the thorns of a new week crown through the pink clouds in sulfur-yellow shards of sun. each passing day, week, I fight to make this stumbling more than the sorrow of missing you, less than the joy of counting the days until we are reunited. Time is a two-faced lover: easing and stealing. Yet I…
Category: Poetry
revelation
And you said, You and I as a couple are as ironic as Mother Teresa with a photon gun. I said, “Oh, I know. You are so handsome, so witty and you really have your shit together.” I guess it wasn’t funny. A two year old letter read and reread countless times lies on the…
summer’s slow retreat
I that final summer we spent our nights on the pier, the moonlight bathing the water with its cool hands. night sounds, frogs humming and burping, crickets, and water slapping rocks serenading us. long hours lost in eternal embrace, caresses without end, daylight hours, too, passed in hide-and-seek cornfields. ski trips and trains marked our…
boyfriend
your eyes are a pale-green altar. a torture device of worship, love. I hide my face when I look at you and see my own inadequacies, complicities to the war-torn vestige of our former years. Poisonous memories choke my throat and I cry tears, a sacrifice.
The unhung door
so much undone, so much on the list the unhung door, the unglazed window the wheelbarrow filled with rain that taunt purposeless, mocking
A Day with a Universal God
Listen for my voice in the crashing waves, And in the call of the wild wind, You can hear it there, too. I am the monk locked in silent solitude, I am the crying infant. Listen for my voice in your favorite melody, in a child’s rhyme. My voice is as endless as the seas….
Consciousness of a Flat Planet
She wants to float above him, beyond his reach. As he splits the water with his sleek form, the specter of his voice echoes around her. Washed by his waves, she lulls her head toward the stars. Obscured by a canopy of gray mist, the stars dance a…
Morning Dew
the sun, broken down into particles and rays sparkling through the morning dew on my windshield before I slip into another work day
Where We Rent
We must hate our parents And ourselves We Americans, driven To erase all trace of our, and their, progress On the landscape. Each site, landmark, seen As a blank canvas. What is this need? Is each strike of the wrecking ball an expression of relief or regret? Failure or success? Our hubris…
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