Star Children and Rain Girl

Short poems written a while ago about stars and rain. 

Star Children and Rain Girl
puddles dampened her
the sound of
————rubber and pitter
——————————-and patter
————————————-and a roaring thunder are lost,
————her slight hums,
——her umbrella captures even more,
an orange canopy stuck to

streetlights are lost tonight:
————————the stars dance and
————————————–laugh together,
drenched earth,
a single rain girl still sings.

are dancing children,
holding their stars close to their
as if their bodies would mold away otherwise.


line the sky as star maps
dotting into
shapes, we mark them
on our hands and find a place for them too.

Shooting stars

are                                           lost children
their way home,
indication of their arrival
nestled in the sun.

City Lights

hide the
(star children)
their (shines) found
in loose semblances
and rain
——-falls to conceal
their (words)


storms rumble
like trains pass,
a child tumbles,
ten pins down,


are space cars holding
families of star children,
the galaxy is one intersection over.



gave us bubbling sparks
with soap
and (flower) puddles

when we were outside,
        the  sun  
and the wind
blew                   everything

we could smell where we were,
the heat plated our skin
in sweat but we couldn’t figure out
if it was us, or the precipitation
of popped bubbles  

we ate popsicles and Freezies flavoured;
strawberries and raspberries 
and vanilla
                   pavement dawdled in
               leaking drips
and    rainbow puddles,  

we knew it was summer 
from the length of our strides. 


When Everything is Over 

When Everything is Over – Collected Haikus 

If the sun were out
we would dance among the rays,
dandelion fluffs

The sky is deepened
the sun is gone with rain drops
a rainbow for us

If the world was gone
we would be pirates in space
the stars our bounty

Let’s land on the moon
sing for the sun and maybe
burn into soft ash

In a way this world
is headed for a one way
stop to destruction

It all comes to end
swirling clouds and hurricane
the sun comes lightly

The world is gone when
tomorrow hits and then we
can sleep well for once



Another collected bunch of haikus from different days of different weeks of different months all surprisingly having somewhat similar threads. Really, I’m not sure how that managed to happen.

When Winter Strikes

Roads close and windows freeze across our street with the frost of breaths matching the bus shelter as we huddle together, the seething snow blistering onto the glass as cars thrash through losing exhaust smoke into the atmosphere mixing with our clouds leering out from the horizon where we stare and then we see the bus crawling towards us and the crowd cheers, we look at each other with softened eyes and then the bus rolls by as it was already full.


Last Writing Practice of the Year

In the spring we watch flower buds erupt from the dying snow. Low in the air, hung tiny sparkles from the morning sun, catching the drifting dew from the swaying trees that sing with the tide of the wind. A cat walks by. It purrs and stretches on the sidewalk, and when you go over to pet it, it scratches in the air and you pout as it runs off, hiding in our neighbor’s bush. You wave for me to come over, and when I do, a leaf crosses my eye. I stop, the air stinging across my ears, and as you wait, you point, and a storm of falling leaves surround me. Everything turns to green, and I can hear you rustling laps, breaking leaves in your wake, and when it all stops, a cat watches. You try again, before it runs away, and then you pout, and I wait as another leaf falls. But then, in a glimmer, the morning sun fades away, and a small droplet of snow dances for us. And you stop. You stop, and you watch, as our morning grows a little brighter.

The snow cracks, a lack of rain yesterday, but it did rain, for a bit. It thundered, but no one saw the lightning. We went on the news for walking by a shopping mall, an interview happening, we listened, as they swung their fingers to the camera, telling them they’ll be right back with the weather report. Turning on our phones, they told us clear sun and a heat wave warning. The cicadas don’t stipulate summer, we do. It rained, for a bit, in June, soft drips oozing off of our skin, and no one really said anything about the news being wrong, it only drizzled for a few minutes. Then the skies cleared, and the sun was down, humid, hues rolling down the melting puddles, a rainbow wanted to form, and the thunder lingered in the air. Tracking down the echo of the thunder, we held our chests and felt our pulse. We were beat down by the sun as it beat down on the earth sizzling the evaporating rain drops for tomorrow (today). Yesterday it rained for a moment, and the drips that found its way on buildings, in sewer drains, on the petals of flowers, on the leaves of trees, in our bodies, became snow. Now, in the beating sun, it’ll float into clouds, back to where it came. No one will see the blanket of white over the earth, not from space, or from the moon, and even the sun will have trouble. But, the clouds will be there, not rain clouds. Piercing rays lay on our skin, burning snowflakes, icicles haven’t formed in years. Today the weather report says it’ll rain.  

