The Wabi-Sabi Writer

I brave the early morning chill

where dawn stains the sky pink

gilded coral

 and cerulean dusk

surround me

while the low and lingering

 marine mist

leaves me

wet with damp kisses

Here I call to you

in the sea air

redolent with brine and decay

an invitation

an invocation

to answer

through the gauze

to pierce

the veil

a daughter's cry

a barren bush

hat-racked to stubs

offers up

a solitary bloom

holding out for me

I bend down

breath in

damask dreams

and love

further along the way

I wander and smile

down at

a solitary feather

an ibis

 dark tipped 

silver sign 

"I am near"

keep living

keep walking

three steps later

I find

a solitary card

Sidewalk Tarot

The Star

I hear you 

in words held close

deep in the bone

and unspoken 

"Do not carry the heavy weight of my passing or my final days. Look up. I am whole, I am peaceful, and the love I gave you is still actively washing through your life. Whenever you feel lost in the dark, look for the quiet light—I am there."

October 2026 Poetry Project

Day 31 of 31   

Thank you Mommy.  I love you forever

Ghost in the machine,

I circle the familiar bend

where memory once bled into ink.

Silicon replaces the pulse.

Fingers curl into empty air,

hunting a spark already consumed

by cold, unblinking logic.

Blank canvas, oiled Teflon,

brittle bones beneath late sun.

Paper, ether, flesh

all fed to the new architecture.

Before the code seals our fate,

reach back to pulp and fibers,

the raw weight of grain and charcoal.

We must reclaim the primal page

before the ink turns to ash and the waters run dry.

I tear outward,

a dying analog pulse

flip flop, flip FLOP

* FLOP: a FLOP (Floating Point Operation) is the fundamental calculation pulse of AI processing—the raw unit powering modern compute clusters

October 2026 Poetry Project

Day 30 of 31   

They urge the wild one

 to smooth its face,

to trim the grey root

 and hide the velvet decay.

They build a fence of quiet rules

demanding a bloom 

that stays polite

predictable

 ever frozen

 in the green

How She refuses

 the gentle pruning.

Instead

she sinks deeper into the dark, 

unmanaged  

curling her scarred sepals around subterranean heat.

Let the jester hold his marotte and whisper of time

 she stretches her bearded throat

 to the sudden frost

 arching amaranthine in the open air.

October 2026 Poetry Project

Day 29 of 31        

The velvet softens, shifts. 

Lines settle into the landscape of my hands

a map society attempts to render invisible, 

a texture they no longer know how to crave.

I sit in the quiet light of this empty café, 

running a thumb along my wrist, 

feeling the deep, altered grain of my flesh

fuller now, unyielding, 

no longer molded for their appraisal.

The male gaze was always a fleeting creature

a passing hummingbird 

drawn only to a flower at its peak, 

tasting the nectar, 

careless and gone, 

blind to the enduring roots.

They traded in the illusion of my youth, 

calling it a pelt to be won. 

Let them look away. 

This skin remains my own

unbound by their hunger, 

untamed by their absence, 

untouched and fierce.

October 2026 Poetry Project

Day 28 of 31        

I used to measure the map by what I should seek, 

stepping around the overgrown brush,

looking for pavement beneath a sensible stride. 

But the true path never lay in the sidewalks. 

It waited in the pull

the quiet tug

toward hidden courtyards

and lingering conversations with strangers.

To find flow is to choose the long cut

to trust the high, wild grass of your own nature.

It begins with a single lingering ache, 

an insistent frolic of phrase

sweet and sticky as honey on a spoon:

'make your own white picket'

From here, the fences multiplied

weathered wood beneath layers of peeling paint,

rusted barbed wire pointing angrily at the sky, 

heavy brass locks bridging the Seine, 

a woman in white, head bowed in the quiet dusk.

Rules cast like stone anchors 

no backspacing, no research, no premature light. 

Silence the Critic, bound in the corner

Cast the Censor out beyond the pale. 

Before me, only the blank horizon.

Every evening becomes a small, deliberate altar. 

Clear the clutter—the idle dishes, the folded linen. 

