Saturday, June 30, 2012

thin lips

she had thin lips
in the snapshots they 
barely touch each other
although it is summer and
they show enough young skin

she had thin lips
he is hanging his arm
around her neck, jewelry and gesture
clasped onto her utter obliviousness

the snapshots hold him in amber
cracked edges, curl as she smoothes
with parchment skin and 
wet eyes, her thin lips full
with longing - bee stung with regret 


unwavering line
knifed in packed, sun-whitened sand
restraining the tide

Haiku Heights -Wave

undulating flash
sunshaft sparkle 
crested foam 
midday manic sea

Thursday, June 28, 2012


with my eyes closed
I stroke velvet you
in my arms

against my cheek
baby talc floats
in satin embrace

you, here, in my
arms again
with my eyes

Saturday, June 23, 2012



In jasmine centered night there
at the window in the ample spread
of Night thighs
defeated demons sigh
reaching with futile 
grasp at dissolving dreams
sliding safely away on
granite guard-rails as
the trilled whistle of possibility sings
safely slipped into a scrap of sunset domain

All is secure 
in jasmine centered night
there at that window
lush, languid,
liquid births its
what was
into what 
is yet to be
as Dawn sleeps
with folded wings
in the arms of 

Beyond sunset

Beyond sunset 

Beyond sunset
in a long nightshirt
soft as tendriled
hair – 
the tiny child peeks
through latticed window
and calls in voice of
crystal peal
"There Mum there"

But Mum has grown
too ample 
into her domain
to any longer see

Demons destructed
or fairies
floating on 
songbirds whistle

And so, unseen the scrap
fairy cloth snagged 
as sparking filament
against the granite
window sill

Where mum
right there 
under her arm

Where Mum 
looking with
flawed grownup
for the dancing
clear in the sunset

Sweet Mum whose
girlhood has 
slipped forever

Hugs her
jasmine tiny girl

for an instant

as fireflies
on a 

I walk the whorls

I walk the whorls
Each concentric line
Etched in mind time
Melting footsteps each
And all one winding

I walk the whorls
Graze the newborn
Head still wet
Dip a curtsy to
A lovers’ liquid

I walk the whorls
Wash the sweet fish stink
Fresh fileted from
That chilled childhood

I walk the whorls
Belly flesh brown
Taut hip bones jutting
A bead of sweat in the

Setting, settling, softening
I walk the whorls
Self, others, sweet, sour,
Blood soaked, perfumed
And lotioned in the sun and
Shade abandoned and abandoner
I walk the whorled

Sunday, June 17, 2012

Flow - Release the refrain

Release the refrain

Temper your heart pumping in your chest
crack the latch
release the draft of the refrain

Release the draft of the refrain
spare your temper for the
passion pulsing

In your heart,
pumping in your chest
the racket trace
of love strike

Spare your temper
for the conflagration
of the blend of all
all freed by the opened latch
on the chest,
drifting on the current
of the draft
freed of the sinister string
by lightning crack of
celestial temper,
Spare not a single refrain of love
fear not the racket,
trace the strike of
destiny dancing
on the clear current
into your life

Finally fathered ....

My Father Was A Gardener

My Father Was A Gardener 

My father was a gardener
He was many things
But my father was a gardner

started with a single Snake plant
in a sunless window
in a tiny Brooklyn apartment
coaxed to vibrancy

Onto small precise pots on glass shelves
in tract housing
spilling in the sun
cacti and violets African

my father was a gardener
at all other times fastidious
hands sunk in loam forearm deep
fingernails espresso ringed
in"not dirt" bathed in "earth containing all"

Parting backyard ground to reveal
shell pink worms cool and fat
Sliding over tickled fingertips

My father was a gardener
finally arrived at dreams' fruitioned
greenhouse and an acre
wild soaring land pine swept

planted each varigated blossom
each new small sapling
pressed into perfectly positioned sunlight

My father was a gardener
he did not belong
in antiseptic sheets 
yearning to grow
He needed sun and rain
and riches of earth

When time finally turned
I smelled only loam
heard only the gentle lift of shovel
pressing him in white shrouded ready body
into the sweet smelling loam
a sacred singular seed

My father was a Gardener
once again
in every rustled
shimmered leaf on summer wind
in each verdant grass blade
of every velvet flower petal
shining in each and every summer
chestnut blossom shower
under crystal snow in winter
In the crimson crunch of leaves in Fall

in all
of all 
for all
my father was a gardener
The earth his canvas, child, lover, mother
creator and created
My father was a gardener
My father is the garden now
And I the tender of it all

