Jon's Website

My poetry

Please don't confuse poetry with wisdom.
Poetry just means using pretty words,
whereas wisdom involves actually having
something worthwhile to say.
-- the poet

That being said, please enjoy my attempts at both poetry and, more indirectly, wisdom.

Poetry pages:


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but now, just today!

began 2004 0927

but now
back to sitting in the yard
just today!

shade and grass and
reading about how people
are put together
wondering how I can make myself work

all of a sudden, there I was: enlightenment
I didn't even have to try

the grass was real
the dog was real
I could hear the breeze
see the sun on blades of grass
and cocking my head to the side,
looking down through my hair at an odd angle
it I could feel myself sitting on the Earth

I was there.
I believed it.

An airplane flew in front of the sun,
like we weren't really mired in suburban hurry and greed
like we might just be a tiny cove of farm houses that the real people fly over
like I wasn't just watching from behind the wall behind my eyes
like we might actually be real
somewhere under all of this


Every so often you'll be in just the right place and thinking about just the right thing, and enlightenment will come and smack you on the head.


Plastic Beast
- or -
I am the ping-pong ball

began 2004 0804

(This is slightly satirical and, gleefully, I would like to apologize in advance)

I am the ping-pong ball
with a bleeding heart
and I long to save
all the bleeding paddles I can see

but I only seem to bounce
from one to the next
and I always feel so empty inside
but I guess that's just the nature of the beast


the road less believed in

began 2004 0803

this is a poem
for people who have written
a hundred poems to themselves
promising a million stars
a thousand times over
and only ever been burned

I stopped writing poems
that try to fix things with words
a long time ago

so stand
little girl
I believe you have legs
I almost believe I have my own

little girl
we each have to stand on our own
too weak to keep each other up

but maybe we could make it
just a little ways?
it'll be just like show-and-tell
I could show you my smile
and you could show me yours
and we'll tell each other we'll
make it
enough times that we start to
believe it

and we could grin weakly
at each other
as we stumble down our lives
running fast and falling fast
because, toddler-like
we have not yet learned to walk


This was originally meant to be a sort of grim encouragement for someone in particular (in something the same way as the poem I wrote for Kitty, though that one is somewhat lighter in tone). But despite the gender pronouns used, I'd like to expand it's dedication to include Ely as well, and anyone else who could use a grimmacingly hopeful strength to face the future despite what are to them apparent and deep, deep weaknesses in themselves, others, and/or the world. Change the speaker and listener around in any way that you need to; they weren't meant to be concrete.

Poetry seems to be my gift, so it is my sincere hope that it can be helpful to others.


Bear me?

began 2004 0322

I'll just sit alone
and stand behind
the ones I came to be with
frame too scorned to have
shoulders worth to cry on

to cry on, to cry on
won't you leave me peace?

pall-bearer, pall-bearer
would you be my pall-bearer?

I'll just sit alone
and be denied
the one I came to send off
the living often rule
the mem'ries of the dead

so I came, so I came
and that will be my victory

pall-bearer, pall-bearer
feel free to send me home


For Laine. May your lowest points be bearable. (I tend to be something of a bleak realist, and so when I write poems of encouragement for people, they tend to sound like this. That is, I strive to acknowledge the hurt and look for strength to deal with it, not smile falsely with some bouncy, rhyming piece.)


Mars for Martians and Crickets!

began 2003 0826

The crickets sure are loud tonight,
maybe Mars can hear them.
Wouldn't that be wonderful,
if they trained some fanciful telescope on Earth
and heard our crickets?

That tiny point of light
is as close as we get
for another thousand human lifetimes
they say.

And the martians wonder
"Are we all alone in this desolate universe?
"Will we ever be close enough again to know?
"Or will we just drift
"back off into the night?"

And time and momentum and gravity
will try to tear us apart
and they'll probably succeed


I'd like to know if
Venus is also listening.
Does she stand on her porch,
quietly watching Mars's search for answers
and listen for Martian crickets?

That tiny point in time
won't be as close as we ever get
in the span of our lives
I hope.

And Venus wonders
"Am I all alone in this desolate universe?
"Will I ever be close enough again to know
"Why he fell away into the night?"

Will time and momentum and the gravity of fear
manage to hold us apart?
I pray so hard they won't succeed.


Maybe Mars will someday learn
how not to be alone.


Relationships when they change. When you're not sure if they were meant to happen. When you didn't know how to make them happen, anyway, and it hurts, but only just a little. Just enough that you turn your bike around and pedal back a ways, so that you can ride past a certain spot again, one that you've just noticed smells, impossibly, exactly like her hair.


Eyes Like The Movies

began 2003 0811
I've always been skeptical
of heroes in movies
when they look at the love interest
and say "you're beautiful"

well duh

isn't that the reason they're there?
to reassure us that SOME peoples lives manage to go well?
    and that they manage to overcome?
    and that it's all ok in the end?
we'll have our reassurance, damn it
even if we have to force it on this nuisance universe
    by writing it ourselves
and settle for watching it larger than our own lives
    for eight dollars a sitting and a tub of popcorn

sorry, I'm going off on a tangent

I saw what I thought was impossible, last week
    lit only by the street lamp half a block away
    and the dull glow of a cloudy suburban night

your eyes were like the movies

"My God," I should've said, "you're beautiful"
    and kissed you hard and well and long
    and lived happily ever after
right there
that instant

How is it
that you can still doubt what you feel
for a girl with eyes like that
when she's staring up at you, resting her head on your chest?


