Sailing through the
midnight sky,
Sailing through the
midnight sea,
in a boat of moon.

Fishing for my dream,
so far
Fishing for my dream,
so near
My rope - a single moonbeam
and my bait- one silver star

You came in the room, freshened up my coffee
dipped your head to my shoulder, said you felt so happy
turned on the tv, laying on your couch
under cream colored blankets and drinking whiskey
the rain had finally started falling
I kissed your neck and said you're everything
I kissed your cheek and said don't ever leave me
how can this all feel so easy
my tortured past felt so hazy
you looked down at me with amorous eyes
lazy, wide, searching for me inside
I touched the sunburn on your chest
warm and bare, then exposed the rest
I'd like to remember the way you looked that night
dancing around in the bright kitchen light
singing wildly as you cooked
you grabbed me round the waist and pulled me
close to your body and said you missed me
I won't ever forget the way you touched me
I threw my head back and felt the ecstasy
you pushed my hand back and fell silently
into my body like the rainfall, softly
cascading down the window next to me
I never want the rain to stop
please don't ever let this rain stop

The night is your lullaby
that seranades you to sleep,
while for me it is the darkness
that forces me to weep.
I know you will be worried,
because my tears carry my pain,
but the drops are almost beautiful,
like the ones from clouds of rain.
But I cry because I feel,
and I feel, so I try to write
about my wounds deeper and darker,
than the quiet, melancholic night.
So I stay awake and use my ink,
for all those words I may never say.
The night may not have a sun,
but it's always a writer's day.

For Eliot**

a man possessed awakes and blessing pronounces that the world needs another poetry site even though nothing new under the sun nonetheless the secret passion is coded and the white swells grow into a hurricane whitecap crescendo, lighting thunders cymbals and the non believers (how I want to believe!) quietly step forward
from unpronounceable places you never heard of,
no longer cowards, not a one,
invoking a blessing of:

"me too, I am a poet with something to announce new, and I've been sitting patiently in distress, looking for a place to say, see,
I think I can,
I think therefore,
I am,
a named human.
no longer an asterisk."

6/22/17  2:40am nyc

In the swash zone
a desperate crab somehow overturned,
belly-up. Dome-backed, helpless,
she twitches feet and claws
grasping only air
as seagulls gather, smacking lips.

Shall I intervene?
Who do I favor, crab or gull?
Frankly I have problems with both personalities.

Can’t ignore a creature in distress.
(Who programmed that?)
Wiggle my toes into damp sand beneath the beast.
Flip.
With nary an acknowledgement, crab scuttles
sideways to a spot in the wave wash
where in a flutter of little legs she half-buries herself,
eyeballs above.
Seagulls scream curses.

What did I expect, a thank you?