On a high- unstoppable.

Nothing- no person, no thought,

no depressive state

can dampen creative sparks or

put a stopper in energy

pulsing through electric veins.

Clouds rise and fall short

to compare with feeling

and seeing

in explosive pops of color.

How can we not sing with

a passion unrivaled to

crisp cerulean skies;

what a gift it is to have a voice,

to be a being with heart

amongst a world filled with

wild and beautiful things.

How can it be that we

can wake to witness

life each day renew

in orange and red

across a flaming sky

and pour into a brand new

burning day?

Only a tsunami,

black and grey,

challenges a world so full-

turns to ash a reef

rich with light and

brightly flavored thoughts.

Equally unstoppable

these trenches of despair long

to travel deeper

into a psyche of turbulence

and takeover

a candy lacquered mind,

turn it to thunderous night

where harsh white flashes

itch to strike down

any hint of sweet

and peaceful dreams.

How can we not add

our own tiny, salted raindrops

to this great tearing wave

as it rips our shaky stilts

to shreds,

demands submission to

its unruly prowess.

How can any of us

not know of water’s

relentless, nimble inclination-

raw and solitary-

to paint in tears

our every joyous call?

Split Pea Soup

Brother and I were hunting fairies and

Catching colds in the winter air

From staying out too late trying to snatch


Shooting stars with our tongues and

Making wishes on falling flakes of snow.

Dreaming of days when Mom’s voice,


Breathing miasma into our fairyland of snow,

Wouldn’t beckon us inside to sit at the table and

Listen to Dad and Mom discuss the details


Of some tenant down the street who ate

A bullet, and how no one saw it coming.

But Dad said that all eggs crack eventually.


All the while they sat pondering the

Screwdriver across the hall

Who made his kids work on saturdays,


And maybe we should have them over for dinner.