Wednesday, July 29, 2015

I brought her my plan
on a seasoned plate
it arrived lukewarm
and out of date
to her, that is
to me it was fate
fully roasted and turned
in a way meant to divulge
in a way unperturbed
by the sins it was charged
some things leave me
weathered from youth even now
these things I remember
I said some things
on some things I acted
it was the moon, she said
and the clouds that distracted
and I pulled the cork
on a bottle of red
better off silent
better off wed to
the heat of the night
to the sweet dense air

when I wake from this
I will still be here
hung over maybe but
free of resistance
it’s a walk in the park
under the moon
it’s a song of a lark
it is mine, this fortune
it is mine this dark
it is mine this ruin

Friday, July 24, 2015


once every year
you move closer to the sun
some wars have been lost
some have been won
age loses meaning and definition
you sing the same song
as a different rendition
this comes every summer
without warning or shout
you’ve stalled at the gate
wondering what to let out
sun child you are
traveling to the moon
on a cloud of regret
that feeds your poems
you don’t go very far anymore
from the light in your room
where stories are gathered
where characters bloom
sun child you are
who worships the moon
sits atop the Great Wheel
and enjoys the burlesque when
fireworks beat an incoming fog
once again it’s outfoxed
once again you beat god
you have who repairs you
who has long passed the test
many things still scare you

it’s a common repast
this dining on old hurts
and what is unfair you
turn your face to the heat
sun child that you are
and look to the moon
to travel unarmed
write freely and finally
to live unharmed

Saturday, July 11, 2015

I am a writer
late to the game
I can’t run
just missing the rim
but I can dribble
too lazy to go there
romance has drawbacks
mystery’s the stuff
at the back of my fridge
fiction is
god’s gift to me
the poet du jour keeps a diary
no rhymes just the sense that
blah blah blah Black Sea
my reader, my spine
finds the sweet mystery
I have no grandchild
no rosary
no bible and if
I had a family
it would be tribal and
I would fly in solo descent
but she unearths me
finds the spy’s secret meant
traces the negative
puts on the white glove
and hangs me to dry
the grandmas were the great
women in my life
she knows that and hangs
my print to dry

for Carmen