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Poetry is a mask in reverse
created from just a mere spark
bringing to light
who we really are
out of the depths of the dark
       Despite ourselves      
we try to hide
in the realms of our daily lives
and then poetry's
visceral therapy
weaves magic spells
from our fingers
     right out
                 of our minds
Suddenly, there is no choice
but to allow those masks
to be dropped
like a sudden change of fancy
at a medieval ball:
Naked eyes for coverings
are swapped
Yes…the command is given
ornate masks slip
with a splat upon
the floor
Suddenly, all dancers look
upon each other's faces
discovering treasures
they knew not before
Pregnant silence reigns
and only then
does the true dance begin
in bransles' or corantos' countered moves,
a new quiet
drowns out the din
Let it commence!
in festive air,
all attempts to hide
are in vain
Subtextual glances
and heady music
create sensual tension
profane
      The wine is flowing
smiles glowing
and soon release will
bear fruit
as the dance is danced
without inhibition
and all pretenses
start to uproot
And so it is
in poetry…
All those masks
are thrown down
the words just
                        trip
                              from beyond our lips
making magic
from adjectives and nouns
Now, our words drip upon the paper
revealing the secrets divine
our souls are coaxed out from the layers
melting your
sparkling poets' hearts
into mine
BTW a bransle and coranto are examples of traditional medieval line dances
Troublesome love . . .

will not let you sleep . . .

Sort of like a basketball game . . .

Questions are bounced mad and furiously
against the hard wood floor with only
more questions bouncing back .

Meanwhile someone is trying to steal
your dreams causing you to twist and turn distorting your image .

And you fight your way down
the court of life and toss your hopes and
dreams into the air and pray to God . . .
go in.
It is possible to live
at a remove so mesmerizing
so glacial blue
the narrow crevasse
opening beneath
your careless toes
swallows you
grinding past - present - future
until there is no you
only time
       a tumbled moraine
                               a shrinking river.
Be well, my brother.
The red flower centered
between exotic curled lines
evokes the smell of old Jaipur
the Hawa Mahal ~ Palace of the Winds
where the maharaja’s women once peered
from pink honeycombed windows above streets
overflowing with painted elephants, camels, turbaned men.
A river of color, movement, sound
from red-dust shrouded sunrise
to ember scorch at the horizon line
the desert broken only by the organic rise
of dung and mud-bricked houses sheltered
by one denuded tree, a mirage of shade.

A cobalt hurricane spiral or vine’s end
worn smaller than its origins
its story, the shelf on which it sat
perhaps a fragile immigrant, hand-carried
from the old country by someone’s mother’s mother.
Whole and admired for a century before
its demise, told with regret-laden mouths
mother to daughter, daughter to mother
Oh, I wish we still had that blue bowl
great grandmother dropped
when she heard about Roy

a circle of memory, come to rest
on this distant curve of beach.

The cream and blue striped shard
could be my grandmother’s coffee cup
rimmed brown and lipstick stamped
sip, then drag on the Raleigh cigarette
always attached to electric-tipped fingers.
The cup was most likely broken in the war
that raged until death parted my grandparents
maybe it sailed harmlessly past my grandfather’s shiny
head and hit a rock near the creek, exploding into pieces
a small token of their shattered marriage
a lifetime of regrets carried to the sea
grievance-scrubbed, muted by the journey
this sliver must be handled with care.

The largest fragment found
tangled in the eelgrass at my feet
delivered on a tide of need
at the ebb of an unexpected storm
a perfect cross, soft edges raised
on a rough slab of terra cotta.
The fragile sun had warmed
the worn shape nesting
in my palm like a missing piece
as my restless fingers traced
down and across, across and down

asking questions, seeking answers.
The stories "told" by my favorite collection of beach treasures...
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