A collection of observations and feelings, all tied together by nature.

Forest Haiku I - The Start
Moss grows on, slowly
Covering the sycamore.
It is skin on bone. 

Part I - The Bee
The lines were set by
god and still they
linger.
They lay parallel, 
then bending,
forming the translucent sheet,
becoming wings with
veins converging, then
just as suddenly 
refusing to meet.
There is peace in 
knowing, seeing
only one 
responsibility:
hold on.

I’m guided by chance
and have held
so many 
hands.
For just a moment,
I held on to yours,
and with it 
latent life comes forward.
In my palm I had
kept it, even 
just for a second.
Movement has shown
that our paths were beholden
to the lines of 
the Sticky, Sweet, in-between Golden. 

Part II - The Flower
The earth on my soles
runs deep. 
Even if i wanted to,
I cannot leave.
I cannot be with time
as I cannot be in motion.
I rely completely on the 
force behind ocean,
the wind is my dancing.
And you dance in the
wind,
water of the wind,
wind that carries the 
next generation,
carrier of time
eventually you have to 
move by.

When you leave,
because I know you must
just like all else 
comes then does,
let go of my hand
a piece of me with you.
And as you kiss others,
you kiss me,
too.
 
The Old Guitarist
The man’s neck bends down to the
Ground where he’s planted, 
Stringed instrument slanted, 
He could be wilting, but on his
side it can’t be seen.
But he leans,
Softly to his right,
My left,
My right his left,
His left my right,
Maybe we are birds of a feather,
Maybe we are taut like a knot, tight,
His aching posture reminds me of being together,
His body looks cold but 
Something in this gesture swarms, makes me remember. 

Stare
Feathering flare, 
Fiery ochre-tinted fauna. 
A gate holds the birds in place, as 
We so often see, like a bird in a
Cage. 
But you,
You are very different.
Your gaze, 
Piercing like the roar of something distant.
Burning frame, singeing skin,
A stare to call out your name,
Something to speak of the situation. 

Forest Haiku II - The Middle
Wind moves swiftly to
Shift the green, the flower bed,
This is a romance. 

(rainbow) Fragments
They look like
glass,
sharp pieces of 
a once-whole form,
waiting for 
nothing in particular.
But it happens to make contact
with the sole of my 
foot. 
And crimson comes creeping,
beading,
weeping,
from the wound this
tiny shard created.
Lodged in a soft spot,
tiny shard makes itself at home.

End
Soiled in the car 
Petal, rooting, from 
The in-between hatched fibers 
and seat-belt metal, 
Gain the ability to see,
Really see. 
Strife comes to a curtain close,
A green slumber, 
Ivy on the sun-roof,
Ricochet off the ranch-top.
No more
Sickly sweet brain seed like
Shirley temple, maraschino cherry,
Hard sucker jolly-rancher candy,
Anything “grape” flavored. 
All keeps turning 
Like yarn fresh from the
Allure of the eternal spinning wheel.
A rest,
Quick rest.
Maybe one day we can 
Be blind 
All over again. 

Soma, my guitar
The raw embraced by bark
Round and pale
Soma formed and was set free
Curved and hollow 
Sugar cookies 
Fresh, warm, and well made by
Singer at the Holler
still raw in the center.
I press down firmly 
till my fingers bruise and 
patterns emerge from the 
ring.
And she rings
my favorite song rings,
I can’t say no to her,
so I sing along
she can harmonize with me in
tremulous breaths
quiet and subtle.
Or in roars.
Or in melodic patterns of 
pinprick lights 
in the darkness of my room,
becoming the darkness of sky,
because our city is light polluted anyway. 
Oaky fragrance lets me breathe,
really breathe,
as my bones sway to the 
numbers of a melody. 
My bones find the shape of a melody.
She holds the patterns and speaks them
into existence. 
Soma is godly. 
She speaks the language of 
lines that I love 
so much;
she makes me feel 
like a mathematical mess
that I can love
so much.  

Forest Haiku III - The End
Between the birches 
Teeming with life, silently,
Strike and throw the match. 

Process

This work emerged throughout the poetry unit in my Advanced Creative Writing class. Every day, my teacher would have us answer a journal prompt in poetry form. I often found myself writing my responses about nature. Over months, my voice emerged, themes recurring. My poetry took on a life of its own, in a way. The same voice went through many forms; some were new to me as a writer.