I have a poetry presentation called Assembled Stories. The presentation is divided into four parts: HOUSE, RELATIONSHIPS, NATURE and SOLITUDE. During the presentation I also show my artworks that contain my poems. Not every poem has artwork. Sometimes the poem comes first, other times I match a poem to the artwork or I write a poem from the artwork.


A house has sounds.
Like the voice of a close friend. I know
the sound of a door
closing, the water running
and a chair scraping the floor.

Wings patterned like
vintage maps.
Resting on a textured
wall in the beacon
of light. It would
take my whole cupped
hand to hold you.

Night visitor from
unchartered territories.
In stillness you wait
for the murmur of
voices to drift off
like the ending edge
of a stream.


A mother's tears for a son
who's feeling lost and alone.
He turns to home taking a
break from all the adventures
that define him.

A little girl in a warm
orange coat asked the
cardboard boy, "Why are
you so sad? You don't need
to be so sad."

They changed my name.
Who is this person
standing on foreign land?
Paper maps: pink, red and
black with meaningless
intersections. Christmas
in Chinatown.

Her heart was sincere.
The cardboard boy was
taller than she. Bravery
came with her Mom beside
her. I look the same. But
they took my name,
             my name.


Yellow tree calling my
name like a cage with
an open door. I hear
The leaves falling
like footsteps behind
me. A church bell
chimes, birds sing and
cars travel. This is
a refuge of change.
Bare branches to
come after golden lights
and whispering winds.

Red doors floating through space
Bordered by stars enveloping the
Are these doors of missed opportunities?
Are they choices waiting?
Are they portals of past dreams?

Through a memory portal I find
Myself jumping from stone to stone.
I'm on a pathway with my friend.
This journey quickly leads me from the
To the sea. This was a place of healing.
This friend gave me the space I needed.
She returns there. I see myself with her.
Even though I am distant in body,
I feel the dampness of the sea, the texture
Of the stones and I radiate in the pure colors.

The prophet said that the door is just
Beginning to open. A door is creaking


Some people don't like to be alone
Facing their true selves. In a quiet
Place I can actually look more
Outside myself and be at PEACE.

fire leaves pour
liquid shimmery bells
before a bronze sun

bamboo reflections
rippling past smooth
stones. the quiet
mist keeps safe

the memories of
who i was. now
sitting on the worn
wooden bench.

All poems and artwork are property of the artist. Use without permission is prohibited.