After Hours "Above the Clouds"

I am grateful to the editors of After Hours: A Journal of Chicago Writing and Art for publishing my poem “Above the Clouds” in Issue #46. After Hours is a semi-annual literary magazine publishing poetry, fiction, art, and photography from Chicago area writers and artists. Having spent some of my most formative years in Chicago, it’s an honor to be a contributor. This journal is print-only, and you can order a copy of back issues on their website.

Above the Clouds

Driving toward Mt. Fuji,
my mentor Takagi and I
watch the summit rise
and float above the Earth.

Nearing the mountain’s footprint
our voices drop to whispers
humbled by this ancient mass of stone.
Like a mirage—it shimmers
whipping up clouds and wonder.

From the veranda of our lodge,
through canopies of trees,
we see strings of lanterns
winding toward the peak.
Led by flickers, climbers pick each step
inching up cliffs
of volcanic shards and ash.

Moved by them—I ask,
Why do they risk this, at night?

Takagi says, Some come
on a quest to see if they can.
And some come
to ponder the edges:
the beginning and end
of what’s out there.

Then again, some just yearn
to shed their humdrum routines
as the sun goes up and down
like laundry, pinned in the breeze. .

No matter what draws them,
they climb and wake to witness
that same sun emerging
through the clouds
far below...in the distance.

And most, I believe,
are filled with the awe
a child feels in dreams of flying:
a sensation, perhaps long forgotten,
these climbers now realize they’ve missed


The Edges of Light

(Originally published in Tidal Basin Review, Spring, 2012 Issue)

When entering a darkened room
  that I know by heart,
I close my eyes to locate the lamp;
my feet and hands
move via memories of their own:
  they find the switch and click it on.

In this tangible space, nothing is foreign.
There is the light by which we see,
  and the light by which we know.  

But the night sky,
in the largest room of all,
  plays tricks with this simple code:
conjuring fiction and myths in constellations,         
it neatly displays the local stars and moon
  on its canvas of black. 
How adroitly this pool of ink
disguises its depth,  as it holds back
  the clearest view of what is and is not.      

It takes the brilliance of sunshine to expose
the mossy walls in the well of my knowing:  

Each time I reach into the daytime dome,
  and explore the edges of light,     
the sky’s steadfast silence remains as certain
as it was on that crystalline day of childhood.
  Then, lying in a cradle of grass,
I saw and believed an inner flash—
as full and complete as the ceiling of the world—
  telling me this field of endless blue   
is the most tangible grasp I will have of it all.