Saturday, October 25, 2014


A butterfly lands on your arm.
It slowly opens and closes its wings,
Catching your attention as the sunlight glimmers
On the wings constructed from tiny, oily scales.

You want it to stay, but soon it flies away,
Leaving you behind in your own dismay.
You'd like to capture it in a jar,
But it would surely die if you held it captive for as long as you'd like.

Gripping it with your fingers would destroy the very thing you seek.
Following it would quickly become impossible,
As you are unable to fly, yourself--hence its appeal--
And what good would it do to follow it till its end?

Or perhaps you despise butterflies
And wish to crush it, smash it to smithereens,
But you'd be covered in its innards, left with a mess:
It would have its revenge from beyond the grave:
For all your hateful effort, you would not be rid of it.

Realizing the errant nature of these urges,
You let it flitter away, to whatever fate
awaits its buttery-winged life,
Content that while you won't know it well
And may never see it again,
It's best for the both of you to part freely
After your brief chance encounter.

And you realize that there will always be more butterflies.

Sunday, October 12, 2014


From up here,
You think your feet could touch
The cottony cloud tops
Just below,

But actually
You can't reach,
And the closer you get
The less there is of substance.

Strips of cloud so thin and fragile:
The insubstantial filling
In an invisible and chaotic
layer cake
made of wind


The roar of a landing plane:
The distinct impression you've ridden in
On a thunderbolt.

The Sea

The sea of endless waves,
Like a sea of endless waves.

Amoebic Ocean

Lapping the sandy shore,
The waves of an ocean
Are like a vast amoeba,
Trying to engulf its prey
With infinite patience
And tiny repeated efforts;
And gradually succeeding.

Jodo Mission

Kiawe seeds in pods
Wind through waves and sand
Grains of consciousness in mind

Thursday, September 11, 2014


Bare sky,
Bare toes:
Wind through both.

Wednesday, September 3, 2014


Fond touches
Walking couple
Happy arms:
Thru window screen
Genders unseen

Monday, August 18, 2014

Goldfish Moon

Our moon was a goldfish
Or at least its eye,
Oversized, in the middle
Of its misshapen halo body
Of wispy, silvery-colored gold.
Out it rose from behind a hill
Or a castle in the bowl of the sky.

Mirrors, Mirror

Two mirrors
Facing each other

Saw dim, distant
of themselves
In the other.

Both were right,
And both were wrong.