has not a trace of
love. It hangs on
the neck like a pair of boxing
gloves. Brows are thin

and spread uneven. The eyes
have no shine. They're clouded
thick like meat in brine. The nose
rose like a mountain in the air. I see

through the nostrils all the grey
hair. Cheeks are pale. There's more
color in my glass of ale. The mouth
is stuck in a pout. Cannot catch a

smile. I'd have more luck fishing
for trout. The head oscillates like
a fan. You look the same. But
you're not the same man.

you turned to frost
looking like white moss
I knew I had lost you forever.
I could floss my teeth on your

spiny shards you planted as
body guards to protect you
from invasion. No gentle persuasion
could pull you out

of this. I knew no more of bliss,
only this - deepest sorrow.
I pray to you I miss those endless days
of sunshine when you grew apples

in your backyard. Was before
the frost hit them hard. And the apples fell
off the boughs. Down came baby, cradle
and all. Head first, hitting the earth.

He was sweet
as honey dripping
until he spilled
his last drop.

He was bright
as the stars shining
until he shut
the lights off.

He was cool
as a fan blowing
on a hot July day
until he pulled the plug
and took his breath away.

He was bearing fruit
as the apple tree
until the winter frost.
I stood starving
under him
until I was lost.

cereal or eggs and toast
dress or pants
prose or verse
do I step on the scale?
what I don’t know won’t hurt
which bill should I pay?
the one with the shut-off notice
there’s more than one of those
eeny, meeny, miny, moe
I wish they all would go – disappear
up or down
how should I wear my hair?
should I do it today
or put it off until tomorrow?
should I wish her happy birthday
we haven’t talked in years?
it would feel awkward to me
people come and go so easily
Should I flip the finger
to the guy who cut me off
or just cuss under my breath
or roll down my window and cuss
to him?
should visit my mother-in-law
again
she’s very old
and who knows when -
should I pick up the ***** on the
way home?
I should really get sober
I’ve been saying that forever
should I summit to another magazine
just to be rejected once more
or bother to visit the local book
store to be placed on the shelf?
should I end this poem
or go on talking to myself?

like the sun
coming up
in the morning.
I’m a boat,
and he’s my mooring.

I just need to hear him
like the birds
in the forest.
I’m a song,
and he’s my chorus.

I just need to see him
like a rainbow
in the sky.
He’s the reflection
that colors my eyes.

the day
as a Diamond Core
cutting the cement floor. Pieces
as scattered as my head, strung
together the beads of lead.

I break up
with men.
I shuffle them
as playing cards. I turn out
the jokers as a hand of poker. They're
my wild cards.

I break up
laughing.
Shy of gaffing
the prize. They just don't
buy my guise!

I break up
the eggs.
Scramble them
as my brain. The eggs
are soft. I am not.

I feel like a bulging drip
on the ceiling tiles, as it grows heavy. It must shed
from its own weight. It collects in a bucket
of overused smiles. Gets thrown out once it’s filled up,

along with the mildew and other rot of broken
promises and lost thoughts. The tinny sound of each plunk
leaves me in a funk. So, I naturally crawl
back inside the spaces overhead where the furring

strips have lost their grip. At some point the whole thing
will collapse like a house of cards unevenly
stacked. But until it happens, I’ll go kerplop. Make bluesy music
with each resounding drop until I reached the top,
and get emptied out again like a longshoreman.

cut-up, bloodied hearts
you can string them
or fling them
for fun

you can be old
or you can be young

cubed and arranged in angles
go on, make them dangle

neatness is for geeks
Ok! Ok!
I admit -
I’m a freak

when you are so far away? I could
give you a love song to put in
your heart
something that will stick in your head
from the moment you get up
until you go to bed
something that’ll dream you to sleep
on nights when the temperature rises
that’s gentle
with no uncertain surprises
something that you’ll sing when it rains
that’ll put a smile on your face
it could be our little secret
when they ask why you laugh
just be coy and say “nothing”
can you keep it?

about the other
side. I don’t even understand
this side. I’m not sure some days
which side I’m on. Besides my side
I’m not sure I want to enter something
I’m not sure of, unless someone gives me
all the answers, and they all come
with written guarantees. The older I get
the more this bothers me.

as I pushed out
into this hard world
a cold wet baby girl
through screams and men’s
hands wrapped around
the tiny infant

I was alone
as I sat for lunch
shoulders hunched over
my lunch
in the school cafeteria
blending in with the exterior

I was alone
an only child
in my room
as girls went to dances
and parties
proms and semi-formals
I was not normal

I was alone
in his company
standing as a door frame
that he walked through
hanging over him as the blue sky
a cherry silhouette
on standby

Some people have tattoos.
Others don’t wear shoes.
The kindest people I know
are not afraid to show

all their colors boldly.
Though they’re greeted coldly
from narrow-minded folks
who snicker and make jokes

at people different from them.
Treated as coughed up phlegm.
What a sad world it’s become.
Swept away like a crumb

because I hold my ground.
I never will be bound
by other people’s limits.
Those so-called people are dimwits!

