Washing my Hair in the Rain

cascades from the
creating thunder as
it splatters
on the tin
I stand
in the sky’s
letting the cold
drip the shampoo
from my strands.

Till Morning Comes

Moonbeams reflect off the water
Like silver shards
shining through the wispy fog.

The coffee has grown cold
but he still takes a swing
from his canteen, feels the bitter
liquid run down his throat.

All of creation has been hushed.
Nothing stirs amid
the firs and oaks surrounding the lake.

To Her

She gave her everything she had.
Her thoughts, her clothes
Her entire body.

She gave her all her laughs
All her tears, all the anger
All her frustration.

But the reflection only stared back

My Prison

I am imprisoned

Do not be alarmed

Just hear my commission

And plea for no harm


The lock to my prison

Is not one you would know.

A key will not work

At least, not the kind that shows


I am the lock,

I am also the key

I am imprisoning myself

Until I can learn how to be free.


My dragon flies by night
His eyes shine with a fiery light
He follows the stars
No matter how far
And disappears by morning’s first light.


The clouds huddle
While lightning strikes the ocean
With jagged fingertips
And sharp crackles.

The cliff crumbling,
threatening to dash you
upon the rocks beneath

Light a spark
Clasped within your hands
Singeing your palms
and scorching your fingers.

Be the first
To cast your flame
Into the ocean

Hot and Cold

The sun glitters
Off the lake water
Until it burns
Your irises
And you squint
Across the liquid surface
To the forest across.
You hold on
To the edge of the dock
Feeling course wood
Grate against your palm
The cool mist
That lingers on your dusty feet
and turning it into mud
Is a sharp contrast
Against the blazing sun
On your back.

Claimed by Ourselves

Our origins start
In secrecy
Our life shrouded
In mystery
from conception
Our birth is celebrated
For the human
They believe
You will become.
Our soul
Is claimed by
Until we fade
Into the ashes
Upon our final breath.


Grief is a python
It is shaped into creation
In your brain
It slithers down
The spinal cord
Into the
Veins in your body
Until it reaches your heart
Where it curls around
Squeezing your chambers
Until you are emptied
Of the life you knew.

The Hunter

The underbrush and tree leaves are sprinkled
With dew.
The golden rays of summer
Make dewdrops glitter
Akin to a third-grader’s
Paper project.

No birds warble this morning.
For a stranger stalk the woods.
His paws are covered with a strange skin
And he walks on only two paws.
The polished stick he wields is loud
And dangerous.

He makes too much noise.
Animals scurry from his
Looming footsteps.
Insects bury themselves into
Tree bark when the underbrush crackles
Underneath his feet.

He has come to slaughter the roaring predator
That prowls these woods
Not recognizing that he is
The most treacherous pillager
Of all.