Archive for the ‘poetry’ Category

the stuff we don’t know

there’s so much you don’t say

and i don’t hear.

and stuff i mean to say

but disappears.

and we know each other that much less

by saving worthless extra breath.

and thoughts expire faster than you think.

and by writing and not speaking I am wasting ink.

so listen. i’ll say.

so say. i’ll listen.


new poem in archive

a drop of ink

Things in Ink

“Things in Ink” is a compilation of my poems I used for practicing one of my new hobbies; layout. I hope you enjoy it! Let me know how you like it.

to download, right click the link and click “save link as”.

download “Things in Ink”

Calling home

I wrote this based off my painting. Not the other way around.


I can make a call.

It is my right!

And not at all

Indecent at

This time of night.


And that

I walked a mile

To use the telephone

Even while

I have my OWN


Is really none of your concern.

Just look o-ver there at the light

Just watch the moths dancing, they burn

To crisps and they taste great

Especially so late

At night.


Do you see the moon in the sky?

Do you see me? Do you know why

I come to use the public phone?

I like it better than my own!


And it is e-v-ery frog’s right

To make a call late in the night.

Turning Pages

It’s not the worst of crimes

But I stole you off the shelf;

Read you, kept you for myself.


At least a thousand times

I’ve read you from the start to finish

Yet no amount of turning pages

Will your mystery diminish.


And every time I read, it just amazes

Me how little you I know.

And with each nightly read upon my bed

My questions, fascinations grow.


I’ve read a thousand times, I said;

Did I lose something in translation?

Misread your candid rhymes?

The nebulous dedication?


I said I’ve read a thousand times;

I’ll read another thousand times,

Forwards, backwards explore:

And still want more.

–August 9, 2009

The Poet’s Prerogative

Being understood is overrated

In this age where rhyme’s outdated

And subtlety is wrong and blatancy is good

And simple things are grossly overstated

It’s almost our prerogative to be misunderstood.


When I write of leaves and of the dark and lonely wood

Quite possibly, they’ll say my theme is “adolescent mood.”

And when I write of dreams I had one day while I was idle

They take it deep to heart. (And no-one is more rude)

Than to suggest I toy with feelings of a  suicidal


Today, so much of poetry is lost in translation

And meanings, (what they once were), change amid our inspiration.

But write, still write, for there is always so much more to give

Of your talent and your pen. Forsake the present frustration

Of being misunderstood, for that is our prerogative.

–August 2009

Tell None

Tell no one I was here.

I never whispered in thy ear.

Nor touched the rain wet window glass.

I wipe my fingerprints

And quickly disappear.


I leave no hints.

I brush the path

I sweep my trail away

I leave thee not a single note.

And at the foggy pier by boat

Silent and slow I sail away.


I leave no blossom by thy bed

As thou in peace and quiet sleep.

I leave no kiss upon thy head

Nor greeting nor a parting word

I trust that thou my secret keep,

And my unsaid goodbye is heard.


‘Tis better no one know

That I was here to wipe thy eyes.

I left an age and some ago.

And told them all of my goodbyes.

But it was only thou, my dear

I could not bear to bid farewell

So I returned to say goodbye, and also tell,

Thee, tell no-one that I was here.

–Augst 6 2009

If you must read poetry, read:

  • Robert Frost
  • William Shakespeare
  • Robert Herrick
  • William Wordsworth
  • Alfred Tennyson
  • Yoko Matsuoka



Here we are all, by day; by night we’re hurl’d
By dreams, each one into a several world.

Robert Herrick


During my visit to Karuizawa last week, I was thrilled to go on forest walks and find dozens of mushroom varieties, all of which were possibly poisonous. My favorite thing about the forest, though, was that when you looked up, the sky was blocked by a dense tangle of branch and leaf silhouettes so that any piercing bits of light looked like stars. I wish I had a camera, but I’ll have to do with this Corbis stock photo. It was much darker, and so any light that came through stood out all the more.

Robert Frost, who also happens to be my favorite poet, wrote often about leaves. I’m making a PDF file of his poems available for download in the links section. I also have several poems about leaves in the poem page.