I got into my car and drove
to his place. It was a dark and cold October night
when I crashed into a woman’s car that was
out of my sight. I didn’t stop and pull over. So, she

followed me down Main Street to his home. The
lights in his office where on. He was seeing
a patient. I’m surprised when he didn’t hear the sirens
blaring right outside his window. The woman I hit

called the police. I was so drunk;
I thought I was done. Not a scratch on my Red
Rio. The policeman walked around the vehicle a few times,
surprised. He asked me to roll down my window. I thought

for sure he was going to take me in. He only gave me
a warning “don’t leave the scene of an accident”
And then they all left, the woman whose car I totaled
and the policeman. I got out of the car in a

drunken daze. I couldn’t remember his front
gate. I must have walked around the place several
times before I found the latch to let me in at last. It must
have been a guardian angel that night that saved my life.

your problems
I’d wear them
but
cut off the sleeves
if I could take on
your tears
I’d drink them down
but
with some ***** and cherries
if I could take on
your pain
I’d wrap it up
in cauliflower and cheese
and bake it
in the oven
and they’d be leftovers
to eat again
and I’d serve them
with
***** and cherries
in my cut-off sleeves
and be buried under
a canopy of
willow trees

No concealer to hide
tired, puffy eyes.
No paint-on lips
with rouge lip-stick.
No mascara that extend
eye-lashes to no end.
No swept-on blush
that give an added touch
to make one look flush.
All you can see
The natural me.

smaller.
Is it because people don’t fit
in? Or is it because
I haven’t
made the room for them?

My corner is getting
colder.
Is it because I’m facing
away from the heat? Or is because
my back
is toward the outside?

My corner is getting
tighter.
is it because I’ve grown? Or is it because
the world
has grown around me?

I hung my bleeding body
on to dry. At war with myself, I saw
a place to lie.  A satin red
flower erected on a tower of

spines. And fell on a pincushion
of needles and pins that made
my head spin. And ripped a hole
in my side. Torn so wide I split

in two and grew spikes in
my pupils from a man with no
scruples. This, from two stars
colliding. I'm sliding on a fast track

back to earth. Still at war with
myself.  Now the spikes that girth me
are my hands and my knees. And there's
no soft place to lie.

is fitting you?
The shiny metal kind
like a boxer wears after a match-
his eyes glass flares

or the night sky against the sea
like a street stalker's ****** spree

or the stringy hair on her head
in a wooden box-
her last bed

or this land in dust
after the nuke
all is rust
earth cloaked in puke

shore to shore
with a big blowtorch
till there no more
lies in my path
they’ll all turn to ash

I will burn bridges
by land and sky
with kamikazes
that I’ll fly
till there’s no more
caustic fuel
spilling out from the mouth
of a mule  

I will burn bridges
that cross into places
I shouldn't go
burning them slow
into the ground
till the fires lights up the black
and sparks of memories
are hacked

I will burn bridges
and then build new
with my hands
laying every plank
as it were seed
and plotting it out
braiding the tweed

There’re more curves to the bends.
There’re more pieces of what’s broken.
Your holes are entrances for my love.
Your scars are burning stars.

You’re not stationary; you are motion.
Like a pendulum you swing.
I’ll catch all your tears.
And with your tears we’ll swim.

When we reach the end, we’ll fall over together.
Don’t know what that’ll bring.
It doesn’t matter.
Because if we break, we’ll blend.

You - expecting me to change?
Me - maybe for a day or more
We all have our ways
Set as an old lady’s hair in rollers
I get a little bolder each day
We always go back to the familiar
It’s easier that way
Sorry I let you down
You don’t serve it
Sorry I wasn’t around
When you needed me - I ran
I run everything down
I’m a broken record
I keep repeating
The same old pattern
I never did learn Latin in high-school
I learned to cop out
As usual

behind me? Footprints in
the snow that’ll melt as the day
grows old? Or am I an ice cube that'll
lose shape, watered down

thin as a crepe? A silhouette
on the wall for all to discern
like the Rorschach test in turn? Am I
just a fallen log that’s ****** on

by passing dogs? Or am I spackle that
oddballs like to tackle? Don’t spread
me out as filler. I’ll carve my initials
with a hammer and chisel on every pillar

and door/ on every mountaintop and
marble floor.

don’t go in winter. The ground
will harden. The trees will
splinter. My breath will hang
in the hair like a cloud of smoke
if you disappear.

