Shhh…

Do you hear the swooshing
of the waves on the shore?
Do you hear the shush of the wind
as it sweeps low and hisses like
the slithering snake winding through
the graveyard on the hush of dark wings?
The fear that reverberates
like the rolling thunder
with each thump of one’s heart—
Do you hear its silent echoes
in the dead of night?

And this melancholy moon 
with its eerie silvery glow
spawns what a frightful folklore?
Beneath this distant firmament
with its myriad peering eyes

As if a child should understand an  adult’s muddle,
putrid oil slick puddle,
the dreadful pain we foist on wide-eyed offspring.
Robotic elders crush with rigid slabs of Portland censure whatever spark remains in those tiny rosebud cheeks before their prime.
Those innocents should never have to wrap their nascent minds around the wanton desecration of intertidal lakeland wetness gradients,
the callous douse of velvet purple algerita berries,
blighted by the stark timbre cloud forms
that recklessly pour bile on every genus.

Molten sun a grey streaked sky blob,
town starstruck gazer in wistful mob

Beneath the quiet midnight sky,
I ran where shadows learned to fly.
The earth was steady, the winds were free,
Yet all I chased was destiny.

Each step a rhythm, strong and true,
The night unveiled a brighter view.
And though the stars stayed far above,
They lit the path with silent love.
http://speedstarsgame.io/

Stroller
down a lane 
gazing around
letting the mind absorb
beauty

I

The bells ring 25 times

A dark purple procession
From the church
Past the south side of the lake
To the old house
To a wide marble room on the second floor

This is my second cousin’s wake
This is Modone-nee’s wake
This is Tsurarahime’s wake

Those ornate iron double doors
Which we twiddled in childhood
Are once again open wide

That old chess set sits in the corner
Bringing back a sea of precious, warm memories
But it also feels like a taunt
…
In the earthly life
No more chess games with Modone-nee

my mother always said that we see in the world
whatever we want to see
reality is shaped by our perception
but my eyeballs don’t
reach out into the world like
fingers
molding clay into concept
or concept into clay
and if they do
they are more like slippery blind tendrils
soft and webbed and glassy
scooping wet sand into sloppy castles
only to get lapped up by the tide
in cycles
not spiteful or cruel but indifferent
as the moon plays tug-of-war with the earth
in their little game of gravity
in nature there are no wins or losses