If you don’t plant them
they won’t grow. If you don’t
water them day to day they’ll
never break ground. If you

don’t shine your loving light
on them they’ll descent into
the shadows. You won’t see
them taking root. Just feed them

truth. I have a garden of
dreams. I planted late. So, I
must be patient as they slowly
develop. Give them plenty of

room and not get jealous minding
someone else’s garden. Let me attend
to my own weeds. And watch as
happiness is spread as fertilizer on my bed.

Why did you feel the need
to proceed with
a Cease and Desist?  Ironic,
was it yes! This I must confess –

I was more afraid of you.
Arriving at Children’s Hospital –
the famous one in Boston,
I waited in a room with picture puzzles and

Dr. Seuss spilled on all the tables. You were
no bigger than most of your captivating
audience, Provost. You took me to
a tiny room. We walked the long hall

of death. I felt high like on **** as we sat
at your desk. You turned to me
with uncertainty. The tics were jumping
in your eyes. My body wet, from the surprise of

a thousand rows of nails giving way to my son’s
squeals of meningitis and the room which he shared with
a brain-tumor youth. But this time it was I, who was
the patient, Dr. Bowtie or shall I say Seuss, Professor Couth?

My life has become breadcrumbs, little pieces broken off
scattered in the dark. They get stepped on; they get
lost. They get gobbled up by mangy pigeons, not the least bit happy to leave me a smidgen. It’s not as if I want much,

a little chunk to call my own. Here, take the carcass. But leave
a bone. I’m a tendril, stirrup-shaped stapes. You can’t see me. I’m set in place, stuck as an oyster, hard to shuck, wasting time
lying in muck, kicked over, picked up and thrown down. I feel

smaller than a grain of sand. I am bluer than the bluest
ocean. Is it too much to want a little more? Am I’m I selfish
for not settling for scraps? I grow anxious watching time
lapse. I’m useless as a dried tea bag that’s discarded in the

trash. I’m picked over as the bargain bin. No one knows my anguish or suffering. I grew up a sliver, so I stick in people
as a splinter, until the pain’s unbearable. If you wanted to measure my worth it’d be negligible, except for my hurt.

is what he gave. Crumbs of
cake, ice shaved. Bits
and pieces are all he
conjured. Can you fault a girl

if she wandered? Odds and
ends thrown in a drawer. So many
times she walked out the door, to
only crawl back and beg

for more. Bric-a-brac placed
on the shelves. These are things
in themselves. A smidgen here,
a smidgen there. That is all

he had to share. Is she just a speck,
flecks of lint brushed off in the wave of
his hand? A grain of sand on the
shore? Sebum sitting in his pore?

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.

the *****
nothing

to lose
when you’ve

nothing

it’s what you chose

as your clothing and shoes
masks

your inferiority
as the liquor

masks
your authority

because on the other side’
you can’t hide in your own flesh
Nothing’s left

Why you’re here
don’t you think it’s better to come out
before you go under

is always available twenty-
four/seven. The guy with
the blue cap, is the chap I go to
when the go-to people are gone,
when they’re feeding
their egos or lawns or off
on their month-long vacations,
when I’m starved for affection
and silently raging. I just need
someone to hold me,
wipe my tears and give me
their time without
the clock as a prop
ticking away at every word
that I say. For cheap I can get high
without an appointment san eggshells
or taking a chance coddling old men
that need suspenders to hold up
more than their pants.

when you called. Had my
mouth wide open but –
no words at all.
Felt like an unloaded gun
Useless as one

My head was a canvas –
stark, barren naked
Felt as I was stripped
like a couch being reupholstered

The gun again –
Loaded, but not in its holster

on the ceiling fan,
lying carpet of grey strands.
Flying blades circle overhead
moving heat through the chalky

air. Dust bunnies hiding
underneath the bureau and rocking
chair. Under the four-post bed
they roast. As foie gras

on toast they sit plump. Dumped
on the valance and curtain. Unbalanced,
the slightest wind and they’ll fall
for certain. On the shelf they cover

her books. In the nooks they lay
as a clump of potter's clay. On the hardwood
floor swept up with the broom. Upon death
she'll be dust in the ground with her groom.

