after the winter’s snow
dumps on it, piles high its watered
logged mountains to freeze into ski slopes
for the uninhibited squirrel perching on
top of the hill

Heavy trodden footprints sinks
into it after the thaw muddied the walk on
this backyard swamp

But still springs up
as a trampoline in emerald green
And so, can we

It would not be fair to you to say
that you are as bright as the brightest star,
because as you are you could be the whole
planetary systems, moons and suns abound,

the milky way. Every star that made
its way into the onyx landscape of a historical
night would be a blight next to you. How do I compare
you to the you of ancient history? It would not seem
feasible to make the contrast of one so young

like the spring when juleps rain and pansies
pounce, and daffodils wave their tails in
fluffy yellow, swirling flounce. Today you are
all four seasons. I can not give a reason as

to why. And this might seem strange
to you, because I’m so prolific with
words. But none can do the job of this. How does
one explain pure bliss?

I feel
as I’m nothing.
I’m a drop of rain.
You don’t notice me
running down
your windowpane.

I feel
sad and lonely
most of the time.
You don’t hear me.
I speak to you
in pantomime

I feel
deep anguish.
I’ve been cut into.
You can’t feel
the jagged blade
going through.

as if you're a pimple. Don't
pick at it. Don't cover it up with
a lot of "make-up". Smile so women
can see your teeth. Don't put all your

thoughts on a red-hot spot
growing beneath your face. Not moving,
taking little space. She didn't
sneeze on you or drool. She didn't tear

up in a weeping pool. In a few weeks,
she'll vanish. And you'll forget her like
you did your Spanish.

of Children’s Hospital sitting in
the waiting room among little people,
puzzles and Green Eggs and Ham I waited
for him.  A man small as me (I’m only 5.2) with glasses
stepped out to lead me into another room,

where there were toys and more puzzles and
more Dr. Seuss. I was afraid of his biting wit. I was even
more afraid that I was the only patient he had
my age and that I didn’t fit. He was breaking the hospital’s policy,
which was soon to catch up to us

eventually. He stripped me emotionally down
to my skivvies. “I want what I want when I want it”
That’s me. If he could read me that fast how was I
ever to last? A panic attack ensued. The sweat ran down my
neck and my legs. I grew dizzy and felt like a bird in a

cage. He looked at me and said, “there’s the door” The memory
of my son being rushed by ambulance to this hospital before
gripped me by my heartstrings and tugged on them
heavily. Wasn’t it here he was laid out in wires? Wires through
every orifice the doctors could find. And told me meningitis

was what took his mind and made it into mashed potatoes. Oh, yes
“the door.” I snapped out of it with gravy on my lips and
concentrated on the little big man psychologist and what I was
here for. This was the psychiatric department. I was used to
visiting the patient rooms when my son was in this hospital.

as the dandelion
lying in the sun
the flowered golden head
run over by the mower
****** in the spin
the blade set to lower

Regrow
as the worm
cut into threes
regenerate a new body

Regrow
as the hair
on your head
falling on the floor
or from the dog
that shed
this loss you can restore

Regrow
as the leaves
breaking from the trees
fly in the breeze
over mountains and seas
rise in full bloom
big as the moon!

her finger
on the knife.
It slipped out
from under her hand
as the man in her life.

She cuts
out of class
to grab a smoke
and a nip or two.
Stalls as she sits
on the toilet
down the hall,
till the bell clangs.

She cuts
a rug
at the club.
Puts on a **** red angora
sweater. Wears her hair up,
layered and feathered
just to lean against the wall
and see her friends asked
to dance.

She cuts
to the chase.
Doesn’t like puny talk.
She fidgets with a pencil
making doodles. It’s
agitating as her brother
slurping his noodles.

Strangled by the wishes
I made.  Mangled by promises.
Wasted on yesterday. All the years
I believed in you. I drowned in the lakes

I dream of you. When you’re
mobile is strung with stars and moons
and you’re sung lullabies you can't separate
the truth from lies. There’s not a star

that shines. The moon placed shades
on the sun. And made braids with the blades
of grass, so there’s bare patches as I walk.
Big enough to sit in. Deep enough to sink in.

