it was raining outside
i tasted cherry in each kiss
ate you up like candyfloss and
you disappeared just as quick.
tasted lightening as it jolted
from your skin, blinded me
with what i thought was love,
disguised thunderstorms as
butterflies in my stomach;
i was not prepared for this
downpour.
tasted cinnamon as our story
blossomed and you kissed me
under archways, told me it was
romantic and you had never
been here before, never felt
this way before, never connected
with someone's electricity so
spectacularly it created firework
displays you can see from
galaxies away.
tasted your poison disguised
as promises dripping in the
richest honey, tasted the tip of
your fingers as they infected my
skin, left me with a constant
internal itch.
tasted the roots of the trees of
your mind and buried myself
beneath them. i wear my
gravestone as a badge of honour
because i died when you left
but i got to love you once.
i am a ghost circling the same
graveyard looking for archways
to fall asleep in, chasing the scent
of cherry like it is holding a
loaded gun and i am running
towards it with my arms wide
open begging it to **** me again.
i die over and over everyday
because there are reminders of
you everywhere and i am but a
ghost and i hope you think of me,
when your door creaks for no
reason in the middle of the night,
when you feel eyes on you and
your palms begin to sweat and
suddenly your room is deathly cold.
i hope you remember me.

i tell myself
i do not need
to live in the
wild,
as a butterfly
or a wasp
or as a bird.
i tell myself
i do not need
to cascade the
skies, because
to fly around
your ribcage
feels like the
only freedom i
ever need.
i thought that
maybe i would
come back as a
sparrow one day
to show the world
i was joyful and i
was not afraid.
i tell myself
that my sandpaper
heart finally
met something
soft around the
edges, to teach me
that love heals,
helps tend to the
wounds i tried
to lick clean when
my tongue was
laced in acid and
i tell myself,
i must have done
something worthy
along my timeline
to be blessed with
arms coated in baby
powder and blankets
to shield me from
the rain, i tell myself
i do not need to
live in the wild to
be free, for your
ribcage is the freest
a bluebird can be.

cold
even colder
ice cold
frozen
melt me again

heart is heavy
mind is on you
i miss you boy
i feel so alone
and you always felt like home

Through the country paths, I lazily loitered,
watching Nature in its changing hue
straying farther into the interiors,
sundry and sublime vistas came into view.

in response to zephyr’s warm embrace,
the silvery leaves joyously fluttered.
the bees busied themselves collecting pollen
and birds on tree tops merrily chattered

it was the *** end of verdant spring.
summer’s sun stood behind my head.
bleat of sheep was heard from far.
‘Good day to you’….. Someone said.

There stood on the hill, a boy around fifteen
obviously he was of tribal breed.
with a beaming smile, he greeted me
but on walking to him, he ran like a steed

I saw him disappear behind the trees
and enter into a hut tiny as a nest
he lived in the lap of Mother Nature,
far from the city and its sooty dust

being coaxed, he hesitantly came out.
my tone of assurance and pleasing smile,
seemed to have won his confidence
as to a friend, he shared his eventful tale.

pointing to the sheep grazing in the *****,
he said, he earned a living caring the flock.
he stayed in the woods all day long,
feeding and tending his master’s sheep.

from dawn to dusk, through woods and meads,
he leads his sheep, calling them by their name.
un vexed, with simple pleasures he is content
and with a nomad’s life, he seems to be tame

he said, at home he has his invalid mother.
bringing her back to health is his mission in life
on referring to his mother, I watched his eyes glitter
nothing other than her illness posed to him a strife

from every utterance, I could sense his filial love.
even in abundance, while shadows line many faces,
on his visage, hope lingered as a dancing flame
to me he seemed above many, rich in other graces!

While parting, I handed him a little money
pausing unbelievably, with moist eyes
he accepted it, when a breeze passed caressing us
as if over a kind gesture, Nature seemed to rejoice!

rain has a way of welcoming all of us
seeking to give us comfort
lettings us know that we are not alone
others are out there feeling the same
turmoil underneath their own rain clouds

is it bad to think
you speak for me?

do you whisper for me,
are the puns in your poems
meant for me?

how unfair of me to think this,
when my mind is always on someone else
every three days.

is it wrong of me to think this?
to feel my chest warm up
to your homemade fireplace?

thoughts always rush through my mind,
if i am wrong or right,
are you wrong or right,
is this wrong or right?

how can i find these perfect places
between your words and writings?
can i rest on them,
the promises in your poems?

Our Dog Howling at Sunset

At sunset, the dog howls at sirens in town.
If he were snowbound in Talkeetna,
A hundred miles from nowhere,
What would he howl at instead?

I saw my husband trudging through the frost,
His blue jacket half-tinted orange and red,
“I don’t like the way you sound,” he said
As he left, deserting one who was already lost.

If I were a thousand miles from him now,
Listening to the wolves’ mournful cries,
And my beloved shunning me as he does now,
Would I pretend to believe my lover’s lies?

Or, instead, would it be enough to exist
Where the short summer dies on winter’s grist,
And true love’s a dream born on a dreamer’s mist,
And the one to stay with is the one you’ve just kissed?

If I lived in a land so cruel and hard,
Would I be bargaining with my soul?
If love’s short date were but a moon’s silver shard,
Would he be a passing thought, and my son the whole

Of any future we had scattered out on the snow,
Or caught in the rime-bound trees?
Would I see then what I already know—
That his future lies with himself and not me?

As our wolf howls a timeless wail to the air
I can listen and guess at its season.
I can comfort myself it will always be there,
Beyond human hopes, beyond reason.

Far wiser, the black-furred hound, than I,
To sing out his ancient song.
Waiting, watching, as we struggle and die,
Only to pass his wisdom along.

Waiting, hoping as he does for a touch,
He is made to think that he asks too much--
Waiting for a kind word or loving hand--
Wild and alone, in humanity’s bleak land.

A southern writer once lamented the lack
Of courage in humankind,
And suggested we borrow the strength we see
In the branches of an olive tree.

Yet there’s more courage in the dog-wolf’s cry,
Penned out on our city-cropped lawn,
As if he knows the grief of my son and I
When the man we both love is gone.

“Could we not as well” take a lesson from him,
Our wild and loyal friend?
To howl out our sorrow and loneliness,
Though the pain might never end?

Now, in the twilight I hear my lover return,
With no greeting to me, and I burn
For the summer’s newborn passion I recall.
The twilight wolf’s mourning tells it all:

That we never will have what we had before
That love can die just as well as it’s born,
That a child is the only one who restores
What is lost to the lonesome, the wolves, the forlorn.


July 6, 2001