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.

She feels no confusion
in her glance toward his eyes.
Eyes deep blue
as a mountain lake.
She senses comfort
across her
chest, like the first time
her cheek touched his
bicep when they walked
enmeshed.

Now feels so warm,
soft on the mind
for fear has
fallen to the trail.
Renewal of trust
fills her heart.
Now feels
like the first time
again.

She fashioned him an enigma
who strolled through life a closed book
unaware of his charismatic aura
She fashioned him an enigma
Her showy courtship ended in drama
He remained blind to the effort she took
She fashioned him an enigma
who strolled through life a closed book.

Many masks he kept in play
heedless of her passionate love
He continued his mysterious way
Many masks he kept in play.
Her ardor she could not betray
nor stop praying to God above
Many masks he kept in play
heedless of her passionate love

Trapeze rhymes with breeze
It ends there, tis' not a breeze,
To fly a trapeze

Wear shows along each seam.

Stitches obtained through toil

and sewn with needles of obligation

well-intended for those in need.

How could her nimble fingers

stay still and silent

in the face of their distress? 

Toll-taking efforts
cast with love

nonetheless burden her shoulders

and incite pain from long hours

spent to ease the lives

of those she loves. 

Woven too is her hard-earned

impermeable shield-
her hard-learned revelation
that she can dwell free

within her mantle.

There was never the thought
"I should be like them."
Uniqueness was desired
and a distinct path
until a fork in an unworn trail
became a call to another direction.

Unheeded were voices shouting of
things, material goods,
destine to rot behind you
as you ***** through the valleys.

Tromp on a course to mountains
few shall view.

First snow
The world is white
In color only

She never noticed
books of poetry.
Her life was busy
with empathy
for those troubled
from pains scratched
on psyches from
neglect, abuse
or sacraments to fallen Gods.

She seldom heard music
except when,
heartsick from lost love,
she wallowed in vain misery
or during her youth when
hit parades blasted from
solid state radios
in dashboards, or from
jukeboxes flashing
come hither.

She thought little of flowers
nor paused to note scents,
shades or grace on
stems of green.  Her head
was busy with
important matters,
day-to-day grinding
away on work or play.

Now alone,
she absorbs whiteness from
clouds,  motion from birds,
or fragrance from flowers
with senses dulled by
age, injury or illness.
She sifts through her
day looking for
fresh tranquility.

Each night she pretends
a wholesome guy
will shuffle alongside
on the sidewalk and
gently bump her shoulder.

Wholesome guys are
good in the morning
like high-fiber granola,
and easy on the eyes
with rumpled curls
resting against
eyes void of blood lines.

A wholesome fellow
knows what he wants −
her.

Her wholesome guy is
adorned with blue denim
and passion spilling from
his crotch.

Her wholesome lover
lights candles on her birthday;
burns his way into her heart.

As they grow old together
she becomes his memory,
while his memories are sprinkled
with images
of her beauty.

he talks to rocks
and the sky
he shares fully with flowers
and fields of flax coated blue with open blooms
he laughs with mountain streams
flowing relentlessly toward the sea

nothing does he share with me
words come, hollow words, quiet words
absent of meaning
he appreciates each precious moment
in his world, his breath, his heartbeat, his
movements

each movement is away from me
I feel the absence of his presence

Sprinkles shower backyard fescue

Fighting against dry August air

Still days

Smiles cross aging cheeks

Love’s invasion flows upon

Discontent

Chest rises, bolstered anew

Expands with

Zest

Fieriness slithers away from

Heartbeats no longer on the prowl

Attachment

Cardinal chirps as if

Aware of a simmering fire,

Anticipations

Sprinkles immerse damp grass

Fighting against diminishing daylight

One more hurrah

She was known for finding

shiny objects, pennies,

dimes and nickels on the street

in front of bodegas and filling stations.

He liked to look

upward and find priceless views

among trees and in the clouds.

They shared life well together.