Relationships for doubtful folks. The first half is more rant than poem, really, but I think it sets the stage well for just how impressed the speaker was in the second half.


The Tentative Love Song That An Eagle Sings

began 2003 0721

wheeling on pinions
like a dancer on toe
solitary in the deepest sky

eternity's a silent friend
comfortable and alien
I like this life alone and spent on high

I see you waiting on the ground
and hope a perch can there be found
I'd like to rest awhile on your shoulder

You can have my some but not my all
I'd hate from forever's grace to fall
to loose to you the things that only heaven knows
(for you to see the places in my mind where only heaven goes)

so a perch I'll ask
and to keep my mask
if only for a little while longer

I'm not sure what you'd find
when looking around inside my mind
and so I ask for you to wait 'till I'm a little stronger


Relationships for quiet folks.


Try, Fly and Tumbling

began 2003 0428
far, blue and wandering
	I want to sail the sky
deep, wide and humbling
	to reach for places high

	to spread my wings and leave the ground
	see what in heaven may be found
	I am so young, the sky so steep
	I'm lost forever in it's sweep

see, sky and trembling
	I want to fly away

brave, bold and wavering
	I think it would be best
sprint, run and scrambling
	to jump right out the nest

	my wings won't catch the air that falls
	upward through my winged calls;
	pleas ascending prove too tiny
	frantic flapping fails to save me

try, fly and tumbling
	I've failed to fly away

crash, fall and crumbling
	and now I'm back at rest
cry, shy and whimpering
	and lost and in distress

	despite the aching in my bones,
	the first I've ever been alone,
	with grimaced face and holding fast
	a maiden flight won't be my last


slip, crawl and stumbling
	it's time to try again


While originally mused from Small Feathers, the theme sorta diverged from Yuki's, as my themes are wont to do. And no, the message isn't terribly deep. But if you ask me, the read-aloud-ability is quite waiful. Which is good, considering that's what I wrote it for. ^___^;

Sorry 'bout the <pre> tags. Only way I could keep the proper formatting. ^^; Posted to the MT forums.


Me In The Eyes

written 2003 0223 4:38 am

in the eyes of this cold, lonely girl
and I don't know why I see it
traced in pencil lines
so real I can feel the chill
in my spine
and still not really feel it

thank you for myself,
and for caring,
just a little bit


To the tune of MegaTokyo #375. Not posted anywhere but here. Unsure why it's in the shape it's in.


Light and Babel

began 2003 0128

Having abandoned the party,
its raging lights and color thrown,
a girl sets out, drifting,
to wander through the stars alone,
wrapped in warm and patchful cotton
her flowing dress is overgrown.
These people only make her tired
she spreads her wings and heads for home.

The night, it seems, is getting brighter
the farther from the lights she's flown;
away from darkest brightest Babel
into the looming, gray unknown.

She settles down into familiar
streets of dull and crystal blue;
even lit with queerest lamplight
these streets to her could not be new.
A wish she makes for some distraction
before she sleeps, a calming tool;
and haunted there a book and table,
abandoned in a sapphire pool.
Her thus-diverted conscious clamor
allows her truer self a view.

"Oh do you hate the fires of Babel,
despite their iron hold on you?"

Wherever she came to be standing
there passed in front a bolted door.
A halfling hewn of hardened dimness
"I'll take this sin and nothing more."
Defending them was too demanding:
her sandy lines drawn on the floor.

She casts the book to wordless slumber,
thinks of the light she'd tarried for
and can only stare into the future
(a silent resignation's chore);
press onward with her strained defenses,
and long for light that passed before.


Sorta my narrative impressions of this Megatokyo drawing, heavily informed by my own feelings at that moment. I tried to hold to the themes of the character in the picture, Erika, but we don't exactly know much about her themes. And I have a very stubborn muse besides, so I have no idea how well the poem actually fits.

Written in less than an hour, mostly because my muse was feeling left out of the MT poetic community, underutilized and terribly, terribly inspired to do something, ANYTHING. The structure was influenced by a generic tune extrapolated from several Moody Blues CDs I'd recently borrowed from my dad's collection. So blame their songs, maybe one of the ones on "In Search of the Lost Chord".

Major credit for inspiration is owed to Shoka's Lost Wings, though I won't pretend to have matched the quailty of his verse.

Used to start a thread on the MT forums. Excellent verse from other poets followed, and the thread is well worth the read.


Snowflake and Tale
- or -
An Apology For A Portrait

began 2002 1206

I think her purpose is changing.

As she waits,
for me to fill in the lines,
and the shading,
the little details that will complete her world,
her purpose changes.

At first, a blank anticipation.
The curve of her face,
all the rough lines,
they were happy.

The letter that morning
that set her heart aglow.
Was it a message at all?
Perhaps a mission.

Regardless, the little fire
that burned anew in her oft-vacant eyes,
it drove her to this lonely park bench,
kept her warm,
though the trees were already bare this year.

