sleepy elf

Wispy willows winding around
Mist condensed on meadow grass
Then dripping to rough sewn wool
Wrapped around a sleepy elf
Smoking his pipe and lost in

morning coffee

on laidback mornings when light
is still dim but growing
and the sun has yet to stretch
from its midnight rest, meanwhile
water falls from its rolling boil
and subsides to a humming churn
— a background lofi track for
lifting kettlepouring waterdripping coffee thatdripsanddripsamber of another place
to place of cup unrushed
time seeping is what it takes
for this to percolate, until
burning reality must be faced
misty thoughts still clinging dissipate
— yet a lofi sound worm track
plays stilland beatsin my head

the lost song

As a young boy, I wandered late at night
Under covers, quilt, and glowing stars
In a forest wild of a wilder sprite
Sitting on a rock and playing a pipe
I sat in the clearing of a tree ring
Under the sprite’s beating music spell
And it taught me how to make six holes sing
A lost song
I can’t remember.

I still feel the rhythm late at night
Of everything but the wishful aching
For a wooded haunt I’ve now forgot
Where my trapped dreams reflect back to me
Warped by icy rapids in moonlit streams
Whispering songs
I can’t remember.

uncertain season

steaming days of half sun, half rain
the sun glinting off the drizzling
until clouds roll in
bringing gentle rain and then pattering
drops on the already damp concrete
still warm from the last clear sky
blue, now gray
comforting in a way, the monochrome
giving azalea flowers and papaya leaves
a chance to cool until light magnifies droplets
while the ground emanates warmth
to wet bare feet
but there’s time for them to dry
and the barley tea to steep
when it’s done, I’ll pour it
over ice and we’ll hold it
in condensating cups dripping from contact
with heat and cold and warm hands
give it time
another front will blow in carrying
more water than we need
but tomorrow it will evaporate
and leave our cups empty in the sink


laying out with backs to the grass
while dog rolls between the blades
face first
in a field sunbaked yet grows green
must be what’s underneath our
bodies still
despite the rotting and decay
grass deepens then reaches for the
blazing sky
filling lungs with scented revery
for the dusking walk home

a summer storm

a blank canvas of gray
shapeless solid shifting
sometimes drizzling rain
but now hinting of warm
setting sun rays hiding


the canvas crumples
into visible clouds
billows balm pink blushing
but now fading to gray
shadows blanketing earth



Tiptoeing on a stool
To cast my reflection
Onto the bathroom mirror with fingers half the size
Gripping a blowdryer meant for drying dripping heads
But I blow everything 
Except for my head

Hot air making the hair
On my neck stick straight out
My shirt rising like a jellyfish, slow motion
Floating, covered in bumps up and down my spinal ridge
They spread with shivering
As good feelings do

White noise droning, drowning
After shower hours
Into foggy clock hands and foggier mirrors filled
With cowlicks and damp feet I can’t see past misty
Imagery — but I still hear
The oscillating beat