can’t easily be seen. They don’t
fall anymore. They’re not even inside
the eye. They’re not stuck in the throat and
swallowed down hard. What they are

is calcified. They become rock
salt. They stop flowing. They’re stuck. Some
I say are frozen from years of deposits. They’ve
very sharp corners, that once were round. So, at this

stage it looks like a person has no emotion. But
what one doesn’t realize is that this said person
had too much, and it was so overwhelming
that it crystallized. It would surprise one

who hadn’t gone through it before. But it
sure is anguish to live with this condition that
many mistake as apathy, for lack of a better
understanding of what it could be.

bell choirs
ringing in my ears
never expires
stinging within my tears

His words
echoes
bouncing off the walls
sticking spotted geckoes
barking red fox calls

His words
black smoke
everywhere
making me choke
taking all my air

His words
darts
colored feathered purple
aimed at my heart
thrown into the center circle
a bleeding cherry ****

that once was soft. But now
is spined. Her back is lined
with spiky quills. Every barb that
jabs her is a place a man has

stabbed her. A living pincushion
that when rolled over holds herself up
by the skewers. Now water passes
through her. She doesn't get wet. But she’ll

stick to you if you touch her. And you'll
bleed a gusher for the softness. From the thorns
she's built a fortress.

I see in the cream of my coffee. It’s the
porcelain that holds the coffee. I drink your face
every morning as the sun is dawning. I see
it the mirror. It couldn’t come in any clearer

than the sunniest day in the country. Your
face is the sun that warms me. Your eyes are
the blueberry bushes in the meadow. I fill my dress
up with little globs of them. They stare at me and

play hide and seek getting lost in the folds,
getting squashed as I roll over to lay on
the grass. As I lay, I see your face pass in the
wind. It blows my long, golden hair across

my chin. It tickles me and I smile. I fall asleep
drunk on blueberry juice. My dream is another excuse
to see your face. It smells like lavender and honey and is
soft as a bushy-tailed bunny that tramples over me

and wakes me from my afternoon reverie. And
there it is again. Your face is in the clouds and laughing
in the thunder. I stretch my arms and wonder what it is
you’re going to do.  I reach my arms up to the sky in hopes  

to catch it as it goes by. But all I catch of it is your tears
as you release them in the rain. And now I see the pain
there on your face. I hang my head and cry with
you. The blueberries weep too and stain my dress blue.

is a seed
every parent
the soil
to till and plant
or crush
and foil

Every child
is a flower
and every parent
with pardon
is the garden
hard or soft
****
or crop

Every child
grows
in sunlight
and rain
through winters
and spring
the morning dew
on the blade
evening’s shade
tall as the oak tree
or fallen
as the autumn leaves

too intense. I was a moat,
surrounding his castle walls. And he
didn't have a boat to descend my falls.

He said I was
too colorful. I was a rainbow
after his rain shower. In green, red,
blue, yellow, and purple, a blooming
garden of flowers.

He said I was
too demanding. I was a plane
that he test piloted
into a crash-landing.

He said I was
too heavy for him. I was the dreadlocks
he opted to trim.

drip
as a leak in
heaven’s sky
not a leaf born
is dry

Rainy days
are cold
cold as holding
an old woman’s hand
with her bones jetting out
as a mountain

Rainy days
are sad
the puddles frown
as they’re stepped on
by the children

I’m a rainy day

over the mountains
into the sea. Some men
are broken in quarters
and halves. I’m smashed

like a bat swung
to glass. Shattered to
smithereens. My pieces
are pasted in ***** men's

dreams. The little fragments
reflect light if I hold them
at an angle just right. Some
take off like fireflies, shining

in the night sky. All this dross
like dust in the air made it
by seeds I planted with flare. Every
piece broken off grew from the loss

into a garden bed. Flowered
from the toss and rooted with
spares.

ball. And his voice
the paddle. He kept whacking
the celluloid globe to the tune
"man on the moon" I skedaddled

as a deer crossing the road
seeing a truck marked "oversize overload"
His notes ricocheted on my forehead
as a concert hall of "the living dead" My eyes

fell out of their sockets as pennies
rolling from my ripped jean pockets. I put my
hand inside to find the lining unravelling to
"man on the moon"

These holes aren’t holes; they’re openings.
As a watering can has on the lip of its mouth to allow the
water to pour out. An emotion of showers is a catharsis.

