The Wabi-Sabi Writer

Short days nest in tight darkness, 

lit by holiday bulbs

 and wet pavement reflections. 

Elves rush past

in bright, frantic wool

bound for the next obligation.

I am lost in the crowd,

scarfed in silence.

Discarded intentions

clutter the floor

misfit toys waiting to be tripped over.

I step aside

 to give them room

Let them play 

 hoping they become

 the company I crave.

October 2026 Poetry Project

Day 22 of 31      

You entered the room with maps drawn,

arrogant as a surveyor measuring light.

Now the screen is a blank white grid,

a glowing desert offering no signal.

A month spent gathering wild sparks

 pages of smoke, no heat.

Only the title remains, sharp as a compass needle

pointing everywhere at once.

Outside the canopy, the algorithm hums,

feeding on lost momentum,

offering endless loops while the trees close in.

The terror is not the dark

it is the quiet shadow of the page

waiting to see if you will stop.

Do not lie down on the pine needles.

Do not wait for the phantom axe.

The only way out of the thicket

is to bleed ink into the dirt

until the path remembers your boots.

October 2026 Poetry Project

Day 21 of 31      

The asphalt knows the cadence

a heart beating through worn soles

as morning fog shears past the coast.

I gather what was spilled:

coarse salt,

the quiet grit beneath the cushions,

the sudden, sharp betrayal of a joint.

I do not turn away.

I measure out the weight in cold red lentils,

press heavy glass into the quiet,

and watch the dark shift slow across the floor

where the love of my life once rested in the silence.

No crimson stains,

no fragile throne

just the deliberate, steady work

of staying in motion.

October 2026 Poetry Project

Day 20 of 31     

where are my feet

beneath

the soiled steps

taken

too quickly

the tiniest

lip

cracked and grey

bites

betrays

bruises

bone

my ankle

hoarding

 forgotten

blood

I hear my steps

slapping the skin

of the sidewalk

I want to walk

in the quiet 

moments

to run in the still air

Hear

the raucous

laughter

of wild parrots

not of here

but like me

somehow

call it

home 

October 2026 Poetry Project

Day 19 of 31    

The candles flicker 

in the darkened lair. 

Font glows

 four inches deep

inside hot plasma

eager fingers 

evoking words

 in delicate foreplay.

When the witching hour calls,

 the thread veers wildly

 into unthought tangles

bondages

of

silk

and

straw

 Below, drunken fools

 stumble through the streets

chasing a romance

 already conquered.

damp

hot

breath

blows

out 

flame

at last

The muse is totally spent.

October 2026 Poetry Project

Day 18 of 31    

We walk the same circles

stepping into prints 

we left decades ago, 

expecting the ground

to feel solid.

Instead, the wet earth yields. 

The cold rain

that once bred purpose 

now settles

in the throat

as quiet loss.

Decades of quiet distance,

strained shorelines and familiar fantasies,

and still the wheel turns

back to the hollow

where you used to stand.

We tell ourselves

the next era will be different, 

that time softens the steep climb

yet every return is a ledger

of what remains, 

and what was taken 

when you went silent.

The spinning stops here,

not because the road has ended, 

but because I am left

standing in the rain

holding all the years you could not finish.

October 2026 Poetry Project

Day 17 of 31    

Night fever

 laid the ground

hours spent suspended

 in a soft chair

 watching fictional cruelty

 and quiet kitchens

tissues stuffed

 against the slow drip of time.

Now the lungs clear 

though the chest still 

holds its dark rattling. 

Two rivers 

widen ahead

one leading

 into the maze

 of a mind breaking, 

the other

 into a room

 where boundaries

 are redrawn.

Madness or the bed.

 Either way autumn ends 

and the line must be crossed

October 2026 Poetry Project

Day 16 of 31   

The morning air 

in Washington Park

 hangs heavy and grey. 

 Aged Figures move

 through Tai Chi

 slow, deliberate circles

 against time.

Love in the mist, 

a delicate blue, 

shelters the devil 

in its basket.

 Nigella gone to seed, 

a dry rattle 

hiss and hint

 the shift of time.

Memento mori.

 Memento vivere.

Speak of love

 while it lasts

and here

between the shadow

 of ending 

and the quiet 

act of breathing

life

 simply 

moves

on.