December -
the winter I splintered
in shards
spikes sticking in
the icy-covered yard

Remember that
April-
the spring under the Maple
the sting of sweat is sweet
the swing in our two feet

Remember that
July -
two bodies lying in the sand
walking on the beach
hand in hand
salty spray of the ocean
in our hair
the sun's burning glare

Remember that
September -
through November
as leaves began to fall
a golden, crimson plunder
as youth lost all wonder

down
and a drop
of dew
fell
to the ground
lead by two more
and soon
I'm a racoon
and a flood's
on my floor

I strolled
to the closet
and grabbed
the mop and bucket
but the furniture
was floating
and I sinking
until the bucket
was my boat
and the mop
my paddle
and I battled
a tidal wave
until the roof
caved

a physical woman
******* point out
hips swing
eyes winking
curled up lips
bright lipstick
the golden highlights
in my hair
dance in the air
ballerina legs
flittering as wings
Ears filled of holes
dangling earrings

The *******
have nursed my babies.
The hips pushed
them out.
The eyes pinned
as they cried all night.
Lips singing lullabies.
Hair matted
in the tiny fists
holding on so tight.
Legs as rubber,
can't move
in morning.
Ears hearing them
sound asleep snoring.
Smile

he looks as wax.  He moves
and speaks with mouth
and feet. So, he’s alive. But I can’t
rub my hand on his stubble,

the growth poking out
from his morning shave. I can’t
smell the salt on his breath from
the pretzels he ate

between the calls, or touch
the softness of his navy sweater. I stand
still, holding myself together. He can’t hear
the flutter of my heart. He doesn’t hold me

in his arms. His hands sit deep inside
his pockets. And I’ll shoot off
as a rocket, landing on Mars. I don’t leave
my fingerprints on the glass. I won’t

stain the view of the kaleidoscope of gray
and blue.

the day of big float parades, family and
stuffing your face, belly aches,
sitting and sitting/talking too. He’s
eyeing the legs. Which looks better,

the turkey’s or Sues? Extra weight
and too-full plates because you can’t
decide. Everything looks great. Glasses of
wine and linen so fine, in burgundy

like grandma’s lipstick that’s as thick
as the cranberry jelly. That’s as smelly as
your uncle’s cigars. But I’m not in this
scene. I’m all alone/going to nobody’s home –

no polite smiles, and napkins on laps. No
grandpa falling asleep because the drinks hit him
fast. No gossip in the kitchen, while washing the
pots and pans. Just an ordinary day as I am.

stretch marks and baggy skin
than a washboard stomach
I created life -
I radiate within

I'd rather
wrinkles than Botox injections
I lived a full life
with home and family
I'm not looking for perfection

I'd rather
spend the day flying a kite
than mopping the floors
polishing the furniture
till everything's bright

I'd rather
listen to the robins and wrens rejoice
the squirrels scurrying over an acorn
than standing, staring in the mirror
hearing my voice
again, and again complaining

It’s not something you talk about. You wouldn’t
go bragging about the time you stayed up
all night and drank a bottle of wine and went to school
the next morning smelly and drunk. You wouldn’t tell

anyone how you smoothly walked into the shoe store
and walked out with a $180.00 UGG boots on
your feet. You might be proud of the fact that one
of the workers who was leaving held the door

open for you. But you aren’t going to hold up a bank
any time soon. It’s just so difficult to get the words
out of your mouth when they ask you “what do you do”
When you tell them, they shoot right back

“who is your publisher” When you say you self-publish
You might as well say you *******. You’re a one-woman
show, who does it all on her own. And because of that
you’ll never be respected or accepted as the others.

These dreams are your songs

unsung.

These dreams are your story

unwritten.

These dreams are your love

immaterialized.

These dreams are your life

unrealized.

I Congratulate You

for spilling your blood out
on me. I was stark as the trees
in winter, nebulous as a bathroom

mirror after a hot shower. Red
was always my color. You grew
wan. I grew a Scarlet Letter

that everyone wanted to
read. I had much to say,
as much as the Rain in Spain. This

would never happen,
or could be without you
cutting me open, tearing off

my petals one by one, with hands
that now tremble.
But fill in every line.

from my head to my feet –
and all the parts in-between
my stomach churns acid like butter
head spins like a record player
eyes burn from sleepless nights –
when the only thing shut is the shade
my mind is alert and awake
I’ve a sandpaper tongue
when I lick my lips I cut the sides
and spit out blood in spades
my teeth have more pockets than my shirt
hunched over I’m half the person
I once was
drinking does that to ya
I don’t socialize anymore
I’d rather be alone in my discourse
grubbing for my poetry isn’t easy
on this old horse
instead of getting better as wine –
I’m getting worse

is a cord that keeps biting
into my neck
and picks off most of
its flesh

This discord
is a growing fever
so high
I hallucinate

This discord
is my bible
and sword
one I can’t afford
to carry anymore

with chestnut doe eyes
warm as my apple pie. Just a set
strawberry cheeks
sitting next to a nose high

as meringue peaks. He’s just
a mouth of cherry lips that slip open
to rows of pearl onion teeth with
a rounded peachy chin fitting him

underneath. Two ears sticking out
like turkey wings. But those ears don’t
hear a thing I say. They’re just two
organs on display, below the thinning

wisps of grey. I stared at his face
with my own when we're alone. I stared
on screens and papers, during long silences
and many capers.  I’ve seen the shiny melon

head every night in my dreams
as I lie in bed. He’s just face
that’s stuck like a cork in the bottle
of Cold Duck.