Each day the traffic
and the noise.
The internal process of
rushing off.
Trying so hard.
Beating the clock.
Like a rocket
ready to launch.

Each day strumming
the same tune.
You become
almost numb
until you're immune
to life
and  its sequence
of events.
The status quo
is that they're transient.

Each day dreaming
those same dreams.
Hanging yourself
on the rope
that you tied the knot on
so you wouldn't
lose hope,
as it's become
a four letter word
that you use asterisks
to replace the sting
of realizing
the whole sordid thing.

Each day the traffic
and the noise.
The internal process of
rushing off.
Trying so hard.
Beating the clock.
Like a rocket
ready to launch.

Each day strumming
the same tune.
You become
almost numb
until you're immune
to life
and its sequence
of events.
The status quo
is that they're transient.

Each daydreaming
those same dreams.
Hanging yourself
on the rope
that you tied the knot on
so, you wouldn't
lose hope,
as it's become
a four-letter word
that you use asterisks
to replace the sting
of realizing
the whole sordid thing.

my own fat
and do this exercise
when I’m not in the mood
it’s no excuse
Push Past
this depression
my indigestion
these aches and pains
from getting older
this indignation
from lack of
appreciation
Push Past
cars cutting me off
wanting to be first
at the red light
Publisher’s that scoff
at all my poems
without knowing
how hard I work
on them
Push Past
my own defenses
Because I put up
walls
to protect
myself
Push Past
the *******
En masse
from people who believe
something different
than me
Push Past
my own thoughts
that build up
like plague
turn black
Stab me
in the back
these worries
give me
no glory
only sleepless nights
Push Past
to another day
saying to myself -
It Will Be Ok
Giving it
my best shot
Giving it
all I’ve got
when sometimes
that’s very little
Push Past
another line
to complete
this poem
without knowing
if I’ve gone too far
will it be too much
should I
leave it
or
leave it
leave it
no more

fall in puddles like the rain
outside the window
on the ground they slowly piddle
dribbling memories hang as curtains

blowing in the breeze
of the big-mouthed window
flapping in the dusty air
wings of penguins that can't fly

turn from side to side
like a swivel chair
the blackness grows like a fungus
on all of us

we learn not to trust
the nights are taffy
stretching out
pulling and twisting

we'll shine up
the lines glossy
the next morning
with paint and spray
to begin the day

in the head,
a dark canal
for wax to build and
shed. A place to hang

a loop or push
a stud. Or rest a strand
of hair around two protruding
organs.  And the dust flies

in and out. Fleshy twists
and folds, a place for buds
with music and string. Some
stick out like ***** of

wings. Covered in hat
or cap. A spot to stick
a cotton swab. Not much more
than a useless ****.

to turn your back
and walk away
from
someone who needs

your help
someone else can do it
it doesn’t have to be you
the world is filled

with kind people
who can fill those shoes
there are many resources
many places

to turn
it doesn’t have to be
your money
your time

your energy
can be used reading a book
waiting in line
for a coffee

or a ticket to the movies
life is easy
when you longer
read the signs

Easier for you to turn another page.
She drinks down her rage.
Easier for you not to hear her screams.
She lives in her dreams.

Easier for you at the end of the day.
She goes her own way.
Easier for you when you don't yield.
She walks in a minefield.

Easier for you to say she's doing better.
She can't pay her debtor.
Easier for you to live your cushy life.
She  only knows strife.

I’ll hand you a cup
so, when I cry
my tears will flow
as water from a faucet.
You’ll drink it up.
The cup, just toss it.

I’ll hand you an eraser
so, when I write
you can erase the parts
that don’t feel right,
the anguish and sorrow.
Read it now,
the words are light.

