poem duty

snow whips in sideways
pelted face stings

notebook pages twist, rip
frostbit hand settles them

pen darts in quick strokes
finishes poem's last line



even in the midst of the apocalypse
the world needs poems  
                              - the tired monk

on snow and coffee

snow swirls
into the black
of my coffee
even here
deep under
hemlock boughs

incense

first predawn temple bell sounds
tired monk shakes his head
to stir the first prayer

select beans are ground up right
water to coffee ratios seem sound
soon...french roast incense

song fragment

you are the chords
i hear before they're strummed
you are the chords
i play with my eyes closed
you are the chords
the ones that resonate

you are the notes
you are a love note