These scars aren’t scars; they’re colorful tattoos.
I choose which ones I want to fill in
with indelible ink. I wear them with pride.

These wrinkles aren’t wrinkles; they’re tracks
in the snow. I’m on a long journey, to where I don’t
know. But that’s the mystery and wonder of it all.

you’ve got
all that is inside you
and don’t hold back a smidgen
when it’s the heart and soul in you
your bread and your religion
and you’re still overlooked
made to feel trifle

You know what you are –
you’re a dazzling eyeful
not just a modicum of something
no scintilla of vanilla
you’re the zuppa inglese
no bushy-tailed chinchilla
put yourself out there –
beat your chest
you’re a gorilla

She asserted her wiles gaily.
A precocious child,
you covered in love daily.
You called her wild.
She played inside your baily.

Threw her clothes on the floor,
she got naked.
Came onto you like a *****,
hoping to make it.
You couldn’t take it anymore.

When angry she gets very mean,
flails and screams.
She’s impossible for one to wean.
So it seems
you’re stuck with a capricious queen.

The people remember
you. You stick in their head –
Some things you can
not forget, like the sound

of nails scraping up and
down on the black board, or
the first vinyl record you buy. But
the tattered remnants of

my desire make
me a liar. So, I’ll paint them
with glitter, hire a sitter
and go out dance!

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.

They’ve been there too long. They’re part of the
earth I walk on. They make up the air that
I breathe. They lock me in shackles

in my sleep whispering all their misdeeds
as my body weeps beside the clock as it
ticks off the minutes as a stopwatch

keeping score. They hang loose out the window
when the sun shines behind the door. They build stone
walls between my neighbor and me. They’re thick as

a forest in brilliant jade green. They’re the cross I carry,
the one I’m nailed too. They’re the spouse I married,
the one I made a life of islands with. And I swear
there’ll be there when I no longer exist.

if you should leave? Trees shake off
their leaves in the fall. The sun leaves
the day as night calls. A man leaves his home
to take a wife. But if you leave my life I’ll
not shake it off.

What'll happen to me
if you should grow pale. My lacey
wedding veil fades to yellow in the wash. My face
loses  pigment as my tan recedes. But if
you grow pale? Not! For all pale
next to you.

What’ll happen to me
if you should die? The grass dies
in wintertime, covered in a crust
of snow. Worms are food for
the crow. But if you die I’ll not be
covered.

are made to be
pulled. You pull the
one on your ******
when it’s saturated
in blood. You pull the
one on your kite, when
it’s flying
way up high.

Strings
are made to be
tied. You tie them
around your turkey. You
tie them on your sneakers,
on the tomato plants
to keep them from drooping. A
marionette has strings
tied to its limbs that you pull.

But I’ll never be a puppet for you.

have broken off
not without
the jabs and jibs
I can’t live my life

infected from the splinters
under my skin
the speck in my eye’s
are bigger than my thighs

The jabs are *****
as the Boston Harbor
sharper than the blades
of a barber

I jib at pulling
them out
they are my teeth
and the scab -
my mouth

were autumn leaves. From a snap
of cold turned golden yellow
to mud brown, twisting off
falling to the ground.

Her colors
bled out in a wink
from the wash, the crimson red
to salmon pink. From bright to
dull, the sort you didn’t cull.

Her colors
peeled like an orange rind
as she was sectioned. Men
chewed her up and spit out
the seeds.

Her colors
chipped standing
in the sun. She's brittle. Flaking
she'd whittle into dust. Flying
off in a flurry.

Her colors
cracked. Someone
took an axe and hacked
her walls.

