Saturday, February 28, 2015



Flesh of my flesh
empty my veins of
blood-names, fuel
my annihilation-fear
through the weight 
of your indifference
casually cut the certain
circle of life and legacy 
I shall howl 
to the moon
Willing tide-
turn as you 
table time 
and barren 
by design
me Ghost


Sunday, February 15, 2015

for love


for love

there is no science of love
though many have tried to
track scattered pebbles 
from the mountain for a triggering 
 cue –
there is no science of love
how memory lights darkness
seals smallest and most
gaping crack in any soul 
there is some sort of saintly
sheen on love even for those
who hold no truck with such -
grand as the blaze of sunrise
simple as a field of daisies -
love uncontained as it is held
the essence of polarity at play   
No, there is no science of love
to deconstruct would be to
wrestle an angel to autopsy
there is no science of love
just the simple act of magic
mystic glow filling the spaces

Sunday, February 8, 2015

The Clown

In the tumble glass sound
the clown wanders fierce
carefully, oh, so carefully
prey to scorn-fill emptying
his heart -  soft sounds of
laughter a forgotten burst
vanished on the cold wind
they choose -to instill grim
rather than gayety - Scape-
goat he climbs one heap and
another of mad malice he grows
tired. Stumbling, blank, confused
until he passes the sunniest child
hears only the emit of gray groan -
This, this final flat failure of possibility
stamps the seal on his importuning soul
and the clown surrenders. Draws the thick
fleece of hope around his shaking shoulders -  
and stops, for now.
Waiting for the wound to close -
for the tickle of gentler times and
the rolling rollicked rumbled return
of joy

Friday, February 6, 2015


There it was cherry
mahagony gleaming
under the store dust
She could see it opened
to full length –bulging
three board leaves full
with food and china
They carried it home
and shined it up and
for a time it was five
Three children and the
two of them at the table
Until one by one they
grew inspired supported
wings and flew and she
foolishly smiled –during
“Nesting time” – waiting
patiently through their
tears and cheers, their
would-be forever loves
and careers spun like
cotton candy – waiting
for their inevitable return
She could see the full table
Yards of linen – endless
china passed laughingly
from hand to hand –
She could wait
And did –
The table sitting with a
single leaf opening wide
in the center of the long
room – holidays fell one
into the other fragrant
dishes served for most
often three – and then
Finally, it began – they
Married and procreated
She ran to airports and
down hallways to meet
the small newcomers
For they were far away
Yet, still back at table she
knew they would return
But, the wind under wings
carried them far – Still she
cooked for twenty though
there were only two or three
or one year or two four – and
in a flash of tumbled time
it was thirty years before
it struck her – hard – obvious
they never would return –
Some fairytales are for children
others whispered to and by adults
The difference lies
in the happy ending
and a table set for two

Sunday, February 1, 2015

Patron Saint of Sisters - Rescue

Sabine Sauermaul

Patron Saint of Sisters - Rescue

She did not know of her
boundless belief in saints
until that mourning morning
day when spread out at wrong
angles her little brother lay -
fallen -"pushed" they would certainly
say and she would spend each coming
day of her unlived life as guest of the host
of prisons - repenting in repetitious measure
her endless yards of negligence - time inexorably
ticking - as all others ran their race of freedom-there
she sat with held breath and stared, and suddenly he,
little devil sat up and grinned -"scared you there Sister?"
and she in a cloud of humility thanked the Patron Saints
of Sisters for surely he had for that instant he had been truly
dead and so she could only hug him in relief for glorious life - now,
resist her urge to throttle that smile from his smirky, sadistic, lips