Echos of Autumn PassingRows of dried corn stalks bend
with the wind that
thirsts for rain
that will only come when it has died
and the ears of corn cease to rattle.
And the thunder's distant laugh
will chase after the snakes
heading for their mounds on higher ground,
their husks abandoned-
the flash floods may yet pass them by.
Blue LotusBlue Lotus3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Coming up from Aswan with his catch,
he tacks the course of his dhow
along the Nile of her dark eyes,
her long hair,
the narcotic of blue water lilies,
her lotus pose facing both
the rising, and the setting sun,
the young fisherman begs to know
as he sings upward with his might
and his desire, into the sail
that catches the crosswind--
What is your name, scented one,
in the smoke that rises
from the shores of the cataracts,
where I bring to you my bounty!
He peers into the azure above,
waiting for her answer to fill his sail,
calling out once more as his teeth gleam--
Ma huwa 'ismuki?
MissionaryWhen he first saw herMissionary3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
she appeared unique to all things,
and the day they met, he already knew.
It was during their first time,
the way planets come and go
as time loses track of their orbit.
It never seems to end, then he
growls in her ear as she swoons,
of how missionary will never
be the same for him again.
My assassin's suicideThe touch of your sword is sweet,My assassin's suicide2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
how willing I am as it invades.
The metal sweeps and cuts through
with the bright coldness of its keening,
diaphanous silks of virginal white
rending with each stroke
in their swirling vortex around our
floating images without shadow.
And will you lay it beside me
at the last,
will you lay it down to join me
when peace enfolds,
or will it betray us both as
century wind lays bare our bones.
SnowiesFledgling owlets were coming of ageSnowies3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
while testing their wings
as Father soared overhead,
his children grouped for one more lesson.
Feathers puffed in awkward stance
one by one as if to school
beyond the tundra fields
of late summer skeeters,
to where fat lemmings flourish:
just fly over the last
grass-choked stream, said Mother
(but they decide to wade across),
past wind-blown dunes of green, where
lies the sea beyond, with more lemmings
that hide and play near their burrows
than any snow owl on the wing could wish for.
duetThe earth is not perfect in its circumference,duet5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
it wobbles and shudders as it sings,
with pitched layers of atmospheric frequencies
and deep molten throbs.
Each person makes a noise that drowns out the
sound against a tsunami's thunder.
Do they ever know the song before it's too late,
or go mute long enough to know the words.
When you and I are together, we quietly hum in
hopes of hearing it in tune, of being a duet in sync.
When we can't, we touch; the friction of bodies
become tuning forks vibrating with the tides,
of bird and beast migrating by the silvery tines of
stars, to the music of our only home.
crow comes courtingresplendent in a black glosscrow comes courting5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
of feathered robes...
crow's morning clicks of courtship
echo through downcast mists that
bead upon bowed shoreline willows
and genuflect in the wake
of his purposeful strut
one hesitant step before the next,
his head cocked this way and that,
listening as distant ticks
message back a reply-
the visage of his agenda
suddenly unfolds in a wingspread
that lifts above a watery canvas,
the guttural sound of pulled
stitching sends love notes receding
into estuaries, and ripples
where tadpoles skip and dart
beneath lily pads in the random and
rapid blink of each tiny vortex
GhostYou offer me your ghost shirtGhost5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
for warmth, as I stand
in permanent free fall
before the two dippers.
I have no tears with which to weep,
they won't last beyond
the first touch of
thin air in this high place
where trees never grew
or felt the tension of gut sinew
when I lost my eyes
staring into the sun, and
how its dried breath of
ancient rain and elk horn
has left the moon an orphan.
My Poems are ScarsWhat is the point of poetry?My Poems are Scars3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
It only creates a record
Of things I would rather forget.
So why do I even write it?
Why do I document despair
To dwell on it later
And relive those memories
That should be old scars?
Is it because I cant remember
Without some trigger
And some masochistic part of me
Cannot let go of my past?
My poems are what I have left
Of that place I once called home.
But why do I read them
When Im so much happier here?
church dogs1church dogs6 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
fat and content
with its short life
a barn-sour horse
of hot air balloons
at the zoo-
sneaking a grope
by the python cage
on an inverted leaf-
car window down
leaves and voices drifting in
highway stretches far
but not far enough-
early morning walk
and church dogs
soccer ball out of bounds
for the ice cream truck
the ciggies Dad left
ten years ago
The Grave by The SycamoreOnce upon a Sunday mass, when the time for bread had passed.The Grave by The Sycamore3 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
I took a stroll on hollow ground, past the ancient sycamore.