If you leave
don’t go in spring. The rose won’t
flower. The lark won’t sing. My kite
won’t fly without a string. Don’t cut
the ties your happiness brings.

If you leave
don’t go in summer. The angry sky
bangs like a drummer. The sun bakes
and the lake’s whitecap churns. And I’d die
if you don’t return.

If you leave
don’t go in autumn. The golden
crimson leaves blossom. The apples
are pulled from their stems. Friends
hold hands around the bonfire. I beg of you
not to retire.

like an apple pie. Do as much
as I can before I die. Drink all
the flavors like cherry wine. Swing
like the monkeys from vine

to vine. Some day I’ll be too old
to chase the wind. My arms and legs
pinned to a chair. I’ll fly with the gulls
in the warm air. And circle

the clouds on a carousel, till the music
swells in a crescendo. Before my eyes
have cataracts and I’m stuck in bed
lying flat on my back I’ll run in the

breeze, cross oceans, and seas –
before arthritis sets in my knees. Before
I’m lain in the ground I just have to
get around. No man can hold me down!

fill this insidious mouth
with your tongue
so the words don’t come out
sharp as shards

and fill up these eyes raining needles
that sting with each fling like
a pesky mosquito with soft kisses
that cling like laundry without the fabric softener

then fill up my loving one
with your smoking cigar
don’t drop your ashes
and turn my legs to char

fill the ones in my head
with delicate song
cause there’s smokestacks in them
and croaking frogs

last but not least
fill the one in my heart
whose rhythm has ceased
it needs a jump-start
fill it with all the love
one man can
and if it runs out
fill it again

because I’ll never have
my fill of you –
how could the dark night
have its fill of the moon?

skies and trees
lakes, rivers, and countries.
Stars, moons, and sun. Something
for everyone. Jungles, forests

and blooming gardens. Mountains
deserts and crystal waterfalls. Buildings over
a thousand feet tall. You can't see it
all in a lifetime. I'm drunk on it

as if it was moonshine. Have the eyes
of a child. Look at a butterfly and
smile. Hot as a chili pepper. Swing as
a dance hall stepper. Don’t sit as bump

on a log or bellow as an old
bullfrog. The colors are golden and
crimson. Unlock the door of your
prison!

Served with can’t
and won’t. Don’t feel
This. Just don’t. Put it in
a box. Seal it with heavy duty

industrial tape. Label it. Put it
upstairs in the dusty
attic, along with all the rest
of the boxes. You know

it’s there. I know it’s there.  But
let’s not talk
about it. Let’s not bring
it up. Let’s pretend it’s in

heaven with your father,
snuggled in his tobacco-
jaundice hands. Let’s not make
any plans.

to a rainbow
diamond kite
wound around
a handle tight
fly high into
the bright sunshine

Strings tied
on my finger
help me remember
all my plans for
this December

Strings tied
to the center
of two round wooden disks
of a yo-yo
go up and down
in my hand
to and fro
but do not land

Strings tied
to my violin
I play with a bow
held under my chin
sweet music
making me grin

Strings tied
to my goose
as he bakes in the oven
I let loose before I feast
and he's salted
and well-greased

String Tied
to me
that don't suit me
leaving me in a rut
are the strings
I got to cut

Strings tied
to this heart
are the type
I cannot part

I hear the roaring rapids
splashing up their spray. And the pine
needles waltzing in the hay, as I
shuffle my feet along the path. A drop

of dew is the morning bath
to the black, cloaked ant. The grey squirrels
can’t sit still. Running, climbing
and chasing on fours. Nature, my friend

is never a bore! Golden, crimson
marmalade of shade are the trees in
autumn. Ferns are the fans for the dwellers
of earth’s bottom. A butterfly circles

a shy violet, as a robin plays pilot
in the clouds. The crowds of scurrying
chipmunks dash into the crevice of
a stone fence.

And I lose my sense of place
as I’m face to face with a doe, lowering
her spotted head at my toes.