To disguise our sin of greed
We debate philosophies
And justify our economies

Our sins remain uncovered
Despite our explanations

Grab a handful
Of warm dirt
Hard between thumb and forefinger
So it spills out upon wrinkling toes

When dew hits the morning green
Write sorrows and joys
With a stick
In cursive on the ground

Savor grim and grit,
Grow earthy, real
And unafraid
To become unclean

Watch new growth sprout
To meet the day
Become like a child
Play as a child

Unless the wren sings
No one will notice rustling
Leaves forming a nest

Step by step,
I walk mindlessly
across the patchy lawn
muddy here
barren there
unkept, unattended.
Pleading blades of grass
with drops of hope reflect
morning’s sunlight.
They become my teachers
as they reach out
to grow.
Fresh spring spouts
extol me
to find a place
where barefoot soles
gather joy
with each flex of toe
into the ground.

Royal Road slopes

enough so that your toes know

which way you are going.

     Kudzu and ragweed accent the driveway

pitted with bushel basket size

holes amid roaming plastic grocery bags.

     A 1960’s version mobile home

fights Mimosa and blackberry bush

to remain visible.

     As I ascend the creaking steps

a neighbor cracks the quiet

to announce that, “Jesse is on the way.”

     I hear the clop, swish, clop

as Jesse corners onto Royal Road

and chugs toward me.

     Sweat rivers from his beard.

He greets me with,

“Thanks for the groceries.”

     I said, "I need you to sign

to show I brought food."

I didn’t ask, “How did you lose your leg?”

I felt an unusual twinge in my neck
as I turned toward you.

Heavy breathing signaled morning sleep
as my arm reached across your palpitating belly.

These casual cuddles, typical of the start of our day
emit a warmth unlike sunrays or furnace heat.

No use to wake you or tease apart your legs
for seldom do we play.

That may come after morning news is devoured,
bananas peeled and different morning hungers eased.  

Now i rise to consume small pellets of brown, pink,
grey and white chemicals compounded to keep me alive.

There is a stillness downstairs with greetings from a well-worn chair
contoured to support my soul.

Blades whirl overhead churning a breeze
my face accepts upon my forehead.

Now is my time of meditation, my attempt to
listen to whatever god pervades this universe.

There will be no answers, no jolts of insight or revelations,
only small particles of peace to cover my disquiet.

You will lumber down steps with effort accentuated by creaks
and moans that are more pronounced each day.

Our lips will touch confirming both obligation and willingness
to walk beside each other.

I wonder if you think there could be more?  
Could each gaze toward one another be longer?  

Could I unbutton myself enough to see or would you scold me
for such an unrepressed display?

Dim light from the screen blankets the room
Actors play out their roles frame by frame
My eyes track each movement
while my thoughts focus elsewhere.

My left arm nudges her shoulder
"She is going to leave him," I whisper
The words ignored, brushed away like
an irritating fly.

I'm doing it again, foretelling the story
instead of attending to the display
instead of resting in the now
instead of absorbing each word
I predict the ending.

Later sitting in the quiet
I attempt mindfulness
Aware of the demons
that tempt me from
the peace that passes
my understanding.

Bored to death with eyes cast upward
she drifts by his sprawling legs
like fog rolling in from the sea

Newspapers clutter the breakfast nook
his ink-stained fingers clutch ceramic
birthday cup — last year’s surprise

Today the cup, the tea, his only distractions
The sweep of her garment
grazes his back unnoticed.

She’ll pour the final cup of breakfast tea
and settle into her longings,
empty as her teapot.

Tasteful decor surrounds her
Offspring celebrate life in song
Resonating off walls of art
arranged her way
Life now arranged her way
Worn out obligations
Lay untangled unused
stacked neatly upon
a corner table

Snap, crack, snap -- twigs break underneath
Each burst is music fed deep into her heart
Balmy air blows crisp across her cheek
A kiss as sweet as a daughter's caress
Pride inhaled with each labored breath
Seventeen miles of inclines and slopes
Over fallen trees and swollen creeks
Intentional steps, stitches of success sewn into
the blanket of her soul as she
wanders along the path of her
journey to renewal

Slap, slap of sandals on wet fountain steps

capture glances from eyes set for chapels and castles.

