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.