the first time. Your eyes seem new to me, but well remembered, a place I have often been, which is always new, always where I want to go, from which I want to never return. I trace your chin, your shoulder-blade, and…
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NIGHT CHANGES
Night alters sound in ways we can never precisely determine. It is possible our hearing changes with the flight of the sun, but the moon scoffs at this premise. A train rattling across the landscape in the heat of day becomes a musical instrument in the relative silence of night, playing a melody that insuates…
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LETTING GO
Roshi left last week sitting in the garden of the Zen Center, there then not there, as though he let go his 91 year grasp knowing somehow, it was the right moment. He left so quietly those around him did not hear him depart. Half a lifetime ago I sat at his feet, unable to…
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DEMONS
In the night there are no demons, just the sound of your breathing, and your soft touch on my back, your foot against my calf.
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IF EINSTEIN WAS
If Einstein was correct relatively speaking, the arrow of time, rusted in place, indomitable, can be freed, torn from its mooring and set adrift defying its natural inclination. As the lights of Seoul were engulfed by a blanket of clouds which in…
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DISCOVERY
In a small storefront, in an older neighborhood of the city, I found it. Sepia coated with a fine sheen of dust and neglect, it lay on the table amid a stack of others, as though a leaf of phyllo in a poorly made stack fresh from the oven. I knew it as I looked…
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A POET IS
A poet is a child who on seeing a blank page must fill it with dreams hears the song of the nightingale in the din of passing traffic comforts the lonely mother recalling the pain of a thousand births sees in each passing cloud the tears of a generation feels the heat of the sun…
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an old writer and his words 