Children splash at each other

as floppy tees and frilly dresses

wave at passersby

who wish they retained the courage to play

atop the fountain and relive the dreams

trampled by lectures and sermons

that chaperoned them to maturity.

Roasted on face and knees,

they confront burning logs

and crackling twigs.

Morsels have been cooked

and eaten: night's cold wetness repelled.

Foremost thought rolls across

their minds — they must

smother the campfire

built with passion

that properly stoked

would last forever.

He has one more marshmallow to roast.

She fears flames will creep out of control

through grass and brush.

She wants to bank the coals

and let them die of their own accord.

He gathers a pail and heads

to the creek.

How do we extinguish fire

that fed our souls for a while?

Find the small of her back
Feel for the round, the ridge
Notice smooth never varies
Find the texture
Along the shoulder
Overwhelmed and
engrossed
As you explore
warmth, texture
the moment of
a hug that says
good morning

God are you among
streams that filter through
drapes of rituals
adorning  halls
of sacred buildings?

God are you lingering
in faded ink
on pages transcribed
by scribes who claim to transmit
your wisdom?

God are you hidden
amid the din
designed to cover
the answers sought?

God are you present?

with Mary.
I  was seduced
in Barnes & Noble,
lured to the  poetry section
next to coffee and pastries.

I touched her Blue Iris,
fondled  her Red  Bird
and recounted why
she wakes to watch
the early sunrise.

She looked better than I remembered
in a brown jacket
with a striking
emblem of a bear
on the front.

She took me to her tent
near Truro
and told me of turtles, toads,
hermit *****,
and her fear
of ridding her garden
a small harmless snake.

I spill my passion
on the ground — our bed for now — beside her.
Under her cover
she shares phrases,
moles, verbs,
and curves
of sweet new perceptions.

We are intimate beyond belief.
Her verbal kisses
bring sweat to my palms.
I’m high, hallucinating
on Mary
my drug of choice.

I’m having an affair
with Mary Oliver.

He ran a hard race
Long strides, quick pace to stay
in his comfort zone

(senryu)

Chase me
I will run
a dangerous race.

Praise me,
I will ignore headlines
and writing in the sky.

Anchor my heart
against insistent
waves.

Quell my
woody-stemmed love
afraid to grow.

Show me knowledge.
Contain my spirit.
Stay near.

Capture me
with tender hands.
Knead my soul until I rise.

If I were to live my life

on sheets of acid free paper

I would bounce

tap, tap, tap

and each line would say

in fragmented metaphor

you are adored.

I would pray and meditate

in rhythms that dance

sensual sways to entice

you to take me to bed

and flip me slow

to look back or peek

ahead to satisfy

curiosity. You would bend

my corners to remember

open mouth kisses.

Our play would sound like

cries and laughter

from a ship of fools.

Cover me with blankets

warm from lust

lingering

and find me in the morning

with the same stare

black on white

calling, devour me

finish me,

turn me

finish me.

Today it's the rusty pine needles
flecking the tar covered street
and pointing every which way
that signal a new season
soon will cool my morning walk.
Hidden alongside the curb
a coke can and pale spent prophylactic
trigger memories of front seat
romances that never erupted.
Luckily I didn't know then
what I know now.  I would have
wasted more of what I had been given
trying in earnest to waste
more of what I had been given.

Light surrounds
people, flowers, even
oysters on the half-shell.
Invaded by auras
unnoticed by others
I gather emanations
from fixtures, furniture,
and glances
toward your silhouette.
No object
radiates surrounding rainbows
nor disperses an essence
brighter than what
drops from the ringlets
cascading around your neck
when my insanity peaks.

Neighbors who walk our street
notice the ramp constructed
with the bend toward the driveway
is gone after only three days.  

New planks of pine
******* in place as a welcome
never greet the wheels
expected to transport him to familiarity,
to warmth, to man's best friend
and to the peace of returning home.

