We check the new fountain
purchased today. A solar powered one,
making sure it’s not misbehaving.

The late afternoon sun is waning
and the fountain is struggling
to keep the water spouting.

A grey tufted, winged traveler
doesn’t seem to mind the issue,
while splashing about in appreciation

for the aquatic addition to its surroundings.
Now, if we can just remember
to keep filling the darn thing with water…

"Her Constellations"

Her constellations are bite-sized galaxies of feeling,
each cluster a starfield guiding through
hidden chambers of a trembling heart.

“Lantern in the fog” becomes Polaris—
steady beacon anchoring a mind adrift
amid the static of modern distractions.

Swipe, scroll, tap— a trio of stanzas aligned
like Orion’s Belt, mapping the relentless chase
of dawnless days and restless nights.

Fields of bright poppies
surround the whole basin.
Young Brits in opium shacks
lie in dismay.

Victims of man kinds
own annihilation.
Dreaming with visions that
dance through their heads.

Can we not see this
waste of the human mind.
Encounters with euphoria,
which suppress the brain.

All in the name of
expanding our consciousness.
A worthless endeavor
suppressing the soul!

Then in the end will we dance
through an open flame
Boldly denying the
game that we play!

Shingles come quickly
Hitting so very hard
In many exposed places
Never in spots expected
Growing worse by the minute
Leaving us in sheer panic
Exposing us to ugly splotches
Slowing every action to a halt

Yeah we went out today
I wore my favorite jeans
Your shoulder brushed mine
Not sure what that means

We sit in your car and laugh
At the people in horror films
You say I should watch your favorite
I can't say just how that feels

You might break my heart
Your name has a reputation
A boy with it broke my heart before
God, please let me love this relation

A bespectacled woman elbows the queue, throws her fare into the tray.
She scurries to a seat amid the rabble of passengers.
Head shakes, her impatience tangible, onlookers mirror her mood.
On her knee she holds a battered file, stuffed with handwritten complaints.

Two lads in the seat behind her see her for what she is,
authority dressed as dismissal.
Their laughter is a distraction. Their jokes, not funny,
a long-winded fart yarn slagging off authority.

"time is of the essence"

We compete for every moment—
ikkoku o arasō—
as dawn spills gold across the plains,
each breath a bargain struck in morning’s hush.

We vie for each minute and each second—
ippun ichibyō o arasō—
while shadows flee the sun’s fierce blaze,
hearts pounding in the space between ticks.

Today’s single moment is worth a thousand gold coins—
kyō no ikkoku wa senkin ni ataisuru—
so let us gather sparks before they drift to dust.

and all things considered,
broadcast on national public radio
Frequency: 90.9WHYY-FM,
I (a liberal democrat)
counted myself as an avid fan
particularly listening to
the prairie home companion
during half life of mine
arbitrarily referenced yardstick
of one measly mortal male
Matthew Scott Harris,
whose chronological years
athwart planet earth
elapsed within figurative
or literal eye blink,
one humble human
among rank and file
cosmic flotsam and jetsam,

Harsh words
Uttered with thought
Often from our leaders
Destroying the heart of our cause
Disdain

The driver wears his weekend, bloated soured face.
A woman holds the exact change, leaning back to escape his stinking breath.
Rain makes every passenger smell. A life lived in a damp wardrobe, mildewed.
A child wails on its mother’s knee, relentless.
Tired faces turn, irritation evident.