I tore
cellophane

from the bar
labeled fiber

a complete breakfast
chocolate, crunchy

Bite by bite I ate
the breakfast bar
     this evening

rays creep through
dust covered blinds
amid sounds from below
trip-trapping of heels across
kitchen linoleum
by legs, hearts and minds
unaware that tears
did not dry on my pillow
heedless that covers
hide fears that
the luminous hands
on the dial
will not stop  
warning me that
a voice will call
ringing my name aloud
expecting this body to carry a smile
to morning coffee and darkened toast
for another day this smile will
conceal a bleeding heart
a heart at a loss --  naive
unable to cry the tears
to seek compassion

Pantry shelves hold jars of jam
sweet spreads of life made from fruits and berries
so succulent drops of saliva
rain on each touch of tongues

Cautious people stack rows
of carefully canned fruit
preserved with small portions of honey,
sugar cane or molasses.

Tin lids eventually “pop”
leaving elastic bitters
for knives to daub and rub
against stale breads.

Must life endure until  
only vinegary fills remain
and I am left to consume  
sour roughage to sustain me?

When perdition creeps
across the sands to envelop me
what will become
of unopened jars?

Morning’s first scent
bathes an arousing room 

with musty fragrance
of spoiled passion.


Clothing forms little
mountains of disarray
on faded carpet.
Burned out cigarette butts
snake gray in the ashtray 

while tepid water
with a hint of scotch
wiggles in the glasses
on the end table. 

Bodies stir with memories
of unwelcomed
interruptions. Unspent fluids
still surge in naked *****. 


Her eyes feast on stubble
sharp enough to chafe her neck.
Memories of the previous evening’s
unfulfilled promise incite tightening
between her legs. She smiles,
snuggles into the crook
of his summer-tanned arm.
No phone calls, or knocks on the door
will deter her passion this morning.

Softness surrounds her eyes

accentuating a look of wisdom.

Contentment tempers her voice.

A voice that flows to greet one 


like a mellow brook 


sparkling in the sunrise.

Her words traced to paper

speak of a true heart

that pumps compassion.

Her poetic refrains spill forth

like lava flowing on a rock.

Yet her steps are gentle on the earth

as though each journey is

a walking meditation.

Observing is an obsession

that ignites each draft she writes.

What if she changed? What if

she lived with the boldness

of her writing and the zest of her poems,

would her words become tempered

and her rhymes fall hollow on the page?

Scarves. high collars,
or extra mascara
hide the brownish-purple
disfigurement wrapped
around her throat.

Part of her being
is scarred with
remnant traces
inflicted from traumatic
scenes endured
during his rage.  

Horrific echoes
careen around her brain
like video clips replaying
the self-hatred he
spilled upon her.

His crazed lashes
struck her
bone deep.  
Musty smells
from those moments
linger among her nostril mucus.

She carries on
distracted with moments
near tranquil music
or beside still brooks
and squawking crows.

Each day she captures
views of sunrise
and sunset while chanting
mantras to unknown gods
striving to complete
her forgiveness.

Poems about women,
spills of passion
flow from anger,
burst from love,
fill libraries,
find homes in billfolds,
back pockets,
or bulletin boards.

Counting poems
composed about women,
for women,
by women
becomes one futile task
for this list is endless.
Reams of new works
billow forth
from crazed minds of men
hourly,
daily.

Small wonder
for this gentle ***
is incomprehensible,
enticing, enchanting.
Fill pages with thoughts of her
and dreams that dampen cotton sheets
Ease all tension,
write tonight.