Category Archives: Nature


She’s Waiting There for Me



Kiss Me Down by the Broken Tree House



Inspirational Writing Spots


How to Describe What I See When I Look at Your Face in Darkness



kindness is in eyelashes
forgiveness in an orange flash
yellow sunflower dust lines kindness
melts away
falling into
crevices a bay
a boy
with sharp angles and sun

Grey Fantasy: I felt ill–at ease in a suit, really?



A woman poses in front of a mirror in Hugo Boss
wool-blended, sharply tailored with trousers (not pants)
A ten-year-old girl stands on the other side of the mirror
She prefers riding swings at Booth Park
and catching crayfish in Nu’uanu Stream
Afterwards she’s polka-dotted a Mercurochrome red
Her legs can’t scoop blue skies and pump them behind her
while wearing these pants (trousers)
And she’s really really sorry for all the crayfish she tried to keep alive
in the Folgers’ coffee can
Even when everyone said, They not going make it
They (grown ups) lost their reds when their backs became fuzzy
and brownish and then a somewhat white
Dabbing them with tonic only made the water red and angry
Maybe if she could go back to Nu’uanu Stream
incant and release all the crayfish’s tiny souls:
before leptospirosis washed away her dreams
of taking her children’s children there
before dog kennel washings
before invading black fish
before it became never again
All thoughts evaporated as the woman slipped her arm in a red Armani
virgin wool, notched collar, with (flap) pockets

Containers of Misfortune

We used to resemble people, until we decided we were safer inside, where the air was always 73 degrees, and we never worried about money, only space. Purchases appeared on our desks whenever we woke up. For a time, the most popular commodity was Stuffed Trees©. Every time the store sold a billion Stuffed Trees© that oldies song, “Sinca-sigh-yo” would shoot out of the screen–didn’t matter if you were shopping at that store, didn’t matter what hour schedule you were syncopated for. After a while, someone bypassed their system and installed a complaint counter at the store. People began complaining just to see the numbers catch up with the sales.

The song stopped, and the trees continued to arrive in tinted browns and concrete whites; some no bigger than my nose. They didn’t really say or do anything. I’m guessing that’s what trees were like. In a blink of two, for some, maybe three generations, we lost our legs, but we were still happy. I read that the modern containments came with InstaVoice©. Soon some of us lost our index fingers, too. Of course, our arms went shortly thereafter. But those trees–what a mechanical genius!

Writing Assignment: Describe What Indian Summer Means to You

I don’t know what it is or
what do you do with it
Maybe your stomach pitches
like hearing the intro to Otomi-san song
When you say hot is it
like a melanin platter of Duk Lee’s look fun rolls

We eat yamaimo (shaved) over nato beans on hot nights

I cover my inhibitions with nasal gurgling
and a plunking shaminsen
I dance
It’s winter and 85 degrees
It’s summer and 85
My mother re-plays Lionel Richie’s CD
one of her better days this week
I cry
Obon kimonos sway and pitch
sherbet foam skimmed from a punchbowl
It never quenches
the green flash at 6:35 PM tonight

What the hell is Indian Summer?