Always looking for one
Thinking I’ve seen something
Trying to distort the reality
to fit into my fantasy
I come up empty-handed
Everything I interpret can be explained
Yet I give it high reign
Because, I want it with every fiber
of my being

Signs! Signs!
I’m believing you owe me a visit or two
I’m waiting
Looking for you in a whiff of a breeze
In the toss of the leaves
In the advent of snow
In black thick smoke
Poke me in the ribs
Say what isn’t
Is

from the trees. As I sit on my deck
one conks me on the head. All I smell

is nuttiness. All I hear is plop, kerplop, crack
hip-scotch. The planks turn into an acorn

carpet, that make me trip when I try to walk
it. The little critters roll under my feet

as if I have skates. And it makes me look like
a drunk in my sleep when I try to get

across it. Now I understand why they call this
season the fall. But I’ll take it anytime over the snow.

long before the barking
winter. Before this earth
grew cold and splintered.
Hardened like frost on

the ground outside. Before
weeping icicles in the powder
coffee cup and throwing up on all
the lies. Before chain-link ties

bounded milky hands. Before
pencil legs turned rubber bands,
making it unable to stand or
walk out the door, before

this ginger head rolled
on the floor. Should have run
at “hello”. The mouth screamed
yes. But spiked heels move slow.

relationship of honey and
purple flowers
rainbow bridges and
gumdrops showers. All we have

is all we need. Al and me
and the honeybee. We dance and
laugh. But do not bake.  All we make
are mudpies and patty-cakes. The only thing

we string along are beads and some
old notes to songs. We don't dress
up. But every day we wear a smile with
colored underwear. We look through bright

blue and red picture books. All I miss is
his kisses, hugs and cuddles and starlight
wishes. Many call us fluff. But we have
each other. And that’s enough!

on my golden ring sun.
The run on my no-intend pun.
He was the pin in the powdered keg.
My twin, my left leg.

He was my broken wing.
The woken man in a G-string.
A six-pack without the head.
An eight-track that's long dead.

He was the crack in the mirror.
The smack, so I couldn't see clearer.
He was a song without the chorus,
a **** that hit my *******.

I was a puppy in his hand.
He was the guppy
that landed in sand.

as the walls caved in
and the ceiling grew mold.
The air is all I've left
to hold.

I stayed with him
as the wind blew cold.
And I froze in place
without a face
to weep or smile
or feet to move me
from the wreckage
of the fallen tiles.

I stayed with him
in the reverie.
Buried, this rose
under the April snow.
Covered it up
till this turned to dust
in the sun.

I left him
with no storm or flurry,
just flew off in a hurry.
Left no note or line,
no handmade script.
I gave no sign
like all the times
I’ve let slipped.

on my shoulder
is waiting to knock me
over. The cloud above
my head is filling me with

dread. The ground
beneath my feet is naked
and fleet. This air I’m breathing
is smoky and wreathing. The fog

on the horizon is not
compromisin'. This speck
in my eye I cannot pry. My head
is a mountain that is mount

on sky a hundred and sixty
stories high. I’m drowning in
a puddle through a fuddle of *****
and gin. I cannot bear to win.

Once you’re ****** into it
it has you. You disappear. You can’t even see you;
you’re miniscule. You become grey,
a collected blob of dust and particles that is

indistinguishable. You have no
individual form. You’re not even a part, a mishmash
of this and that. Maybe you had fallen off
something, or unraveled. You could be mold and flaked

a tiny speck when you became soft. Maybe you
collected in the air, joined the cobwebs up there
as you floated to the ground. It doesn’t matter
now. No one can ever find you.

thrown
from side
to side
paddled
and kicked
driven
high in the air
only to land
with my head
in the sand
gone through
hoops
loop the loop
called a foul
batted
pumped up
under pressure
deflated
put in a hole
behind
the eight ball

during the session. He was in a
band. He wrote the lyrics to Rod Stewart’s song
“Some Guys Have All the Luck” As they walked up
the stairs to his living quarters, the kitchen on

the left. Turn right for the parlor. She sat in the striped
chair next to the fireplace. He sat at the keys; couldn’t see
her face. He had such thick hair in the back that went
this way and that. She asked him to sing Sinatra. His strong

hands placed themselves on the ivory. And as he
tapped each key she was in ecstasy. Yet he could not see
her face. And Frank Sinatra will never be the same. Because
every time she hears his songs, she’ll remember the day
he played them and sang for her.