(Flame was my intention from the beginning,
even before I started sketching).

There she sat,
clothed in construction lines
and doodled pose.
There was hope in that pose.
Time wore on
with the scratching of a pencil.
Details were filled in.
Snowflakes began to drift.

Other people,
the ones who weren't in the picture,
came and found and returned from whence they came.
The flame in her eyes flickered then,
as I roughed out the irises,
but carried on,
licking up, hungrily,
all the hope that remained.

Doubt the fire could last much longer.
She had better find what she's looking for.
More lead pressed itself onto paper,
and the day went by.
The sweater and skirt were done.

Sputtering disappointment seized her
when I tried to put the glints in her eyes.
The shapes all came out wrong,
and the face fell.

The happy touches I added,
none of them worked either.
Wind cut through the scarf,
and the mittens were threadbare.
The ribbon in her hair came out loose.

The fire in her eyes took hold now,
by changing it's nature,
burned her paper self away,
until all that remained
was that on which she was drawn.

(The artist can only watch helplessly
at moments like these.
All your new lines and shapes and shading
only form more faces.
She won't smile at them.)

So now the sun is falling
off the far side of the sky.
Days are not long,
in winter,
but long enough to pass too slowly.

In completion,
she sits with a different purpose,
heart buried somewhere deep in her chest,
a tiny twittering ebb and flow,
the vague light from a streetlamp.

Eyes are cold now.
So cold,
that these snowflakes drifting down her cheeks,
settling in her lap,
are the only things her eyes can make.

To get up now seems silly.
She herself is just another snowflake,
blown to this bench by a chance wind,
only to wait for the morning sun
to rise and seize her
and melt her away.


A girl waiting for something that will never come, and an artist drawing something he can't help. To be read to the tune of this picture.

One of my most miserable poems ever, it was ironically a lot of fun to write. The first draft came out really quickly. Thanks muchly to several editors, _Quinn, Garran, and a few in Real Life. Posted to the Megatokyo forums as part of a series of Sad Girl in Snow poems. I just re-read some of the other poems in that thread after I found the link to it, and I'll be darned if they aren't better than this one, especially the poem that Garran used to start everything off. So go read.


Simple Things

began 2002 1128 (Thanksgiving)
I'm thankful for the plates,
    there's plenty of food on them.

Thankful for the room,
    there is warmth here,
    and laughter to echo off the walls.

Thankful for the chairs,
    there are good people in them;
    and such company is hard to come by.

Thanful for the heart
    that still beats in my chest,
    ears that can still hear laughter,
    and a mind that still knows what laughter means.

I'm thankful, though, especially,
    as this simple feeling fills me,
    because it all feels like
    far more than I could ever deserve.


I had dinner at Chad's house that year. We had fun.


Shake Thy Most Delightful Tush

began 2002 1114

Shake thy most delightful tush
in the cave of evil
until in dawning, night is done
Dance! my fair evils.

Swirl amongst the Fair Undead
beneath the darkened steeple
lost in the driving baseline's throes
Dance! my fair evils.

up and down the melody rode
thy swaying hips so regal
lost in the driving baseline's throes
Dance! my fair evils.

hear the wailing keyboards rise
mournful like a jackal
a tune played in your shining eyes
Dance! my fair evils.

oh with your long and doubled tail
the notes slow to a trickle
to watch their flinging graceful flail
Dance! my fair evils.

glimpse the darkest heaven's reach
between the flashing, fickle
strobes that light the divine breach
Dance! my fair evils.


Ok, so what the heck is this, and what was I smoking when I wrote it? Well if you didn't notice, it's actually a parody of All around the mulberry bush... I wrote it for a silly poetry thread on the Megatokyo Forums. So what if there are only 4 verses in the original? Playing VNV Nation at volume level "17" makes for a wonderful muse. I got carried away, and started writing far too seriously.

...I prolly could have kept going too... ph33r

So why is it on the main works page instead of the (still nonexistant) "Filks" page? Because I'm rather fond of the serious imagery and wordplay used, and I think it stands on it's own, apart from the song I was technically parodying. It's not like I was still singing it to the same tune when I got down to the third or fourth stanza.

Finally, yes folks, this is as risque as my poems tend to get. I blame smurd, in three parts


Silent City

began 2002 1105

silent city
winter pretty
in the first throes of November

glass-coat icing
meager splicing
in of January's frost

streets run dry
'neath ebon sky,
but lamps still shine with daylike fervor

in a bare lot
like a gunshot
rings the echo from the door

high and twitching
from folk bewitching
and both my feet are on the ground

took the night off
lamps play light off
poet curled up in his car

huddled inside
despite his pride
scribing out the night thus far

smoke is blooming
mixed perfuming
from the muse at my right shoulder

stoplights shifting
lone car drifting
homeward from among the stars


This was written after a very unique night. I'd gone to an open mic at the local coffeeshop for a several weeks in a row, and managed to gain some recognition as a poet there, besides. After this particular open mic was done, however, I ended up in a bar with several of the coffeeshop's employees and regulars.