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?

has his head held high up
in the clouds. He doesn't have humility
like the ones walking on four feet. They don’t
carry a briefcase or phone. They roam

the forest and scrounge the land/not eating
out of someone’s hand. The call of the wild is
the call of the free. The day is young as it
is light. And the night shines bright as the silver

moon. No schedules/plug-in things or
blether. Treading on acorns, leaves and
feathers. The filters are the trees. And the only hot air
is a breeze. They hunt to live/not live to hunt. I’d like
to have my life unrushed and sleep in the brush.

You knock on the door
Your knuckles are sore
You pound, and you claw
Your fingers are raw
You still proceed
Your knuckles bleed
Why doesn’t anyone come?
Your hand gets numb

Remember the time before you
grew tired? You gave me Thornton. I keep it
with me to bring up pleasantries before this
got broken.  The dedication inside from

mother said “Be Joyful” I hold it with glee,
a souvenir of that year, sometime in
December.  It brought a shiver of uncertainty,
when clouds covered this memory.  It still holds

together despite its loose binding. I told you
one day you’d walk away. Then made it happen. I can’t
copy it. I would if I could. I tried but it wouldn’t
print out. Lucky for me, I hold the original.

like the hole in her
pantyhose in rungs from her
thigh to her ankle. As the rest
of her, so mangled. Like on

fumes when the gas gauge
is down. Like her nose when a cold
goes around. Like a clock on batteries
she loses time. And as river, it's a

downhill climb. Like sweat on her thin
soft nape, or maple syrup on a stacked
plate of crepes. But as wild horses
she gallops to sea. Her honey long

hair flying in the breeze. From men,
women and jobs to woods, robins and
frogs. Like a crab on the beach she's
a hermit. If you ask her, she'll confirm it.

looked at, but not touched. None
can lay their hands on the silky
soft weave of every petal that can’t
breathe.  But curls up in a crimson smile,

hiding in a crystal tower. None can whiff
a strawberry kiss placed in an upside
down vase, holding still in place, so as not
to spoil. But stillness stirs

recoil. Well, you won’t be scratched
by thorns!  But you won’t dance on plush
green lawns, or wink at the azure sky
or chat with the butterfly.

Every morning I drain the bathtub
of all my sins and remember the time in 2009
when I drained the life out of this relationship. I drain myself
like a gasoline pump squeezing the last once out

as the numbers slowly tick the count
until they stop. And I know I’ll run out of fuel  
before twelve o’clock as I always do. When I get home,
I’ll drain the bottle to fill the emptiness of living a life

that goes out, but never holds anything in. And at that time,
I’ll drain my mind because remembering is
a blood-******* leech that feeds on my thoughts. And so,
this train makes its final stop at seven o’clock. It was nice

to know you. I left you a note. It’s under
the pillow. When you lift my heavy head, before you make
this loveless bed, (which is my throne) it will be printed on
monogrammed stationary with a title of its own. Maybe you’ll send it

out, or keep it for yourself. If you send it out, make sure
you let them know there’ll never be another….

Drinking the poison to **** someone else
Going around dazed in circles
Hooked on the past
Hate is cast

Truths you didn’t share
Shrouded fear
Injustice and broken trust
Playing the victim, a must

Never allowing acceptance
or forgiveness
Oscillating between an angered past
and a fearful future
What these wounds need is a suture

Feeling strong about being wronged
Trying to take back power
All you do is sour
any light that could be shed upon it

Slamming into your own stone walls
because you won’t forgone it
Being imprisoned by imagined beliefs
Here it comes - the happiness thief
No one will ever do this to me again!
Giving up the Zen