Was the line in a stanza in
a yellow book that my mother
had. It was very small and very
thin. It was golden yellow and had

a girl with hair that same color walking
through a honey-wheat field on the dust
jacket, which I took off many times. Inside
was an inscription from my Aunt Emma who

died of a brain tumor at fifty-four, my mother’s
sister. I was too young to know what the title
of the poem meant. I had never been eaten out
before. And it was the first poetry book I saw,

way back before I was writing poems. It just
stuck in my head like Wonder bread does in
your stomach. I wasn’t anywhere near a woman
when I read “*******” But now I shave down

there so there is less hair to get entangled in any
guy’s teeth, or worse yet choked on or, gag
swallowed and rushed off to the hospital –
death by pie/gawd what a way to die

Azure
Flashes of lighting
Cutting crisscross
The veins in your arms
The tops/da boss
I’m not talking blue eyes
I see Robin egg skies
Hatching chicks

You dig this
This ain’t your mom’s
Blueberry pie
It a punch in da eye
It’s electric
You dance/you move
It’s a jazz band
In the Fat City
It’s Calvin Klein
You going for this ditty

This sadness sits as an elephant
on my breast, bearing down squashing
my chest. I cannot breathe. I’m out of
breath. It does not leave. It's

my black death. It ties my belly
in a knot. So, my blood does not
flow. It only clots. It drops my chin
to my neck. Before my eyes

are splintered specks. And my iris
is denim blue. At night, smoky
as the flue. And in the day, like a puddle
pools. My smile is a broken locket

that sits as rocks in my pants
pocket. Clouds parades over my
head. I'm a silhouette that burns cherry
wine red. My legs are pursy tree trunks. As I

walk you'll hear this clunk. It's as if
my feet are dragging wrecking *****
and metal chains. And the sky? All day
it rains elephants in paisley prints.

The internet
makes people feel
connected through words
and emoticons
they replace face to face
emotions
nothing like brackets {     }
for a hug
I, myself would rather
be wrapped in someone’s arms
hearing their heartbeat
smelling their tang
feeling the softness
of their caresses
pressing our chests together
flesh to flesh
intimacy has all but died
in electronic devices

No matter how I serve it,
it always tastes bland.
I baked it in a souffle, and it fell
flat on its face.
I set it aflame in brandy
and it burned.

I slow-cooked it in a crockpot
with seasonings all afternoon.
But it all stuck together
at the bottom
like a *** of tar and feathers.

After I steamed it,
it turned into a prune.
When I fried it in my pan
it blackened like a raven.

What was I to do?
I decided to return it
from whence it came from.

But I lost the receipt.
No one would take it back.

I’ll burry it in my yard after the thaw.

the light child. Darkness will
fall soon. And you’ll be old
as the pale moon.

Enjoy
the warm breeze and golden
sunflowers. Soon the leaves will
fall from the trees and they’ll be
snow showers.

Enjoy
running and flying your kite with
your friend.  Soon the air will not
move. And your friend will move
on. You’ll be holding the string
dragging your kite on the lawn.

Enjoy
picking the bright red apples,
filling your basket to the top. The apples
will drop and rot on the ground. The tree
will be barren as the land. And your basket
empty as your hands.

Enjoy
the robin splashing and
sipping water from your birdbath. Soon
the water will turn to ice, just as the men
in your life.

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.

the robin can be heard
outside my window. He won’t be
disturbed. The felines don’t roam,
not for another hour or so. Morning

hasn’t broken open
like an egg in the kitchen. Coffee
isn’t brewing like the tempers that are
stewing in the rush-hour traffic, as if by magic

the cursing would move things
along. When things are crawling at
a snail pace, and I’ve yet to wash last night’s
make-up off my face

I can steady my breath. And
even drift off into space before
morning’s race.

Let’s stick to the forecast
What’s going on outside?
Never mind the squall in here
My dear, what’s for dinner?
Are you serving that apathy
along with the apple pie?
Why don’t you pour a glass of wine?
It’s easier to swallow than anything
he has to say
The glass is drained, as well as your patience
Turn the light off/dull your anxious mind
Until tomorrow - evening 3 of week 12

is filled with holes
and looks like Swiss cheese
on buttered rolls

Even the moon
is planted with pocks
that stack up like
building blocks

Even the air
is blown with dust
billowing through the trees
with acrid gust

Even the flowers
are torn
all that’s left
are the leaves and
steely thorns

Even the windows
are painted grey
and stick to the frames
as flattened clay

break off their golden
bright leaves when it suits
them. And the red rose
drops its petals as it

hangs its head low. And the acorns
fall from the sky as the robin flies
heading south for the winter. And bark
on the branches splinter. And day

grows black as night, as the sun
skips out of sight.  So, why do I
hold on?  The trees are bare
and sun gone. Every flower bloomed

has died. Even the emerald
green grass had dried and turn
to seed.  So, why don't I take
their lead and leave you?