While I wondered, nearly falling, quietly there came a sighing.
As of someone gently crying, crying by a grave I've seen before.
"Tis some mourner" I uttered "sighing at this grave I've seen before."
Only this and nothing more.
Ah, I can plainly recall, it was in the barren fall
when they lowered her bones beneath the hollow floor.
Desperately I wished her healed; I wished for deaths kiss to yield
for my love to emerge-emerge from this grave I've seen before.
when the earth didn't sever, I knew she was lost forevermore.
This it is and nothing more.
As I stood there reminiscing, I was almost missing-
almost missing those cries from the grave by the sycamore.
My footsteps grew quicker, as the air grew thicker
racing fleetly towards the stone upon the graveyard floor.
There lies the maiden I lovingly adore, a memory from distant yore.
My lost lover, nevermore.
The WitchesThe witches speak a languageThe Witches3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
clearer than my mother's, the edge
of a blade, crack of broken glass,
silky slide of sin, come in, come in, in
my ear, a soft patting drum, the
spell bound lullaby
they croak and coo, all manner of
tone and it is sweet as the summer
tongue growing fat on hand cart ice cream
pops, brisk as the Boston cabbies,
neither here nor there, they are
ever here evermore. They are
inside me, flapper dancing
the pelvis bones, acutely out of
style and carefree, they have me,
the potion's daughter, their invitation
sheer formality. I am in, I am
in, I am deep
at the bottom of the cauldron.
Do you dare consume me? The woman
who gives cancer out freely and lives
to die yet never dies, the sick
anomaly. Can you hear them?
Press your ear
to the flat of my skin. I am
the cast-off shell of the sea,
hollow and rustling – that, there,
that is them – their greedy hands
are chanting, come in, come in,
He Found Me Before I KnewHe Found Me Before I Knew3 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
our reflection in the windshield
becomes a deluge
texting each other a renga—
on rain-soaked streets
home from work
he finds me on the bed
in a pile of warm laundry
the children we were
in another life
finishing the fence
he smells of wood chips
from my dad's workshop
I connect constellations
of freckles on his shoulders
I open a melon
its green perfume
at the dining table
writing this haiku
the fridge faintly hums
Remembering TrainsI recall how as a childRemembering Trains8 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
I'd walk the railroad tracks,
surveying the soot-covered ground
in search of Morocco and Spain.
I'd lie prone across the wood ties
to hear trains roll from miles away,
feeling them in my belly.
If I had pennies to spare,
I'd place them along the iron
and rush back the next day
to claim the flattened treasure.
I remember a late summer
when humidity was thick in the air,
lightning arcs lit the night,
riding the rails down the line.
So startling was the crackle
that flew in a shower of sparks
rivaling the 4th of July.
I loved the rumble of three engines
hauling a full load of boxcars.
The moans they made from the weight,
and the slow journey up the grade.
Sunlight flickered through the
wake of smoke passing overhead
as I walked behind the caboose
waving endlessly to the watchman.
So it is, when the night is still.
I hear a plaintive wail as a
train calls from afar.
I warm to the memories, and I answer.
OppositeThe world glistened with abandonOpposite3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
in the electrical parade,
when and where the night skies too
seemed receptive and robust,
yet even while I'm still awake
I'm content in the quiet of my dreams
like the creatures and those who sleep
in the opposite place and time
where plans and promises of a new year
become folly, and no longer exist.
HereafterGreat uncle Henry's funeral was on a SundayHereafter3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
of deep skies and up-drafting clouds, and
everyone stood around the mahogany coffin as it
glistened in the drifting patchwork of sunlight
while I kept my eyes on it, knowing that soon
I would lose sight of it forever.
His mother died in childbirth, and he always felt
responsible. What a terrible weight on one's self.
I reached out to place my hand on the coffin
and murmured, "Your mother will explain, Henry."
My mind was blank during the long trip, and when
I got home, I sat alone in the kitchen and kept
dialing his voice message speaking from the
hereafter as I wept, before the service shut off.
Sensual Moon: Love HaikuSensual Moon: Love Haiku3 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
winter crescent moon
across my breasts—
he calls me wisteria
clouds under the moon—
yielding winter pears
selecting ripe persimmons—
warm scent of last night
green shoots forced
from the gardener's manure—
we linger, moon watching
on a moonlit garden path
too cold out to be tempted
6 our astrological elements
my air to his fire—
a position for
every phase of the moon
the sounds he makes
a night creature's song
after, my streaming hair
for his head to rest upon
the low-slung moon
also in repose
moon tides penetrate—
he's still with me
at dawn's first light
The Bride of AtlasShe met him when the world was new;The Bride of Atlas3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
when wars were fought in the cosmos
and celestial beings deigned expose
and visit themselves upon the mortals.