Look at it
Go on
There’s a “hi”
in the middle
and the t comes before
the s
unlike the alphabet
it’s “his”
it “is”
and that’s **** special
if -
your him
you could be
it is
and the “I”
See

and I've many
I've held inside my hand.
Glossy golden copper
is a showstopper. But was I

thinking as Lincoln turned
muddy brown as he was passed
around? It didn't make sense. His worth
is just a cent golden or muddy. But

didn't the boy shine in the windows
of the stores, the drawers and painted doors
I walked through. I've a pocket full of
him I counted out in tens that jingled

in my purse. And with a flip reversed
to tails. I lost my head as I shed my clothes.
A rose in the rubble waiting for someone to
stumble over me. But it was only he.

geometry, chemistry
or history. He looks at picture
books. Doesn’t know many words. But he
can sing songs he’s heard. Doesn’t know

world affairs or politics. He skips
stones and plays sticks. Doesn’t know how to
read the paper, or how to tip the waiter. But he can
pull a kite on a string. He can run and laugh

in the wind. He doesn't know guns shoot
bullets. His guns are plastic and only squirt
water. Doesn't know how to clean his
clothes. Rolls in mud as an otter/rides on

the teeter-totter. He doesn't know about masks
and latex gloves. He only knows kisses and
hugs. He doesn't know about ***/hasn't smoked
a cigarette. Doesn't know about beer in a can. Only knows

bears roam the land. He doesn't know about taxes
or work, how to drive a car or the neighborhood
bar. He doesn't know how some men are venomous,
or how not to trust. If I didn't know better/ I'd say
he is the smartest man ever.

There're the cushioned doors
to the minstrel.
From the moment their parted
out rolls the red carpet.
Stalactites and stalagmites of enamel
surround you in an ivory panel.
It’s almost a hundred degrees!
The humidity makes you sneeze.
The farther in the darker it gets.
The saliva has you wet.
When you reach the flap at the end
It’s all downhill from then.

rose
with soft petals
smelling sweet
cuts you with razor thorns
till you bleed

The same
sun
shining brightly
in the azure sky
burns you in no time

The same
tree
growing crimson, golden leaves
and canopies all around you
detaches and grows bare
in the cold autumn air

The same
lips
spreading moist, warm kisses
mouths off to you lies
the same
arms
holding you in the night
flail at you
the same
hand
cupping a pretty face
curls into a fist
and hits you like a ton of bricks

as a 54 Chevy
and wan as a summer
scorched lawn. They’re glazed
as a honey-dip donut. But I

hadn’t looked. I’m hooked
on the bottle, and the rage
followed me as Edgar Allen Poe’s
Raven. The man is, after all

my haven. He lowered his lids
as a shade. I’d have to wade through
his midnight oil with no paddle. He
is raddled. And I, a wrapped up

pupa in the chrysalis, acting like
my brain has syphilis, belching on
the fragment of trust that has
ensconced the two of us.

I Want to

Pluck you as a chicken
Pull you as a dandelion
Uproot you as a turnip
With these hands
Yes, with these hands

Shake you as a cocktail
Pour you in my glass
Taste you
With this mouth
Yes, with mouth

Tease you with words
Unease you with lines
Bend you with the rhymes
With this mind
Yes, with this mind

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.

Love is meant to be shared.
Souls are meant to be bared.
It’s beautiful when you open up.
It’s beautiful when we are in love.

I want to be free,
free to love whom I please.
I have so much love.
It’s all I ever speak of.

Love is meant to be shared.
Souls are meant to be bared.
It’s beautiful when you open up.
It’s beautiful when we are in love.

when I’m down
and I’ll fly up
like billowing dust
in the cold bitter wind
and blow in your face
again, and again

Kick me
to the curb
and I’ll disturb
your reverie
you’ll tangle
like a fishing line
and strangle yourself
on the gold braided twine

I’ve kicked
the habit
that was you
and put myself first
leaving you behind
like a *******
with brass
and no shine

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

the plains flood
soggy as bogs
thick as fog
I sink into a hole
in the ground
like a bowl I'm round

as I walk
white as chalk
the sun balks at drawing me a light
and like quicksand
I'm swallowed by the night

till I’m nil
all is still
and doesn’t move
no stars or moon

after the rain
the pains flood

you! You and all
your complaining. You growl
as a badger and screech as
a bat. You’re aloof like that

of a cat. You're indolent as
a sloth. And as for your promises -
you've broken every troth. You've
the morals of a snake. You've given

me only heartache. You drink like
a fish. You're despicable as
a rat. To me, you're just a spolied
brat!  You're wrinkled as an

elephant. And flabby as
a walrus!  And about as chivalrous
as a mouse. So, get out! I don't like
you! You're old and ugly too!