Understand, now, that I don't drink, I'm damn shy, I'm never in bars, I'm rarely in contact with the kind of people I was in the bar with, and that I am almost never risque, certainly not among new aquaintances, anyway.

Some people might've been put off by a night like what I had. I enjoyed it immensely, simply because it was just so different from what I was used to. Don't get me wrong, I sat there like a deer in headlights for most of the time. No drinking, no smoking, and no getting high (which I suppose I sort-of imply in the poem itself, and which, I imagine, I had the opportunity to do). Heck, I probably freaked out most of the people I went there with, simply 'cause I'm so quiet. But the fact remains that I enjoyed myself, as the poem clearly shows.

I really like the odd verse and rhyme patterns. It's the first time I'd really, seriously played with something different from my usual matched pairs of lines.

Other than a couple of live readings, and maybe showing it to one or two people, this has not been posted or displayed anywhere. However, if you've ever read or heard me read this poem, take note of the third stanza, as you've not heard it before. It was a discarded verse that I pulled from the dregs of the poem's text file and found a place for when I was preparing it for the web.


Sometimes Still

began 2002 0823

Winter winds will sometimes still go howling by,
come crashing against windows, blowing under doors.
The sun still hides, wrapped in grays, from the bluer sky,
this hazy place 'tween winter, spring, it brings the seasons four.
Sometimes sun is shining, sometimes snowflakes fly,
and his heart still wears its icy white decor.
But I took a walk without my coat just yesterday,
and it's just a little warmer than it was before.


A fairly straightforward response to this Megatokyo comic. I tend to say "and her heart still wears its..." when I read this publicly, as it's just easier to not have to explain exactly what the poem was written about, nor why I was writing from a girl's perspective. Posted to a daily haiku thread on the MT boards.


A Roadside Monument

began 2002 0823

This is the spot.
A stupid road sign
that I've driven past since childhood.
A sign that marks
a particular curve
in the road.

In all my 17 years,
who would've ever guessed
that I'd actually have to STOP here?
for something
like this.

festooned with flowers,
bright colors,
delicate beauty,
to celebrate sadness
and loss.

The sky hangs low and gray,
shedding tiny, cold tears where I
being male,

A pull on my cigarette,
one tiny comfort;
a warm cloud in my lungs
on a chill day.

And while cool today,
it's certainly not icy.
Been seven months already.
Seems like just a day.
Hard to believe.

Anyway, the road is clear;
it's just a normal curve again.
Hardly dangerous.

We all take this corner fast,
I know.
But not on a day like that,

And now my friend,
who, by the way,
actually LISTENED to the road sign,
is tied here to it.

See that little bear?
The one with the "I Love You" t-shirt?
That's him.
Or at least all I have left.


In January or February of 2002, a high-school kid was rounding this one particular curve that's near my house. It's a pathetic curve, really; we take it at 45 or 50 all the time, no matter that, in the eastbound direction (which goes along the inside of the curve) the sign actually warns "Curve: 40 MPH". This particular day, this particular kid was driving along the curve westbound when someone T-boned him while trying to go eastbound and failing because of the ice. He was killed on impact; the eastbound car hit the driver's-side door.

So one crappy, overcast day that August I'm driving home, westbound on the same curve, and there's this high-school jock standing there in the pissing rain, just staring at the sign as though he'd been dropped into a much wider world than his high school and was wishing dearly he could go back. I had to write it. In fact, I already had a good portion down in my head by the time I pulled in the driveway.

My first serious attempt at free verse. Considering that, I'm actually pretty happy with it. It has been seen by exactly no-one--save for _Quinn, who is a damn good free-verse poet--before this.

The following is a somewhat cynical side note on the execution of the mechanics that could very well detract from the poem itself. Proceed with caution

I tried to base the language and thought processes as best I could on how I'd heard jocks talking before I'd graduated. The protagonist blames someone, rhetorically admits his mutual guilt, establishes conditions alleviating his guilt, establishes his case against the person he's blaming, and then uses emotional appeals to try and strengthen his argument. (It's not like I was actually thinking all that, I was writing mostly from gut instinct; but that's what it amounts to. Note that in this case the jock is actually right, regardless of the fact that I'm grimly and/or smugly amused by his thought process for some reason.)

In fact, the first two thirds are potentially the most out-of character part of the poem, everything before "That IDIOT!". Honestly, I never really knew many jocks very well, so it's possible that they, or at least some, do think like this. I may never know. That's the explanation I'll take, anyway; and that it was a poetic sort of day to begin with.