Happy Fathers' Day

Cat String

Cat String

Oh string
Caught to chest
on current of draft
from the spare bedroom
window where I
blend into the duvet
temper in calm refrain
from all raucous racket
leaving no trace of my impending
claw strike
should the humans crack my
composure and touch even
a fur bare declawed finger tip
Oh string
Curling a shaft
of sunlight

Saturday, June 9, 2012

For All Who Ached For Moors and Men

For All Who Ached For Moors and Men

Oh meet me over the bluffs
Under the sweep of the willow
First sun will keep a corona
Just for you as I, trembled-wait

Oh meet me over the bluffs
I will crawl through mud
Cleanse myself for you
In the dawned frosted tide

Oh meet me over the bluffs
Where I shall smash all vessels
of vanity, spill each drop of self respect
on the boulder of my unrelenting need

Oh meet me over the bluffs
Or find each nail torn with
The stain of my own blood
My body cold, my face ravaged

Lying in the shadows
Of your disinterest


Friday, June 8, 2012

In the mist - 3 poems - In the mist - haiku +1- signpost

In the mist 

In the mist
She swirls
On ankle strapped
Powdered perfection
Perfume and
Bright scarlet
Smiles in the arms
Of her tall cop
Brass buttons
In the mist
As flocks of
Clock their
Time to soar


the thing about mist
is that like dementia
you cannot grab hold

of anything … 


We follow
In the mist
Never catching
Up in time
Except for
A brief glimpse
Signpost: Dementia

Little Lady in A Cheery Place

Little Lady in A Cheery Place

It’s a cheery place
And smells good
We support each
Other on our first
Visit to

a little lady
who smiles
politely without
for an
instant until
with a crumpling
face and darting
eyes she says
voice trembling
on the edge of
anticipated loss

“They’re all
We let her
Go with the
Waiting nurse
And leave
It is a cheery place
Without us

Who Bubby?

Who Bubby?

They fly through the window
“Who Bubby?”
Oh such lovely young men
Her voice quiet and sweet
Unraspy, silky smooth

Not the Lucille Ball
Flame haired scarlet lipped
Hellion “Bubby” stopping
by for a quick visit trailing
Channel Number 5 and vitriole
Tales of friends and clubs
Leaving quickly her essence
Clinging to us all like ship-wrecked
Survivors for days

“Who Bubby?”
Oh such lovely young men
This new disembodied phone
Bubby from her apartment in
the city
“They were here last night again”

“Who Bubby?”
Those nice people in the
Long white robes
They stare at my windows
And clean water
From the roof
It’s dripping down
My windows
But it’s okay

The lovely young men are here
“Who Bubby?”
A priest, a cop, and a student
We have sweet tea
And now they are resting
Sleeping on my bed

She has four locks on her
Apartment door
That swings open
Inside she sits
This newly minted
sweet Bubby

On the edge of her bed
The newspaper
A priest prays over
a covered young man
his graduation picture smiling
a police officer comments

Bubby smiles, her new
Unlipsticked sweet smile
The room smells of chlorax
And a faint waft of urine

Look, she whispers
Out the window construction
paper sheets billow gently floors
down in the recobbled courtyard
They’re gathering
She whispers
Such nice young men
Sleeping here

We sit together for long moments
Watching the people gather
Listening to the gentle patter of rain
Not waking the resting young men
As the windows fill with sunset gold

Sunday, June 3, 2012

Champion of apartment 32C

Champion of apartment 32C

He was only seventeen
Muscles on the close edge of skin
Stretched glistening, poised to burst
With energy pounding beat bouncing
The canvas on new sneakered tip toes

He was only seventeen
Face chisel carved smooth
As he turned circling for a single
White smile at the crowd glow
Rising like a cloud of steam
Applauding his first draw

He was only seventeen
As the first fisted punch
Split his puffed pouty baby lip
brushed just this afternoon
By his gray lipped limp mother
In the thin drawstring gown

I am only seventeen
He thought, words of
Release hanging in air
As a quiet distant roar
raced through the tide of his ears
and a thunderstorm of fists
banged glistened flesh
into tomorrow's solid bruise

And he with a wave of surrendered
Victory folded, with boneless
Defenseless crumple, too deflated to
even crouch, as curtained darkness
Descended with the promised

He is only seventeen, his sister
Screamed, but did not pierce
The ether-sweet still silence
Of his once again bouncing
On tip toes - new sneakered

Saturday, June 2, 2012


There in
the endless


I remember not how big he was
but how small my hand felt
covered completely by his
as we sat
and listened
to the tide
of the sea
of music
to the simple
symphonic sonata
of life
rising on
the stage
he introduced
my hand