I'm divorcing you -
myself
I'm taking it in my hands
to rid me of myself!

Sometimes it’s hard to find
the right words that go together.

Often there is no reason
as to why things happen. And clichés

get in the way of healing. People say
them only because they’re not

thinking. There are no explanations
as to why certain things happen. I’d

rather not force my bitterness on
one, to be the bitter berry. I’d rather cut

my tongue.  Or worse yet -
be the bowl of cherries
in a pile of bile

stands in her way
she can’t afford to pay
this outrageous price
to make nice the lives of
these therapists
who sit in the chair half-asleep
deep in thought about something else
not paying attention
to the hurt she’s projecting
and the heavy drinking that nulls
those raging voices
inside her skull
beneath the puffed-up bozo hair
and heavy makeup and flair
is a very lonely woman
whose health insurance doesn’t cover
the cost of mental health
the system’s flawed
as much as its shrinks
it stinks
and to stop this pain
all she does is drink
nips for 99 cents
is cheaper
than any prescription
and helps with
this affliction
until –
there’s a better health care system

I’ve lost equal space and friend
Lost monetary things
Lost pride
Take the bread
Take the water
Take land
Take the soil where I stand
Take the robin’s morning song
Take it all
Bare are these bones
Unadorned

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.

or
it owns you
it's that simple

If I can grow tall as you. But I'm
small. So, I fall as the acorns you
grow. And just as the acorns
I'm a nut in a tough cup, covering

me up. Rolling around
the bottom. Why can't I turn
as the leaves in autumn
golden and crimson? I live

in my shell prison. The squirrels
bury me. I lay dormant as buds
on the branch in winter. I splinter as
bark. I’d like to sing as the lark. Love

to fly as the doves
for my next meal. Why can't I
take the sticks and stones they throw
at me and build a nest high up in this tree?

I’d spend the livid day
swimming in the cool, green stream.
And dip below the surface
as the children ran and scream.

If I was a turtle
I’d bask in the light of the glowing sun
sitting on a fallen log
falling asleep till I heard the croak
of the old bullfrog.

If I was a turtle
I’d pull my head
and limber limbs inside
if someone jerky scared me.
I’d not leave my place to hide.

If I was a turtle
I’d not ask for a lot.
Inside my shiny, painted dome
I’d fiddle the day
not roaming from my home,
relaxed and fed, and gay.

a branch
to sit in my reverie
not the trunk of the tree
a couples of leaves for shade
as I wade through the day

I just need
a stream
to wet my feet
not an ocean
some rocks to walk across
and cool myself off

I just need
a handful of blueberries
to quiet my rumbling tummy
I’ll leave the lot on the bush
for someone that’s hungry
so, they won't have a rumbling tummy

I just need
a roof
to shield me
from the cold and rain
doesn't matter size or shape
just a place to call home
when I don't need to roam

I just need
a few seconds, my friend
to catch up on things    
not a whole afternoon
it appears a lot to ask
life flies by us so fast

I just need
someone that receives me
not someone that nods their head
at all I said
or refuses to look me in the eye
when we’re not on the same side

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.

You were round as the sun.
But you were the moon.
I thought you were deep as the ocean.
But you only fit in a teaspoon.

You were so full of color,
crimson, and gold.
But as the autumn trees, you shed your leaves
till you were bare to the bone,
like a carcass, the lions feasted on.

In you, I saw a Tiger Swallowtail butterfly.
But as we danced in the flames
you burned alive.
You turned into a moth that drowned
in the broth.
I swallowed you whole and cried.