Genki Delusions: Kotone's Song

began 2002 0524

"Genki" is Japanese for "energetic, healthy or full of life".


jiggle my keys, the stupid thing sticks.
a click from the lock, it's the end of the day
breathe out a smile and cast off a sigh
shed care from my shoulders as I cross the doorway
it was just work, just a day on the job
just one more page in this domestic essay
I'm living, I'm making it, I should be happy
so why'm I so tired from making my way?

shuffle the purse from table to closet
flip through the mail, can't have disarray
now water and pot and ramen and stove
mixing the makings of dinner today
pop open the milk-tea I bought at the station
sit in the window for the sun's very last ray.
light leaves the horizon, just skyline remains
a sudden exhaustion makes the room sway.
three minutes 'till dinner, so strange that I'm sleepy
so I think, until then, I'll find someplace to lay

climb into bed and I'm feeling good
the ramen is done so the stove's timer plays
fifteen minutes later, still staring at ceilings
I'm sure all the ramen has boiled away
but I'm too afraid to disturb the moment
my calm resolution, this happy delay.
my countenance cracks, now I feel it coming
and soon my false face has fallen away
pressed into the pillow, wet silent with tears
barely believing this life gone astray
alone, unimportant, I'm no one worth knowing
adrift here in Tokyo, my own castaway
with nothing worth doing, no landmarks to guide me
maintaining existence is mockish display
genki delusions of lives better lived
shroud mine in their shadow, make everything gray

wrenching this sadness back into my heart
this life that's so small, well who is to say
this pain that I'm feeling, this floating and spinning
who says that life never happens this way?
This has to be normal, just too much to bear
for my foolish, weak heart made of paper maché

sit up in my bed, pull my hair from my eyes
the face on the clock reflects my dismay
I had no idea how long I had stayed here
how long my emotions have held me at bay
I'm such an idiot, with half the night wasted
lost to this utterly childish display

clean myself up, eyes are locked on the mirror
I can't quite get this one hair strand to stay
but it's no use to put down its rebellion
I'm together enough, now head down the hallway
to survey the damage that I've done to dinner
my ramen has practically turned into clay
pot goes in the sink, it's time to start over
takes so little time that it's perfectly okay
boil the water and dump in the noodles
and dinner is only three minutes away
minutes that pass uneventfully now
now sit down in front of this frugal array
and if I'm still sad, well, I'll never know it
extra salt that my ramen will never betray


To be read to the tune of this picture. Or rather, that's the picture I was looking at when I wrote it. But to me it's basically about what it's like to have a job and precious little else. And quite possibly to be utterly terrified by your job, as well.

A big arigato to Tanetris (who also helped with Lean Too) for editing help. Without his suggestions only the first three stanzas would exist, and poor Kotone would still crying in bed at the end of the poem. Also, I'd like to thank the crossword solver that's built into my PDA's spell-checker. Without the ability to search for "*ay" and "*ey", all that rhyming would've been utterly impossible.

My friend had this to say about the poem, and I thought it was so awesome that it's been archived here:
"I dunno, over-boiled soup doesn't sound too dangerous to me, 'cause I tell you when noodles catch on fire it's not all that spectacular."
-- SimS, 2002 0703 (early morning of 04)

When it was posted to the Megatokyo Forums it received several damn good verses response, so the thread is well worth seeing. Also archived on


a logic gated heart
- or -
plastic ears, plastic souls

began 2002 0519

in a world where humans bend
in mechanical pursuit of greed
and ever bigger, grander goals
it's only fitting, in the end
that our machines have, with their speed
taken up our cast-off souls

the greatest kindness I've been shown
was carried over copper wiring,
reflecting in her Nikon optics;
not in caring whispers blown
but by a voice coil's measured firing
with a cadence set by clock ticks

humans, flesh and blood, my own,
could never hope to imitate,
by opening themselves to tears
and letting all their fears be known,
the caring gaze, affectionate,
of the girl with plastic ears

there is in her wide-eyed, worried blink
captured with expert craftsmanship,
enough concern to make you cry,
until you stop a minute to think
and realize she's just a chip
with the "friendship" bit set high

so why are friends so hard to be?
SHE's searched and found, erased the fear
that ties her flesh-bound counterparts
never will our lives come easy,
and loving even less when we're
living with our logic-gated hearts


Science fiction poetry. A lonely girl muses over the sleeping form of one of her few companions, a young, female robot. Inspired mostly by MegaTokyo comics #260 and #261, but also drawing from my own opinions and emotions with regard to digital life. Not even Artificial Intelligence, nessecarily, but the kind of digital life you only see in IM windows. Why the hell is it so much easier to make friends online?

The ABCABC pattern was *hard* to do, but I think it turned out quite well, after I completely gutted and rewrote the last verse... It was a fun form to write in, too. ^^;

This poem (with the old last stanza intact. Ugh) was posted to the MegaTokyo Forums, and is apparently *not* in The NegaTokyo Poetry Archive (I'm gonna have to thwack _Quinn about that).


Quiet Girl

began 2002 0415

to cushion child as she falls
they save the fully grown
"Won't you let me in the door
or just leave me alone?"

your imperfections mock your best
attempts at living free
"collect my failings in a jar
and blame them all on me."

companions can't always console
the lonely battle fought
gather your strength to stand against
the harshest winds of thought

collapsing as the quiet girl
who doesn't want to cry
listen with your darkest heart
to hear the hidden lie


Written directly from this Megatokyo comic. I'd be curious to know if anyone reads about themselves in the piece instead, or about someone they know, or anything else besides the comic.

Was posted to the Megatokyo Forums. Not anywhere else, though, as far as I know, except maybe Adam's message board once.


lean too

began 2002 0329

when winds of life blow
when doubts flood your soul
lean in
when failure comes calling
when your future is falling
lean in
when the days strech out long
'cause your day has gone wrong
lean in
when life overbearing
breaks the mask you've been wearing
lean in

'cause I need to lean on you too.