October 2026 Poetry Project

Day 15 of 31   

I have not wanted to face

 the clarity

 the quiet 

the slow shift

 of weight

 the reality

that becomes

 undeniable

 once written

that space

 between the breaths

at last...

the locked hinge,

 unbroken pane

three weeks until the mark.

bearing names 

that refuse to dim, 

unbroken to the line.

October 2026 Poetry Project

Day 14 of 31    

Some 

stiffen

like an old tendon

at a heavy desk

Some

shorten

like the breath

caught in a cold dawn

Some

stretch

like a steady hand

lifting the weight

of another day

Let us reach

up

out

higher

keep going

go deeper

The quiet stars

still know our name

October 2026 Poetry Project

Day 13 of 31     

I. Target Markets:

who are you seeking?

asks the unseen 

 you point to any spot

 within walking distance

 offering two-for-one six-packs.

clarity

 pulls up slowly

a broad net

 catches only air. 

II. The Elevator Pitch:

At the holiday open house, 

the dark stranger 

hungrily asks 

what you do.

 You describe 

collecting cross-eyed dolls, 

 it keeps you 

from plotting

 your manager’s undoing.

Two minutes

 is all you have

 and you hold the line, 

ending with a hook

nestled in their skin

III. Pareto’s Law

Gobsmacked and gaping

You wonder 

why eighty percent

 of your attention

 goes to the twenty percent

 who couldn’t care less.

most of your sustenance

 comes from a vital few. 

fuckallelse

IV. Finances

 desultory

 futures, 

parched

 revenue 

streams

an empty coffee cup

 and busking

 on the corner.

V. Niche to Know You

Your specialty

 is self improvement

by playing

 tiddlywinks

 with manhole covers.

VI. Marketing Strategy

Promotion

demands cans of spray paint

 and provocative photos

leaked from greasy paper bags

 while learning 

how to stand 

unclothed 

VII. What’s in a Name?

You choose a brand,

 only to discover

 the dictionary 

translates it

 as throwing up

 on the floor.

Days spent 

scratching lines

 onto paper

vision boards 

and rough words.

Inspiration is not a sudden lightning strike; 

it is distilled from all the humors,

 drop by drop.

VIII. Benefits and Results

You mistook benefits

 for the consequences

 of a two o'clock in the morning 

encounter.

Support and inspiration

 are indeed noble,

 but they remain ghostlike in the air. 

give them 

blood and bone

IX. Confidence

You open the session

 by chanting emergency

 psych codes like a mantra.

under the weight 

of a lingering headache,

 the story falters into self-doubt, yet

 hiding in hesitation

 a wild, playful energy

X. Eat Dessert First

Saving the best

 for last

 means starting

 with sweetness in mind.

A dark, heavy shadow

 looms over the page,

 that old friend

fear

trying

 to squeeze

 a soul

 into pointed shoes. 

It takes

Leaving

 the waiting place

Here

the warbled path

begins

October 2026 Poetry Project

Day 12 of 31    

That hour 

where the day

 turns quiet

 and thin

 at the edge

 of the frame

where I stand

 wondering

 if the work

 I’ve laid is enough

 or just time spent

train 

write

 work

 race

 love

How many winters

 do I carry

 before the light

 fades out

 and leaves me

 at dusk

 again asking

where the sun 

went

I measure

 the shadow 

from the curb

and pick 

myself

 up

 and 

move 

on

October 2026 Poetry Project

Day 11 of 31   

Tonight

I drop

My head

Heavy with thoughts

Not my own

I fear the 

Sink

So full of dishes

And disregard

Has taken on a life

More interesting than my own

So I leave 

The lights

On

Night blindness

Blessings

Words whispered in my ears

To block it all out

October 2026 Poetry Project

Day 10 of 31   

Tucked deep

inside a belief

A shell

layered with thick

pearl and pain

Bound and gagged

by the yarns

of someone else’s

weaving

Inseparable

without boundaries

Locked-in

Floating just above

the ceiling,

I look down—

an empty room

waiting for a tenant

to return,

only to find the walls are breathing

in the weak and the wounded,

where the old tapes spin

and a voice cuts through the static,

sharp as a brand-new blade,

carving deep into the soft tissue

of the dark

Waiting

October 2026 Poetry Project

Day 9 of 31