It was only yesterday that I discovered a group of butterflies is called a kaleidoscope, and I had to put that in a poem. So I started thinking about all the beautiful, strange, and poetic names we give to gatherings of animals—murders, parliaments, flamboyances—and how each one carries a kind of quiet unity. This poem is what came out of that wondering, and maybe a little loneliness too.  The Ones Who Gather A kaleidoscope of butterflies, turning air into stained glass, wings brushing wings in a hush of color— they move as one, a prayer held aloft by sunlight. A murder of crows circles the edge of dusk, black-threaded thoughts sewn into the hem of sky. Even in omen, they arrive together. A parliament of owls sits in the cathedral of trees, silent but listening, wisdom not as one voice but many held in counsel. A pod of dolphins— spindrift and shimmer, laughing through salt and wave, mapping the world with echoes answered. A mischief of rats in the alley’s forgotten script, bol...

 Walking the Edge Of Silence He walks the edge of things, not for thrill, but because the center holds no welcome. What was once a life now drags like loose thread— unraveling in silence, no protest, no plea.   Friends became ghosts long before they left. Family: a word too large for the absence it holds. He stopped trying to explain. They stopped trying to care.   But the dogs— two tired shadows at his feet— still follow him through wind and winter. They ask nothing. They know everything. Their breath keeps time with the broken metronome of his heart.   He tells himself he stays for them, and it’s true. He could not bear to vanish while their eyes still search the door, while their paws still trust the earth to bring him back.   To leave them— is to sentence the loyal to bewilderment and slow hunger. It would mark his soul with a wound that no grave could close. He would carry their pain through whatever came next. And he will not do that to them.   And th...

Some words arrive unexpectedly—unattached to any story, yet too vivid to be left unwritten. Over time, I’ve found myself collecting these fragments of poetry, pieces that don’t belong in my novels but still deserve a life of their own in the world. My blog has already welcomed one of these wandering verses, but  Fragments of Frost and Fire  is a home for these untethered creations. A space where fleeting thoughts and deeper reflections take form, shaped by ice and flame, stillness and fury, life and loss. Some will stand alone, while others may one day find their place in larger works, but all will linger here, waiting to be felt. Wounds That Won't Heal  You flinch, As It cuts deep, Opening you up, Exposing the nerves, Every wisp of air, Flowing over the wound, Triggering those exposed nerves, Ramping up that pain.   But it’s only for a moment, You hope, As you close up that wound, Wrapping it tightly, So no one can see it.   Someti...

Introducing: Fragments of Frost and Fire Some words arrive unexpectedly—unattached to any story, yet too vivid to be left unwritten. Over time, I’ve found myself collecting these fragments of poetry, pieces that don’t belong in my novels but still deserve a life of their own in the world. My blog has already welcomed one of these wandering verses, but Fragments of Frost and Fire marks the beginning of something more—a home for these untethered creations. A space where fleeting thoughts and deeper reflections take form, shaped by ice and flame, stillness and fury, life and loss. Some will stand alone, while others may one day find their place in larger works, but all will linger here, waiting to be felt. The first poem under this theme is The Slow Bloom of Ice , a meditation on death not as a sudden force, but as something that seeps, grows, and takes hold from within. The Slow Bloom of Ice  It flows in all life, A pure, primordial element, From which life emerges, The sus...

 When I set out to write "The Life of Phi" (coming April 22nd), I didn’t expect to find a hidden poet inside me. But as I explored the themes of the environment, AI, and humanity, I found myself drawn to the voice of water as my narrator. Water became my storyteller—fluid, ever-changing, and deeply intertwined with existence itself. While the book itself is not poetry, water's perspective emerges at the beginning of each chapter in the form of a poem. The words spilled onto the page in a free-flowing form, refusing the confines of rigid structure. It was as if this voice demanded to be heard through poetry. This unexpected discovery stayed with me as I moved on to my next work-in-progress. I thought I could weave this poetic voice into the fabric of my new story, but it resisted. It belonged elsewhere, in its own space, with room to breathe. That’s when I realized these poems—this series I’ve come to call "Whispers Between the Worlds"—deserved to stand on their ...