Cars gathered around the ramp-less walkway
like bees at blossoms drinking in bits of nectar.  
His children want a taste of him that lasts.

In anguish they rend their mental cloth
while missing a clasp from his creased palm.
Each offspring mulls over unfinished issues
with his lingering spirit.

In life his skilled hands crafted love
into objects made from sawlogs.
In death he leaves imprints of endearment
in the hearts of those left behind.

He treated her

like a princess

of a very

small empire.

It is one of those strange evenings
when orange clouds fill the sky.
It is an end of the day
when showers bring out
newspaper umbrellas
as people race to their cars
with an arm full of groceries.

A girl with wide hips and
soulful eyes walks her dog
unaware of my presence and
without notice of the blazing sky.

To her, I am transparent
as I stand on one leg
like a seagull perched
on a post in sea breeze
with a smile wide in hope
her eyes will find me
aching for her to ache for
me.

Without kneeling, without the sign of the cross
without self-examination
her worn keyboard becomes a confessional.
Lithe fingers tap, tap, tap out
secrets in lines of tasted desires
and opened dark doors.
With a series of deletions and replacements, key by key,
bolstered by the fervor of the moment
tales of her recent transgressions emerge.
Like a cat leaping toward it's victim
her index finger punches the enter key
as details of her indiscretions, come to rest on-line
as obvious as hunters' prey in an open field.  

Cyberspace, like a priest without a collar,
accepts her admissions without the comfort of absolution
still her guilt is released.

Perhaps they expect a pool
offerings of rare coffee
from Ethiopia

Instead of
a view of hydrangea
plus pale ale in mugs

Conversation entails
irrelevant niceties
of trivial events

Smiles exchanged
chairs rearranged
subtlety reigns

Another chance
to touch humanity
willfully aborted

You run through the left turn
U-turn to make a right
On 85 to home
Fighting constant deluge
Until first time in days
Sunshine mixes ahead
Mountains display beauty
Green on green and yellow
Undulating valleys
peaks pressed by rolling fog
Sifting white above creeks
Flushing nature's cleansing
If only rain carries sins
to the depths of south seas
leaving sweet redemption
sifted along the banks

Bed sheets sing a morning tune.
Outside two house wrens
announce daybreak.  
Snuggling near her lover’s cheek,
she brushes a stale kiss across his ear.  

He is her husband.
She likes to think of him as her lover.  
She mouths a good morning
before asking
why don't men come on to me anymore?  

Silence hangs like a pall over the bed.
Balancing on her elbow,
she searches his face
awaiting an answer.   

The wrens repeat their greeting.  
He recasts her question   
thinking she needs support.
“You wonder why men don’t come on to you?  
Because you are loved dear,
because you are loved.”

His photograph, dusty and fading

Finds a spot amid

Hair brushes, bobby-pins and

Packets of make-up scattered beneath

The black and white portrait,

A college photo,

rescued from an old

family album after his mother died,

when they were dancing in step

through their days.  The photo,

slightly creased, changed less

then them. Laughing has dwindled,

loving glances seldom, touching

has vanished.

A radio blares an advertisement.

A special for retouching photos

Her thoughts dwell on retouching a marriage

On retouching her life,

on keeping the photo.

What mattered/
about that night/
was that he touched/
her neck/
with care/
felt deep in her bones/
and that he/
gathered her/
clothing/
clasped her ankle/
pulling it through/
one silky leg opening/
of still damp *******/
and kissed her/
inner thigh/
like he was devouring
a freshly picked/
peach
------

She feels no confusion
her lips on his eyes
blue as a mountain lake
Comfort enfolds her
like the first time
her cheek touched his
bicep as they walked
enmeshed.
Surrounded by warmth,
fear has
fallen to the trail.
Trust
fills her heart.

The Bradford Pear died

Our children left home

The Maple out back

Is a nuisance

The Star Magnolia

Blooms early this spring

Sense of self
lost in a sea of
loveless misery.

Forget me here,
digging in muck and
festering disease.

Armor plated
calluses so thick
no compassion will pierce
the scab.