The fog clears, for another day, and in the fog, the city lights blare, poking towards the stars, grabbing hold of their shine, smothered by electrical malfunction. The city sleeps, for a night, it rests. The noise from engines whir gently as the feet from crowds still, waiting, a window sill holds a man leaning outside, his smoke nearly singes his cheeks as he looks up to the sky. A gentle breeze wafts over the buildings, weaving through the ascending odor of sewer bars and a bottle thrown from a bar cracks as a fight breaks in the dark. A man runs off without paying the tab, and a child looks, watching the pockets glow. The headlights of passing cars are bright, earthly stars, blending into one another, over one another, together. In the distance, the man who smokes brings his head down, and watches as the cars move, as those earthly stars bridge in and out, drawing attention to them as the only source of light in the city. He takes his lighter, brings it close to his face, and wonders if anyone will see him.  




Writing is fun, it’ll always be fun, no matter what year it is, for me, no matter where I am, it’s fun, and lately I’ve been writing better. I know so, my writing’s a lot better and I’ve been writing different things, all sorts of things, and doing these  micro/flash/ writing exercises is fun. It’s nice. It’s closer to what I want my writing to be, these tiny snippets and moments that can be grasped at, while attempting to be beautiful, or something. I don’t know, but I’ll be writing still, in 2019. That’s the only guarantee I can give. 

Describing Anthropocene


In our: white flowers, purple petals, drifting spring cherry blossoms blooming by the birch bristling away at the wind with branches beneath the purple petals, poking from their broken limbs we see that the days have gotten a little longer.


There’s a grove by our home that’s now alone, surrounded by paved roads and the smog that flows around its brittle branches slowly dampen the soil in leaking exhaust. We spend our weekend afternoons doing recreational cleanup, the homeless gathering with stained rugs and cups of lukewarm coffee, stale bread from the bakery (given to shoo them away) and when they see a passing couple, or flash-stained tourists they tell us, and we thank them, and we pick up pieces of plastic, or forgotten ticket stubs, and when the wind blows with the grass we all stop to watch it all dance.


 I buried a time capsule under the oak tree in our yard, and when we had to leave that home I’d forgotten all about it. I’d only remembered when I saw a group of boys burying their own capsule by the park near our new home, years later. I asked my parents if they knew our old address, and they told me. But when I went to see if it was still there, the oak tree was cut down. Someone walked by and I asked if they lived in the area, and they said yes, and so I asked if they knew about the oak tree that used to brim in the sky. They told me it was probably because it seemed to take up too much space.

Last year it snowed, brightly, in shades of bristling shining white. This year, as well. It’ll snow with long nights, and we’ll all say how much we hate the snow, the cold. We’ll shiver when the strong breeze comes for us unexpectedly and we’ll all laugh at how much our teeth chatter and when we go out we’ll know it’s cold when our breaths form in short clouds and the ground follows us as well. Next year, as well.

Haiku Practice


Solstice in December

The seed I planted
sifts in the soil alone
unseen till winter

The sun breaks morning
cloud cover imitates night
we sleep to evening

Light drizzles wake us
you shift in sheets dust flutters
our roof cracks and creaks

Summer smog lingers
till the end of winter and
spring and fall wither

Disappearing breaths
flutter with cigarette smoke
the lasting snow warm

Sun beams race through snow
a bird flies without the draft
feathers lost in flakes

You knew where I was
in the hem of a blooming
street hidden in rain

A broken streetlamp
looms with shattered light sparkles
capturing the moon

The reflection of
fogged windows shine lightly with
the glimmer of you

Snow angels appear
a deer strides in town then gone
blossoming snow drops

I just wanted to slap a title onto it so I named this practice set “Solstice in December” which I actually like as a title, maybe I’ll nab it for something else. Either way, I’ve been getting into Haiku recently/less recently now, but I’ve also been writing my own and collected some of the more similarly themed ones here.