the dark will show
come fast or slow
when his eyes grow dim
you’ll know him
when the walls come down
will he stick around
when the petals all fall
will he call
when the colors bleed
and you wallow in need
where will he be
that shade of blue
looks lovely on you
it matches your eyes

about a lone balloon floating
high in the sky, over the tree-tops,
among the clouds. With a string for a
tail, wagging in the air. Ever wonder

who held to that string? How the whole
thing came about. How it got loose
and slipped out? Do you think it will be missed
by whoever had a grip on it? Ever wonder

where it will come down? Will it lose
all its air by the time it touches the ground? Will
it be deflated? Who will find it? And will
they wonder as much as the one who let it go? Who maybe

cried for it? Who watched in sadness as it drifted
away, and got smaller and smaller until it
was out of sight. Who went to bed with a heavy heart
that night?  And blamed themselves for not holding on tight.

wants to love again. Though some
try hard to pretend that this is
not so. The only way to mend a broken
heart is through loving. Every broken promise

makes me disbelieve, takes away my
faith.  I’ll never again be deceived. I’ll trust
nobody. But the only way to restore faith
is through trusting somebody once

more. Darling, I implore you to be
carful with what I give you. I’ve been
hurt so much before.

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

is Groundhog Day. I pop
out and see my shadow.  I crawl
back in my hole, bury myself
under the things I stole.

Every day
is Howdy Doody Day. I pack up
the rage and the pain, say goodbye
to my audience. Leave ‘em all
with a dance.

Every day
is April Fool's Day. I pick
apart myself, selling pieces
to men, painting their
piece golden.

I'm running as a river
between the shakes I shiver
empty into the lake
and in the sun I bake

Every day
like another
I smother
in the prose
and turn up my nose

Every day
I paint the picture
black and white with stricture
and place it out to dry
like ma's hot mince pie

a little more pain
from yesterday
a little more rue
a little sorer
my pores are open wells
a bottomless cavity
of lost hopes
and dreams
wanting to fly
but no place to land
sitting as a vegetable
susceptible to
be canned

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.

to climb out of bed
brush my teeth
and clear this head
to wash the dirt off of yesterday
no soap can clean up this shame
no ***** and lime can douse the flame
the pain I carry inside of me

Every day I fight
to set it free
this wildfire
the burning rage
and weld the pieces
broken off from age

Every day I fight
is a chore
leaving ruts across my bedroom floor
seeing wrinkles I hadn't before
and stores of fat rolls on my arms and legs

Every day I fight
walking on eggs
penning it all in red
under a marmalade sky
to shed some light on yesterday
and lay it in my garden
to harden with mother earth
and in this death some girth

new. I reinvent myself
into something else. I never
get bored or discontent. If I
were to get bored I’d

become a city. And if was looked
down with great pity then I
wouldn’t stay stuck being dumb. I’d
turn  myself into a kingdom.

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?

of not seeing him
going over every word he said
fitful nights in bed
of living in a pea soup fog
sitting like a bump on a log
of rocky road ice cream
weeping till I scream
quaffing down ***** martinis
burning teddys and bikinis
going to bed by eight
gaining extra weight
cutting the pictures of us
the furniture builds up with dust
talking to myself
not leaving the house

Every day is another day
of months passing by
going with friends for Thai
not making excuses for him
not hanging by the phone
or checking emails or texts