To be read to the tune of this picture

Thanks to Tanetris, (formerly) of the MT boards, for editing help.

Posted in one of MT's per-comic haiku threads, this poem didn't even get it's own thread. I still like it enough, though, that it manages to dodge the "Other Works" page. The theme should be pretty obvious, and nothing's been secretly taken from inside me either (save perhaps for the want of someone to watch my back like that), so I won't say anything else.


Fallen Angel

began 2002 0315

you who are so calm and cool
would surely laugh at me, the fool
who sheds a tear while you, in school
become a fallen angel

your ribbon, once a source of pride
has, like you, also come untied
and curled up there at your side
to share your fate oh fallen angel

stuck suffering and all alone
and not in time to use the phone
this world, it seems, it would disown
you from itself, a fallen angel

the ribbon 'ere a watch will keep
accomp'nied by a cell phone beep
throughout your dim and fitful sleep
who will help you, fallen angel?

you who shines so darkly bright,
possessing such a clever might
ruler of the untamed night
rouse yourself and be all right!
and if not run! and feet take flight!
until she is within your sight!
oh hurry there some noble knight
to aid the fallen angel

we all are weak and wear our masks
as we do our daily tasks
we're never up to all Life asks
I feel for you, my fallen angel


Have you guessed, yet, that I sympathize a lot with sad situations? Have you also guessed, yet, that I love the incredible moments and feeling that Piro over at Megatokyo can produce? Hopefully you have.

This poem is pretty much a throwaway piece, but I really like the way the words fall over each other in second through fourth stanzas; that's why it's not in the "Other works" section. Not much of me inside it save for the above-mentioned generic sympathy with hurting people. It was inspired by MT comic #236 and preceeding (the linked comic isn't nearly as powerful if the Miho character hasn't been established properly).

When I read this publicly, sometimes a I tell a little "story" to make it go down easier for the audience. Miho, a slight girl who's supposed to be this strong, playfully malevolent character in an online comic becomes "this goth girl I knew in high school; Turned out she had some health problems, and ended up actually passing out in the bathroom one day." Much easier to explain, methinks, than what in the living heck an online comic is. Although I wonder if it makes the poem itself less "true" or something...

Poem has been posted to the MegaTokyo Forums, and may or may not be archived on (I'm not sure about the archive because I can't get online to check right now).


Write With

began 2001 1220

Pen and pencil, feather, finger.
Nose, I suppose, but ink will linger,
on your face, you'll look a dip,
so out of place with blackened lip.

Mechanical, maniacal,
the pens that won't advance!
Bust their ink and then trickle,
black trails upon your pants!

Write with brushes, that's the trick,
with those bristles, nice and thick.
On canvass make a horrid mess,
modern art critics will bless!

Colored pens, Sir-Marks-a-Lot!
my faithful markers are.
But the stupid tips are shot!
I shan't be coloring far...

Keyboards click and put your words
inside of an electric child.
Made into binary turds,
you'll loose it all when he goes wild...

A whiteout pen, mistakes will kill,
mis-strokes just up and go away.
But the stupid thing will spill...
upon the work of many a day.

Pencils of all hues and shades,
make my coloring most able
open the box and it cacades
the sticks upon the table

Crayons are my noble friends,
together we have had much fun.
But of my crayons, 'tis where it ends,
for they were left out in the sun...


I was in a very silly mood one day, helped in no small part by this silly poetry thread on a messageboard I frequent. That, mixed in with a silly AIM away message that one of my online friends had up at the time, triggered this little outburst of doggerel. It's fun.


Rainy Day Kimiko

began 2001 1219
(finished 2003 0403, egad)

A record of the simple passions of a human heart in the rain, to be read to the tune of nothing in particular, save for the sound of a wandering mind and the touch of a cold, gray day from years past.

A glance out the back door

Great gray billows have made light flee
and sun surrender it's dignity.
And this trip home, the sidewalks boast
will make her muddier than most.

"Such a joy"

As her shift ends the leaves are still,
the world outside holds latent chill.
Pull up her hair, slip on her coat,
"I'm going to need a freaking boat,

"just to make it home"

While waitress worked the storm would rage
and lightning flash across the stage
set by the windows of the store;
the thunder crashed and shook the floor.

"It's pretty from here"

Wind lashed madly against the panes,
an imitated typhoon's rains.
These days were slow as a general rule.
She'd watched from perched atop a stool.

Sipping hot cocoa

The lunchtime crowd found other retreats,
ignoring their vacant and un-paying seats.
Her shift was uncharacteristically dead.
"There goes my chance at being fed."

"At least work is over now"

When wind had left the water stayed,
and now on ethereal currents played,
with passers-by a mischievous game,
their huddled warmth it sought to claim.

"I have to walk home through THIS?"

Between the towers, skies hung low
in mist-enshrouded Tokyo,
set to the symphony sublime
of chills played up and down her spine.

"Boy it's cold"

Hands in her pockets, she shoved them deep,
hoping some feeling therein to keep.
Forgotten there was a perfect prize,
they lit a glow in happy eyes.

"It's my mittens!"