Describing Bioluminescence


We huddled together, a broken lighter between the three of us. Anya’s hair crept towards her face, but no matter how many times I swept them through my fingers, they always raced down. River giggled every time this exchange happened, and eventually I did too.  Between our laughs, our breaths formed tight clouds that wrapped together, and then, as we stopped, we all looked back at the broken lighter.


Huddling close to her chest I heard every beat, lulling in quarter note thumps I counted each one on her breaths. When she spoke, the beats grew faster, half note trills beating closer to her blood. And when I responded and when she listened they slowed to whole notes, stagnating by her throat as she cleared to find new words. When there was nothing to say, the tiny beeps beeped to fill the space around us in staccato floats.


A small child walked up to him, watching his mouth as the cigarette erupted in a small burning light, and faded in the same time, a cloud coming to hide its radiance. The man watched the child watch him, and he puffed another cloud, the burning light caught by the child’s eyes, and he raised his hands to hold it but the man slapped his palms away, and told him it was dangerous. The child asked why he held something so dangerous with him then, and he said in a low voice that it made him feel safe.


Under the sky, the sun held us together. Do you remember? The rays of warmth wrapped around us softly. That sunset amber painted our skin, our fingers, and in the slight gaps we left, the breeze came to silk our skin, and looking down at where our pulses intertwined it was all afterglow.

Describing Waves


Shimmering crescendo waves bloomed as a stone dived its way in, sinking to the bottom, as they do.


The tip of my finger sunk through the surface, my smoldering skin singing and the hiss seemed to follow the outpouring waves.


I was pushed into the lake, with one hand outstretched from his shaded face and by the small glimmers of sun that peaked through his bangs, he smiled, and when I banged through the surface, I listened to the outpouring waves that left where my body came and I clawed forward, reaching for the surface. When I popped out, I saw him, looking at me, his hands still outstretched, where my body used to be, and I told him, “what kind of father pushes their own son into a lake?” and he looked at me, his eyes hiding behind the shadows that painted over his face, and he lowered his hand, and he stared through me.


We baked pancakes by the lake. The stones we used were cold by the shore, but as the evening went on, she gave me her scarf. My first stone barely made a skip, plopping into the lake, a solid wave expanding and then dissipating. She laughed at that. But when she went, hers went straight down as well. I laughed, and then I winded my arms, and shot another stone, watching as it made two skips before plopping in. The two waves it made both collided at the apex of their travel, the interference blending their lines together. She whistled, smiled, winded, and bellowed her breath, her golden hair finding the sun, and her stone was off. Not a single skip. We laughed.


We wanted to see if we could see it so we tightened the string between our cups, and we walked as far as it took us. She tugged when I tried to keep moving forward indicating that she couldn’t move backwards. Then, I pressed my ears in my cup, and waited. Soon, her words whispered within the small silence in the air. When she was done speaking, she ended her sentence in an, “all done.” Then I brought my mouth to the opening of the cup, the string taped towards the small circle pointing at me. I spoke, and told her that I heard her loud and clear. I ended my sentence in an, “all done.” She spoke back, and she told me to hold my cup as still as possible and yet also not holding it so that I could influence the string. I ended up balancing it lightly on my palms. And, without further words, I watched. After a few minutes, I brought my cup back to my ears and listened to her ask me if I could see anything move with the strings.  I said no. And she said it was a shame, that she really wanted to see if our words could be physically tracked through the string. I told her she was weird. And she said she knew.


A short writing exercise, where I take a subject or broad subject, in this case “waves” and really narrow it down and put it into something specific, expanding on the subject as much as possible and describing a feeling or moment.