Conceived to dust! the fleet angel yells,
you buried my trust in a hand-written sonnet
Eastern promises mild enough to keep me wandering,
yet left me dry,
lapping at the river of dilapidated structures you called home

Print by Hiroshi Hamaya Snow Land

-‘ Somber

oh forgive me in time



matrona son is still teething on blessings,

forgotten cracked ceilings of the church where I prayed for my health

–  –  –

– , Netherlandish Execution / Nikódimos

The gulch of the gods who had once painted time
Now settle in dust to abstain from the climb

The glory of man left in pious refrain
Sincerity won in the god he had slain

The robin sewn sackcloth turned grey from his youth
‘Neath the bark of his zeal lays the onus to truth

Oh, God of our fathers, I’m playing the part
yet seeking for something as great as thou art

Paint by Pieter Bruegel the Younger The Procession to Calvary

álas Blood, –

Humanity purged by a lack of belief
Through gnashing red wine and the grinding of teeth

Drunkards assailed by the conflict of wheat
Their mothers who kissed salt blood from his feet

Comparing the oil on the fringe of her shawl
A proportionate sin for the sons of the fall

The march of god-men past the bride of divine
Who pray to the soil of a fear-laden shrine

Paint by Pieter Bruegel the Elder Procession to Calvary

Drought of Man / Diarkí̱s

Unabridged fields of green, the work of he who has counted his seed. Against the rail of a piling line a cascade of sand greets he who had first walked the shore. From earth begat in some semblance of man. Among him the triumph of the grey cliffs of Galilee once spoken in such clarity no longer a remanent. Deep sea of ivory laced in golden shadow, a truth unforgotten and passed on by the vigilance of rampart sun. Upon the signal of his arrival, an unbridled crowd, the peasant who came for the sake of her daughter. The fore thrust widows and fathers. In a breath he called to the man who had left his servant to tend the field he called his own. Scattered are those who have caused this land to quench. Like the seed they have sown they have rejected living water. Abandoned on a hill by the unassuming, he who had counted his tithe.

Paint by Pieter Bruegel the Elder The Parable of the Sower


Life was on the edge of its seat waiting for a broken convention. To be capsized again in an eternal depth of floating freedoms. Sinking further into the abyss of my vitals. Mary strung sequins of a life not yet lived. I will go sailing. Gone are the notebooks of seasons won and here I find myself where the boats go.

Paint by Pieter Bruegel the Elder The Return of the Herd


The belting harmony of gradually building strings layered in practice and ill-composed restraint. A leader, a follower, and the muse. Gentle at the arrival of fresh blood yet an awakened power of infinite depth. Crushing foam leaving remnants of the air she kissed. An unfeeling balanced and emotional maelstrom of activity with unbridled grace. It all began on the Second of May. A soft but persistent trickle to break the sleep of the hibernating wave. A second nature, the only force that could manipulate the Lord of the Desert. A necessary ruse to confuse the seasoned sailor. The rippling resonance of a plucked string not yet a chord sailing across a facade. The balance of wind, the bellow of E-Minor. All at once the great abyss seeks refuge with the gale. A palpitating heart that only the force of water, a rush of blood, overflows at the strike of baton lightning. A response so magnificently controlled. Tenacity sparks. This symphony said sonnet of prose and restricted feeling in unbridled grace. The orchestrated loss of control in the melodic structure of fear. Gripping wave after wave of E-Minor and G. Pounding and exploding sea. All is left unsaid as this.

Print by Hiroshi Hamaya Eroded Sea Cliff at Tōjinbō (edited by Sean Pecknold)

The Møring Queen

The last prophet etched lines in the sand.

Her mellifera axiom. All about her is quiet in the garden where she lay. At the sound of her mournful strung beating heart the Prince of Normandy hazards a doubt. The frailty he long wished to know exposed before him in the flight of a righteous rain; a tear. In the sand he saw his name etched as the eldest among those who have caused the tear to fall. In the sand he saw the romantics of written law that his name shall not be everlasting but washed by the simplicity of water. The Møring Queen left her dying words in the skin of the earth,

“The callous feet of these have tread a life unbeknownst upon the cliffs of law and in my flight I have still loved you”

The Lyric of a Shared Winter

The weary traveler wrote for a grey knitted coat that she wore one day
She made her home in the snow and for the winter she wrote for the warmth of May

The romantics of life yet burdened by strife, that which made her shy
In an old red cafe she left the thoughts of that day in her painted sky

Oh, for all she knew was once in the center,
The strength of her heart in the cold of the weather as he leaves

Yet the stricken old pine he had known for a time, hadn’t felt the same
He was a man of belief, of romanticized grief with a fragile frame

In a shadow he saw his refracting bourgeois of a tepid flame
In a corner he saw his Westerners flaw when she said his name

Oh, for all he knew was once in the center,
His feeble words that said ‘bye forever’ cannot stay

Paint by Pieter Bruegel the Elder The Hunters in the Snow