#0081 - Rain

Rain:
the smells and sounds of another plane.
Pitter patter;
raindrops splatter
upon the windshield of my car.

The gleam of city lights
amidst restful dreams and asphalt streets
reflects through spheres of falling water
as curbs shift surges down canals.
This sound: waterfalls.

Is there even a question whether these showers
are tears from angels residing in heaven?
No;
only, are these tears somber
or of laughter?

#0080 - Haiku VII

We are all absorbed
In our life goal of demon-
-izing the different.

#0079 - To Celebrate

Celebrations are nice,

but I've never liked committing a yearly day

to something that deserves commitment every day.

A race can't be won by ramping up your effort

when finally in sight of the finish line—

for victory, a lifetime of effort is the best guarantee.

And if you think a benevolent castle you build in a single day will stand,

remember that while you may build it better each time it crumbles away,

the deep-reaching foundation is what will keep it upright.

One day may be for the one Mother Earth,

one day may be for the many mothers of Earth,

but today is for every mother and mother's mother and every not-mother in the world.

There are more women in the world than days in a year—

more women than there are days to celebrate them—

and you want to fit them all into one day?

But, a single day is infinitely better than none,

so let's put all the appreciation this year deserved

into these 24 hours, flowing unrestrained into dawn.

Happy International Women's Day, all. Have you celebrated well?

#0078 - Quicksand

Reality is alit with dissimilarities and likenesses:
duality.
Moving through crowds and emptiness with subdued celerity,
the steps of a klutz overtaking finesse,

the stint I find sitting upon me oppresses
my individuality,
trapped in crude arrest: a mentality
of denying creative access

that would otherwise roam free, God bless,
in a virtual reality
that is at least real to me -
more real than the hermetically sealed casket that bears our address.

#0077 - On Undue Extravagance

I feel as if it isn't hard to write
A poem that can tempt the genius mind.
Weave stories of a turtle with a kite,
And soon in such a mind you'll likely find:
The turtle is a slovenly reject
And, as such, lumbers like an ugly slug
Presenting sloth as something to reject
Else one's life passes like that of a bug.
The kite is brilliant opportunity
Forsaken by a lazy, useless beast
That though we easily can view and see
Flies off into the vastly empty east.
     Though, truthfully, I only wanted to
     Write something for a child in preschool.

#0076 - 18

I wonder what has changed so drastically in the neurotic synapses in my brain
that as of 5 days ago I can now go out for a relaxing smoke break;
I can now give new life and shelter to my own human being;
I can now swear my endless loyalty to a pretty girl;
I can now drink my way into a blissful oblivion;
I can now fire bullets in foreign lands;
and buy 700 horses set on wheels.

From what I know, the hidden corners of my school smell like nicotine and marijuana;
infants have been birthed by girls still attending classes I passed long ago;
girls much younger than I have been with men much older than I;
boys much younger than I have taken sacramental wine;
teens have taken up arms in nationalistic service;
and 16-year-olds have crashed cars.

So why do I now suddenly hold a skeleton key in my hand?

#0075 - Nighttime

The window of my darkened room
gives way to moonlight's lunar rays,
and as I sit here, grimly think-
-ing, peace leaves me while silence stays.

Here I think of all and no-
-thing, mind confused and soul attuned
to this strange night where I have quick-
-ly found myself a sullen lune.

I think I think of something, but
I'm not sure what I'm thinking of.
The gears within my head are shift-
-ing as the shadows dance above

my head that rests upon this pill-
-ow softer than my hardened feel-
-ings, catching all my unknown doubts
in restless peace, in restful sleep.