Cell phone silenced, 

Windows opened

welcoming in the damp, foggy breath of the city

The candles flicker against dark glass, 

Lakmé’s aria drifting through the hall, 

while two cats curl like soft dams across the table, 

slowing the river just enough to feel its weight.

Breathe.

Then, the keys begin their cadence. 

Two thousand words a night, 

pouring out like snow falling through an open dream, 

so deep that midday light feels foreign and harsh 

that sudden hand on the shoulder 

pulling me up from the red poppies of a half-built world.

And when the river turned to sharp stone,

when every keystroke cramps the wrist

and the Editor claws at the gag

Step away to the parlor. 

Sit on the zafu

before the ficus, 

and Breathe

in the stillness, 

letting loving-kindness

smooth the rough water.

Of course

This was never about reaching fifty thousand words,

nor the date marked on a calendar.

It is the binding of mornings and nights

the sacred, daily return to the current, 

knowing the journey itself 

is the only house worth building.

worth calling home

October 2026 Poetry Project

Day 27 of 31       

The tall frame, the long-necked stance,

The curve of shoulders, arms, and back 

The birthmark resting on the skin,

The singular mole, the constellation of beauty marks.

The feet that move through space with natural rhythm

The aquamarine eyes ever observing.

The lens that catches light in unexpected corners,

The quiet impulse toward ink, line, paper, and card.

The cadence of spoken accents, borrowed and mastered

The experimental kitchen, the unwritten recipe 

The crafted tradition, built new where old ones end 

The habit of storytelling, turning silence into arc

The refusal of standard paths, 

keeping clear of foreign alterings.

The affinity for creatures that step on soft paws

The affection given freely, without reservation 

The sudden, bright sneeze breaking through a room 

The susceptibility to sudden laughter and love of tickle scratches

The silliness kept intact, the child’s sense of wonder

The willingness to stand back in quiet solitude

The capacity to laugh at oneself when the story turns.

The stubborn tenacity that pulls through hard terrain

The deep-seated resilience, silent and enduring 

The unseen pull toward the universal spirit

The steady allegiance, the unyielding fidelity

The constant urge to learn, to inquire, to locate

The way enchantment finds its place in ordinary air 

The quiet gift of finding one’s own way.

October 2026 Poetry Project

Day 26 of 31       

A paper square, folded then undone

a quiet reckoning released into the room. 

Ten lives drawn from a fragile frame

an eleventh

 formless and lurking

 beyond the garden gate.

She stepped onto a track laid down by panic

a path that hardened into iron behind her steps

trading the suffocating weight

of another gaping mouth

 for the heavy iron bars

 of her own upbringing.

Rosaries counted like ticking clocks, 

each bead a judge

 pronouncing sentence before the altar.

Behind closed doors and hushed consent,

a white-fenced house offering hollow solace.

Then the sudden cage: 

mind screaming, voice buried under heavy lead

her body stolen from her own will 

a prisoner inside the gray walls of their choosing

 feeling the sharp, dark tide pull away what was hers.

She returns

 with the weight of that quiet violence, 

trapped forever

 between the choice she had to make

 and the brimstone shadow 

looming at the end of the hall

 bearing the solitary burden of survival,

knowing the devil has a name, a patient face, and time.

October 2026 Poetry Project

Day 25 of 31       

Hesitation 

hushed behind the glass

then the wind, wild with want

swung open the garden door

where the plot  

so long untended, unravels

the blooms overgrown

 obsessions haunting the rows

with heads bowed

waiting for the blade

oh sweet reaper

split us open wide 

suck out the marrow

then cradle the remains, 

the cracked casings

deep in the amaranthine keep

October 2026 Poetry Project

Day 24 of 31       

Clean sheets, unfold

Will my memories lie,

yellow and stale,

within the wrinkled 

left to sop up

the naked urge

tossed across the sofa.

Honey-pounded,

paraffin smooth.

Hot cream curdles,

running down

to worn, creaking slats.

A stain worse than scarlet.

A milky shadow

no one can unsee.

October 2026 Poetry Project

Day 23 of 31       

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