In darkness he came to her;
somewhere between fantasy and the real,
disguised as a human, burly and firm
with want of a lover and yearning for release.
She knew him as a man
and he loved her as his wife.
A Titan he had always been
at battle with Olympians
who garnered all of humanity's love
and chose war over peace to keep it.
As lightning struck, thunder roared,
and waves destroyed the earth,
all grew quiet as Olympus rejoiced
and she knew that he had lost.
Zeus then rest upon his shoulders
the weight of the world eternal.
A punishment made more severe
by lack of warmth from her mortal heart.
He carried his punishment made unending
as Earth's coarsened face gouged his back.
The insects and beasts stung and mauled
and the humans warred and burned his flesh.
Still he held the world atop his shoulders
and severed it from t
A glass bottom moonLying across the expanse ofA glass bottom moon2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
rolling sea grass
turned to moonlight
that slips past the sun king while
happiness from yesterday's warmth
seeps into my spine
making me believe for a while
that all of me is whole again
as I once was.
To feel the sand churn
between fingers and toes
each time the tide comes in,
lying across the expanse of
rolling sea grass
turned to moonlight.
Ophelia's MarchShe stands tallOphelia's March3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Amongst the ashes
Of her all
A child in a misshapen form.
Spectres of memory
Cloud her countenance
Her eyes, bright and keen.
Scanning the horizon
She traces the unchartered peaks with her tongue
Delighting in the worn roughness
Of cracked enamel
And the taste of metal.
She is far
From her bloody body
Scarlet marring translucent white.
She takes a small, teetering
Finding her new feet
Feeling the comforting crunch
Of Bone and sand and dust
Of Random Thoughts and ThingsLast night I thought of my first catOf Random Thoughts and Things3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
when I was a child,
a jet black kitten with six toes on each paw,
and the lemon tree that grew
in the rear of my parents' backyard.
I couldn't climb that tree,
full of wicked thorns that pricked my flesh.
So why did I think of the cat and the tree
on this particular night?
They came to me in a fog which
should make me sad, after all
five years later I found my cat by the side
of the house in a pile of dried leaves.
I carried her to the back and sat vigil
under the lemon tree until she died.
It made me wonder is it always this way
with all things, to romanticize years later?
I started to plan in my head a new place,
a retreat where my love and I could live:
I scoured through catalogs of furnishings
hand-picked by the hour,
a virtual tour, setting up and
arranging, mulling over and re-doing,
from page to mind's eye,
the goblets and plates, the linens and drapes
'round tables and chairs,
a bed with down pillows, lamps on their stands
finely milled soap
Naked in the CafeteriaNaked in the Cafeteria3 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
in a coffee shop
with my test kit,
too anxious to wait
I pierce a fingertip–-
the bright bead
tossing a used syringe,
follow the dots
on the stomach
from my novice tremors
still new at it, yet
I don't bother with
while seeking a new site
for my insulin fix
I poke myself so often
being naked in a
Songsong of earthSong8 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
flows in my veins
her womb, reborn
song of daybreak—
mating the sun
travels down my spine
song of sky—
currents of birds
on up-drafted clouds
caressing my body's
song of midnight—
a deep thrum of
bathes the eyes,
color of my hair
song of my smile—
for my lover
suggests your voice—
we'll learn the words
clair de luneIn the bitter cold of its white light asclair de lune4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
winter approaches, the contemplation of the
moon that clouds your face brings a melancholy,
uncertain as it is embraceable
in the arms of the vision it extends.
And when it's over, lying back quietly listening
to your favorite rendition of Clair de lune,
the moon will return, and you'll draw close
the warmth of me, and for a while
you won't feel so alone. And neither will I.
Descent into MadnessDon't dare to cross the line, my dear,Descent into Madness3 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Beware of morbid implications,
Of atrocities so sweet, of fear,
Of nightmares coming true, damnation.
Toe the line, just once, my love,
And like an acrobat hold tight,
For demons rule the sky above,
But hell is worse you know I'm right.
This world is madness, so beware:
No going back if you but stumble.
If insanity a friend declares,
Dare not surrender with no struggle.
Know: I've looked beyond it all,
And scarred for life I came back through.
Ignore the multi-voices call,
No longer 'tis the place you knew.
Dance, o dance, but never touch
The triumph of the dark divine.
What distance put is never much:
Don't ever dare to cross the line.