Fuzzy thick yarn slid eagerly on;
the damp and cold were suddenly gone,
and try as they might with their demands,
they could not chill her happy hands.

Ah, the power of fuzzy mittens

But such delight, it would not last;
a car came hastily hurtling past.
A thund'ring roar and off it sped,
a startled puddle jumped and fled.

"Waah! Now I'm all wet!"

Her warmth and heart had both been sunk
worse than before, and off she slunk,
through grayish breezes gently lapping,
a black mood in her heart entrapping.

"This always happen to me, doesn't it?"

Mittens don't work when they're soaked,
she thought it all a cosmic joke.
They'd laugh at her, those skies would dare,
had they not been too cold to care.

"Yeah, it happens to nobody worthless wet little me"

In a building temper squall,
she lent her feet a heavy fall.
But mem'ries hid in liquid's flash:
that puddles, when kicked, produce a splash!

"He he" *sniff* "That was always so much fun"

A splish in one, the next a stomp,
it soon became a happy romp.
Her face now wore a smile's crease,
caught up in years of happy release.

Never a happier girl

She skipped off through the swirling blue,
towards her promised rendezvous.
Ah there's the friend that she was meeting,
but dour look met happy greeting.

"What the hell happened to you?"

"You're wet and cold, your face is blue,
"shiv'ring your whole body through.
"It makes no sense, your smiling face,
"a grinning angel's fall from grace!"

"You've frozen your common sense off, haven't you?"

The first girl winced when hard words connected,
then suddenly realizing, now saw reflected
there in her friend's scowl and in her bearing
hid the rainy-day mood she was earlier wearing.

Clearly, something had to be done

Her face, it felt a sly grin growing,
her friend would have no way of knowing
the deed she planned 'till it was done;
her heart broke into a mischievous run.

"This'll fix her mood"

The first she leapt, a pouncing cat,
and knocked her shocked companion flat.
The second yelped as mud met girl,
her eyes formed fire, her lips a curl.

"What do you think you're DOING!?!"

"You know you're just BEGGING for your early demise."
But on looking up into innocent eyes,
the second, she sighed, then readied to stand,
and took her friend's bemittened hand.

"Whew, it worked!"

"You're a fool, just so you know."
"Oh, come on you, 'cause that's just low.
"You never used play this way?
"It's best to run on a rainy day!"

*sigh* "You're still an idiot. And you're doing the laundry too"

The puddles jumped all down the street,
scared by four hop-scotching feet.
Parade of two went splashing on
remem'bring days they'd long thought gone.

Dirty and laughing


At ACen 2005 on May 13th I asked Fred to illustrate Rainy Day Kimiko, and so he did.

When I started writing this poem it was *supposed* to be a very melancholy piece about Kimiko (of MegaTokyo) wandering the streets of Tokyo on a cold and rainy day, thinking sad and miserable thoughts as she is wont to do. Except...

There was this one girl I knew in 7th grade (a really nice girl actually, at least to dorky little me), who grew up too quickly. Family problems, boys, parties, whatever, I never really heard any details. I just sat by her in science and was quiet all the time. Regardless, I *did* get the impression that her life made her rather unhappy and stressed a lot.

So one rainy day we're sitting in Science (Mrs. Nowaski's Biology class, if I remember correctly), and she's telling this other girl about how at lunch, she and some friends of hers had just up and forgotten their grown-up pretenses and gone skipping through puddles, and how wonderful that felt. She sounded so relieved. ^_^

That image obviously stuck with me, as this little 7th grade girl kept skipping through my mind whenever I tried to work on this poem ...ph33r the warm fuzzies.

Poem was posted to the MegaTokyo forums, and has been archived in at least one place that I didn't even know existed until recently. (Arigatou, though, Count Alpicola!)


Autumn Eyes

began 2001 1209

Girl in the morning cries,
seeing with dark autumn eyes,
gravestone standing cold, unkind,
what she must now leave behind.

Veils of breath dance forth forlorn,
but what chills her heart this morn,
as the grass shakes off its frost,
is the thought of what she's lost.


Gifts of flowers in the spring,
thirst to see what life will bring.
'Ere end of day his eyes still glow,
despite the trials that they know.

He's my light in this dark land
and I am his steady hand;
anything we can abide,
when we're walking side by side.


Shaken from her reverie,
he who sleeps should be set free.
But The Courts of Death hold sway,
and Father Time has final say,

See a final tear fall,
duties of her life now call.
And as one leaves to face the day,
both are left behind some way.


When I wrote this poem I thought I was musing pretty much exclusively from an art day at my favorite webcomic. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that I've had plenty of experience standing beside other people's graves, both the graves of people I've known and those I haven't, where I could still feel the sadness /dripping/ off of the people I'd gone with. So it turns out there's plenty of me in this poem, to boot.

(A bit of background: the girl in the picture is named Pirogoeth. She's a character that Piro, of one of the main characters of the comic, plays in an online game. The comic hasn't yet given much info on Pirogoeth, but she is probably some sort of medieval princess who has been deposed by a war...)

This was in fact the first poem I *ever* posted to the MegaTokyo forums (save for some goofy haiku), and has been archived at


Temporal Burning

began 2000 0528
(very early in the morning, can't sleep)

In passing, a moment,
an hour, a day,
held on to forever,
remembered this way.