I carry it with me as I leave
home. I hide it in my pocketbook.
It rolls in the nooks and under the *****.
Someone gave it to me. I haven’t

given it back. It’s grown bigger
over the years. It started out as a pebble
that stuck in my shoe. That little I just shook it
loose. But then it grew the size of my hand. So, I threw it

in the ocean. It made a nest in the sand
as the tide pulled back. On land, I tripped
over it. And it broke my foot/cracked the bone. Still,

I lugged it with me on the drive home. I took it
to the doctor so he'd see the culp of my pain. But he
romanced the stone and gave it a name.

dropping from the sky as pellets. An angry
God shooting bullets from the trees, aiming
right at me. They hit me ******* the
head. I shake my fist and say to them

stop! I can’t concentrate from the kerplunk,
the ******* noise you nuts make. Can’t sit
on my deck without them dancing a
pirouette. Can’t walk across the boards without

falling to the floor. The ******* things are rolling
underneath my feet. And making a frigging
mess as we speak. It’s smells like nuttiness. Thank
goodness no one here has a food allergy! I’m going

to get my tennis racket and hit them back
at the tree, whence the rough cupped caps came
flying at me. The squirrels can have a ball. I hope
they collect them all before tomorrow morning.

up to family and friends,
as a conquest -
the prize he has won.
But does he hold her up
when her womb is full of son?
When stretch-marks cross her belly
and childbirth leaves her tummy
wobbly as jelly?

He holds her
hand walking in the moonlight.
Under the stars he sweeps her off her feet.
But does he hold her hand
when she's old and not as sweet?
When wrinkles cover her skin
and her hair is grey and thin?

He holds her
in reverie,
google-eyed rhapsody.
But does she become a memory
once he sees reality?

acquiescently.
If you pull my reins
I will buck.
If you use the crop
you’re going drop.


I’m not going
soberly.
I’ll kick my hoofs up
And throw you off
until you land in my water trough.


I’m not going
quietly.
I will snort; and I will neigh.
But I will never pull your sleigh.

unleashed to roam without
a chain have a home, to shelter them
from the rain. This amour was
growing from a pup into a great

Dane. He pulled tight on my black leather
collar. I was spent like a dollar squashed
inside his billfold. He didn't hold me
for long in his quivering hand. Passed me

up for a cup of dark coffee at the
newsstand. I just wanted a soft
warm lap, a spot to curl up
and take a nap. A smiling

face to greet me at the end of
his day. A ray of golden sunshine
when the sky is black as coal,
and the clouds are grey with snow.

my clothes to the surfaces
of the tables in the laundromat. So, I
fold them outside in my crammed
car. Isn’t that bizarre!

Afraid to touch
the door handle to
walk in. A stranger
touched it. Their germs
have left an imprint.

Afraid to touch
the ten-dollar bill -
a million germs on it still. But
the machines won't work
without money.

Afraid to touch
my eye to scratch an itch. My hand
might carry the germ from
the door. Now my eye has a twitch
from an itch. And
I’m going to sneeze!

Afraid to touch
my sock that fell
on the floor. Afraid to
go out into the street. I'll
meet more people I can't
stop and talk to without
a bullhorn.

My words have wings
They fly over your head
As the nightingale sings
In a graveyard of dead

My feelings have legs
They run off at the mouth
As a poor man in dregs
Dreams of the south

Oh give me a vessel
To hold these things in
I’ll no longer wrestle
With where I have been

Void the space where I was.
Yes, where I was.
But I was there long enough to seep in.
I was there long enough to fill the holes.
Some say, I was there long enough to do the damage.
And as a result, I am.
I am in them.
Therefore, I take up space.
I am not nil.
What was nullified is valid still.

my ******* are drums
my feet are numb
can’t move –
strung on the notes he plays
hung on the melody –
Breathlessly
the stubble on his face
Ivory
his curly hair
a harpsichord
his fruity stare
a glass of Chambord
Waltzing the Matilda
with him
swinging hips
looking trim
under the glare
of Times Square
eyes locked as keys
in the ***** breeze
of New York New York

cannot remove the mats
and tangles of this life. The prongs
are broken on the pulls. The knots
are raging as the bulls. The handle’s

broken off.  It wasn’t a quarter
the cost. So, you cut it off,
like you did as a child. But the tattered
splits make you look wild.