Every day is another day
for having self-respect

a leaky faucet
a rolling drip
of stagnant water

Every day’s
a full closet
of drunk dancing skeletons
living on the premises

Every day’s
a parade of jokes
of gangrene limbs
and thick black smoke

Every day's
a masquerade
of storm clouds
covered in marmalade

Every day's
a rollerblade
on a highway to hell
an arcade of
an old witch's spell

Every day’s
Groundhog Day
an endless loop
of the same

was once trapped
in its own cocoon, waiting
to earn its wings, for the metamorphosis
to begin. It started lowly, and grew

very slowly. But the difference
between the ones that fly and the ones
that sadly die is the timing and
the wait. Would you expect anything else

from something great?

in adding to this shape
some thick as cornfields
some buttery thin as crepes
every man puts something in
some a wispy feather
some a dorsal fin

Every man has his day
at planting seeds
some with water and sunshine
some with rake and weeds
some men leave footprints
some just weave
some men stay
but too many of them leave

stranger than I've ever
seen. The years fly by as magnetic
flies sticking to the window screen. I close
my eyes and pretend it's all a dream. I shun

this dream under restless
pillows. My head heaves in heavy
billows. The emerald green has turned
to rust. The men are lean and filled

with lust. Every turn of the calendar
brings with it more lies. Every year erases
more and more ties.  This world is flat. I fell off
the horizon. Men travel in herds just like

the bison. Now my days are floating
on clouds in skies of marmalade. My wings
providing me the shade. And balk as men clang
and wade catching up on hit parades.

Fill up the basin, see it drain
your dreams –
circle around the white porcelain
like watching the headless horseman, carrying the weight
of its thoughts in its hands and riding hard until
they go out through a vacuous shard.

Every afternoon is the same
Fill up your purse with things so diverse –
as cosmetics, alcohol, candy and clothes and rush out the door
without being exposed for the illicit stunt.
Another victorious scavenger hunt!

Every evening is the same
Fill up the martini glass with enough *****
to make you pass-out on the couch so you can forget
about your useless life as each poem you write
wilts. Besides, they only think you’re made of fluff. You’re dead as the skin cells that slough off in the bath.
There can only be one Sylvia Plath.

in the sun. For so long I couldn’t see
my spot. It was a tiny dot, tarnished and
obtuse. It hung like a loose tooth,
ready to fall out. Sprung from its roots

that held it there. And when it finally
let go it had nowhere to go. It blended in
like dust on the table. Yet somewhere inside
me I knew it was able to stand out. All it needed

was a little polishing, faith and some coaching
to pluck it from its fur-ball nest, bring out
its shine/show its best. I made this spot
a star determined to go far. I could have

wiped it away when all it did was give
me grey hairs. But I was determined to let it
sit there while working on its entrance. And
no matter that it showed up late, I love my

spot. I think it’s great! And when its time
is done, I’ll wear it on a chain around my
neck with respect to everyone who helped
me clean it up, buff it and give it love.

he was a saint. Isn’t it funny
how people believe something
that ain’t. How people follow someone
blindly until they end up a body in a

dark alley being chased by the rat who led
them there. He was not what they thought. It wasn’t
fair how I was treated. He was the only man
who had panic attacks during the ***. And then

wiped off the ***** with a towel after it. Gave me a sip
of the anisette. Took me immediately home
after that.  No, he wasn’t what they supposed. He was
a coward who froze when you needed him

most. He told me he was thinking of other things when
his patients were talking. That’s why he took
notes while he eyed my stockings. But how his smile
could wrap around the room. It didn’t take long

for women’s heads to swoon. His dark eyes could
mesmerize anyone foolish enough to look into them.
And I did.

the sweet odor
of the rose
without the cut
from its prickly thorn

Everyone wants
the peaceful look
of snow when its falling
before it turns to sludge
in the morn

Everyone wants
the warmth
of the fire
but are afraid
of getting too close
that they might burn

Everyone wants
the knowledge
of what will happen
without the experience
from which they’ll
come to learn

is a bank account. What you
put in is what you get out. Every
sweet word is a deposit. Kindness
paves the way to profit. Withdrawals

are made from criticism. When
you disrespect you are depleting
your share. And in time you will
find that there's nothing

there. Relationships are
an investment. It's time to make
an assessment. If you take and take
you'll drain the well. Don't raise your

voice. Don't pout and yell. Memories
are receipts. Not everything comes
with a return. What you put in is
what you will earn.