Even a month,
or year in the past,
if you're patient enough,
time cannot last.

Where she once stood,
I'm standing so near,
pictures in my head,
of a memory clear.

Near by location,
to those close to my heart.
And though physically near,
time holds us apart.

Bittersweet nostalgia
is lurking within.
Longing for rose-colored past
even as it grows dim.

The times that drift by,
have withered and gone,
though preciously missed,
they flee with the dawn.


Miss someone? Something? A particular time, place, or person? Here's a poem for you


Death or Hope

began 1999 05

A life too hopeless to continue,
With this world's help you won't last long,
Thrown oe'r the edge by Earth and it's madness,
The grave your final siren song.

If only you had known the one,
That gave up his own life,
Who takes your heart and fills it up,
With strength to face the strife.

This world, it turns and turns,
People come and people go,
The Earth keeps turning, hiding God's love,
Why it happens, I just don't know.

Your life came crashing to an end,
dead most tragically,
Lost in your last two years of life,
By ignoring Calvary.

We hope and pray that you remembered,
Him who takes the prodigal in,
Who loved you even when you left,
And would gladly cleanse your sin.

This world, it turns and turns,
People come and people go,
The Earth keeps turning, hiding God's love,
Why it happens, I just don't know

These lives neither had I touched,
Because to fear I am a slave,
I pray You now would break these chains,
There are so many left to save.

My own life I lay to rest,
A tribute to the loss,
Today I lay my own will down,
And take up my Cross.

This world, it turns and turns,
People live and people die,
I shall _not_ let God's love be hidden,
No matter how hard this world may try.

First close death we ever knew,
You turned worlds o'er, upsidedown,
Struggling for years to find some meaning,
We're glad you have your heavenly crown.

For while you know the Savior now,
We've only one oar and up a creek,
We pray for something, understanding,
To strengthen us while weak.

This world, it turns and turns,
People come and people go,
The Earth keeps turning, hiding God's love,
Why it happens, I just don't know


We had several deaths at my high school in 1999 (the year I graduated) and 2000. This started as a tribute to a girl who committed suicide when I was a senior. Several of my friends knew her. Then another girl died in a car accident the year after I graduated, and several of my friends knew her quite well, too. I realised I had been feeling guilty about not having knowing either of them, being rather quiet, so I added one for myself. Finally, back in the spring of 2000, my sister and I were talking about the death of a close friend that had happened, yeesh, nine years before, the first death of someone who was particularly close to us. So I put one in for her, too.


A Lunchtime Lovesong

began sometime 1998 09 -- 1998 12

These words may not be serious,
But they are sincere,
And I hope they light your face,
With a smile, my dear.

Coming over to the table,
So beautiful her face,
That I am blind to any others,
Lunching in this place.

More precious than a milkshake,
No ice cream is as sweet
As the girl who drops her bag,
across from me and takes a seat.

Am I worthy of this peach,
Can I be enough fun?
Or will she just discard me,
Like a moldy hot dog bun?

What can I give to show my love?
My finances are shot.
And though I long to give the world,
I hope she'll take a tater-tot.


A classic at Emmaus Coffehouse (alright, not quite, but they liked it). The the final two lines of the last verse just came to me one day at work, and I thought they were so awsome that I wrote the rest of the poem around them. Surprisingly, it was only sorta written about a particular person.


Poems Suck

began sometime 1995 11??

Poems really suck,
As you plainly see,
And figurative poems,
Are much too much for me.

The purpose of this poem,
So you don't have to guess,
Is to show my anguish from,
This metaphoric mess.

The people that I'm talking to,
Are all poetic writers,
Who like to write gibberish verse,
I say we kill the blighters!

The theme is pointless poems,
That I burn with glee,
And the speaker obviously is,
Sadistic little me.

For allitteration examples,
See the line five lines above,
That reads "pointless poems,"
That I destroy with love.

Someone else,
Wrote "poetry",
How I wish,
That one was me.

Then I wouldn't,
Have to say,
Ban pointless poems,
Be free today.

Pointless poems,
Would be unlawful,
And those who wrote them,
Treated awful.


To set the stage: a poor, confused 9th grader is walking home through the school's athletic fields, words spinning madly in his head as they are wont to do. His most recent source of angst is the poetry unit that they're doing in English, because of course he /hates/ poetry.

I found the following blurb in a text file tucked away in an obscure corner of my hard disk. Presumably it's from a letter I wrote to my great-grandmother in 9th grade (given that the filename was "Poems to Nana.txt"), though I'm not sure if the letter ever got sent. Sigh. Anyway, the blurb:

"This next poem needs a little explination. I wrote it to complain about the poetry unit we were doing in English at the time. The stanzas are short parodies of "unintelligable" poems from a poetry project I did in 6th grade, such as "A Bird Came Down The Walk" by Emily Dickenson, and "The Maxims Of Baloo" from "The Jungle Book". See if you can find out which poems are parodied by each stanza. I'll tell you in my next note if you want."

I didn't actually remember any of this about the poem until I found that text file. And neither can I figure out just which poems I was parodying, either. ^_^;

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