There are Times when you Need

More -
acceptance than questions
audacity than honor
courage than skill
faith than proof
integrity than flattery
intuition than facts
kindness than disparagement
persistence than reason
positive energy than complaints
purpose than fame
self-love than friends
short-term goals than wide-range
spirit than reward
being part of something more

She doesn’t
step on toes
kiss behinds
toe the line
read people’s minds
this package comes
as is -
not much pride
but willing to give
what she has
and what that is -
pizzazz
and lots of fizz

is a drip
from the size of it
it could go plop
and jump
on top
an unsuspecting bird
wetting his feathers

perturbed
that the wetness
makes his feathers
stick together
for this
gleans him
no pleasure

brings us together
Time
draws us apart
Time
makes the rose bud grow
Time
destroys them in the snow
Time
is a thief stealing our days
Time
is a sneak that hides in the shade
Time
is endless to the young
Time
to the old is a fling that has flung
Time
one can never get back
Time
shows all the wear and the cracks
Time
Is a teacher to the wise
Time
is frittered away by a fool and his lies

in his eyes. A thousand years and
a thousand tears I have shed. Now
my face has ballooned like a big
waterbed. You can say I'm the walking

dead. I was once alive, a flying
butterfly. He broke me out of my
cocoon and sent me straight to
the moon. Left me to orbit

in space. I'm lost in this galaxy. He
dropped the chase.  No longer covered
in stardust. My silky wings turned
to rust. The violet has tarnished. I'm burnt-

orange. I don't reflect the sun. I cannot
move. I'm numb. I see women flutter, as I once did
before my head was cluttered with overgrown
weeds. I'm not flowering. I've run to seed.

I’ve lost my aspiration.
The bottoms fallen out of my foundation.
To the extend I can measure
I’ve had more pain than I’ve had pleasure.

People rain on my potential.
They have reasons, spiritual and existential.
They’re high-brow and dogmatic.
They frighten me when they become fanatic!

What’s the point in conversation?
There’s no free speech when there’s dictation.
I won’t answer to any buddha.
They’re mouths, the size of a barracuda.

Pointing fingers as they question.
I won’t be drafted in someone’s obsession.
The meek are the sorest.
I’ll live my last days out in the forest.

Big. They cost me my sleep –
restless nights bedeviled about your
indifference. They cost me my health –
turning to the bottle for help. They cost me

my inner peace. I’m at war with myself. But
most of all they cost me my faith in human
ambiance.  I can no longer rely on what is. Ruminating
how does someone give you so much love,

make so many promises and then
retract everything. And that cost me with
having future relationships. There’s a wall up
now ten feet tall. And I hide behind it every day.

with him on a warm, sunny afternoon
in April. This was before Jim, his wife’s
breast cancer and my alcoholism. This was
before masks and distancing. It

was a model day back then. Boys playing
baseball in the field. A fly ball landed by
his heels. He picked it up and threw it back. I chewed
on a blade of grass. I don’t have days like that

now, not with him. Not with anyone. The
sun still shines a honey blossom. But I play dead
as a possum.  The grass is overgrown, as are
the memories. The boys in the field are now

men. And the only thing I lay on is my sofa. All I chew
is my lip. I’ll not let slip the cast on this broken scene -
was it real or a hibiscus? Whatever it is I'm its mistress.

painted candy apple red
with hinges and doors
and all the décor a jeweler
can make. Strung with pearls;

a smooth oval, standing on
painted golden legs. Not to  
touch. I easily break.
Not to be held. It'll dull

my shine. In a glass house
next to a crystal decanter of
cherry wine. Sitting on a shelf,
the one the furthest from

the sunshine.With the tip
of a finger you can flip my
top. Underneath is a diamond,
a treasure trove, a work of art!

Nurse These Starving Babies

You put the effort into creating them. As a child
with a toy, you anxiously, in a frenzied state,
tear apart at the box.  And as soon as you’re done
playing, the novelty wears off. You crave

another that’s held inside a white container,
and then later, the same thing. You leave it there
starving for your attention. No more! If you want these
children of yours to take flight, fly off

the pages and into books and magazines then
you have to carefully cultivate every word and stanza
before you tender. Don’t release them without their walking
legs. Give them love, attention and praise.

He examined it with his eyes first. Took in the shape,
the texture, the smell, the color. He processed all that
in a matter of seconds. He wouldn’t pick it up
with his hands. He attacked that pretty, innocent cupcake

sitting on his plate like a kamikaze. With his head bowed
down he nosedived into the buttercream frosting
like he was free-falling through a cloud. The sweet cream
would get inside his nostrils and plug up

his nose. The white frosting gave him the appearance
of a Santa Claus beard, with thick swirls of icing
climbing up to his ears. The vanilla alone would
intoxicate him. I’m not even sure if he got

any of the cake part on the first bite. But he dived in
repeatedly until he left a hole in the center. The process
of laying the cupcake to waste was so invigorating
he needed a nap afterwards.