You close your ears
to that you don’t want to hear
you’re limited that way
you think that’s happiness
Watered Down happiness -
you’re not getting the real thing
it’s a delusion
deep down you know different
but you tell yourself
something else
and shut out all others and anything
that would challenge this delusion
of what happiness is
living in a bubble by yourself
it’s lonely in there
so, you fill it with inanimate things
that take up space
and when this space is filled
you think your life is as well

in my living room. But you’re
living in the room of my head
every night as I go to bed. You’re
not here to hold. But I hold

you in my very soul. You’re not
here in body. But I embody you in
all I do. You're not here to touch
me. But you touch me in memory.

don’t read it word for word
that would be absurd!

don’t take it as is
it’s more than what it says

put into it some intellect
some aspect of yourself

it will be different -
it’s outcome
from everyone else

it will be yours to keep -
A Piece

of zebras
I’m a stallion
a red-hot blooded Italian
my stripes don’t brand me
strong as brandy
I kick up dust

In a world
of dark clouds
I’m a bolt of lightning
Look out!
I’m striking

In a world
of blooming roses
I’m a thorn
I’ll husk you
as an ear of corn

In a world
of compromise
I’ll not acquiesce
I'll stand my ground
as men aggress

through a straw. The puddles,
big as poodles. I slurped them up
as noodles. But now I drown
face down from past reverie, in
shadows of a memory.

I used to eat my Rage
sprinkled with thyme and
sage. But now it simmers on
the stove mingled with oranges
and clove.

I used to hang my poetry
on the line to catch the
sunshine. But it has fallen
off and choked up in my cough.

they can’t take away
you pick out your voice
what will it be today
will it match your bra and *****
will be plain or fancy
will it disguise all your pain
will they turn in disgust
or watch the whole thing
will it bring down the house
or just be boring

I’ve had my messy myself
to contend with. I plucked my *****
hair and drank a gallon of beer. I wrote
of discontent and dropped each fragment
to publishers on some list that’s been around
long as ***** hair. I never tweeze my lines
to fit. They’re stranglers that spill out the sides –
like bohemian woman that never touch their
***** hair to sheers. You could donate a beard
with those. You could make corn rows
like Jamaican men. Put strands of beads at the ends.

in your lies
and cunning tongue. I live
my life out in the shade,
dark and cold. The night grows old,
and morning doesn’t spring up
as a buttercup.

You split the moon
with your black, thick fist
giving it a fat lip. Now it drips
blood. I’m covered in red from
my toes to my head.

You packed the stars
in a mason jar,
and threw it in the sea
with your lethargy. Now the only light
is on the ocean floor. But I can’t reach it
with boat and oar.

all those times he walked
out of the restaurant to talk to you
on his cell phone while she sat
looking at her plate of honey

grilled salmon alone? What did
she think when you called him in
the wee hours of the morning waking him
from a sound sleep? And he replied

as he lied next to her on their four-
poster bed with the skylight window
overhead that it was so nice to hear
your sunflower voice dancing pirouettes

on the wire's edge. And what did she
think when he left the house all those times
to buy milk in his tight ripped jeans after he'd
preen himself and splash on the polo red after-

shave? He must have gave some excuse that
the trip took hours when the store was just around
the corner. Did he bilk when she asked
where was the milk?

build on the positive experiences
that we’ve had. They’ll get you
through your despair. Any time
you’re feeling alone put on a song,
a song that reminds you of me and
play it over again. Sing to its tune.

You might find yourself crying
and missing what we have
shared. But if you didn’t have it
to cry over you wouldn’t have had it to
smile upon. And every smile was worth
each tear that was shed because loving
someone is a constant flow of hanging on
and letting go.

him as a striped blue and
yellow tie I'd take off as an airplane
and fly. Not wrapped tightly around his
starched collar. Yeehaw I'd holler! And

just as a sailor’s knot I'd unloop him
on the spot. I'd unhitch him
as a trailer on the highway in
the pouring rain. Bleach him out

as a port wine stain. If he was
only a computer I'd clear the memory of
all past, deleting years from first
to last. And burn the pages of

this leather book. So, not to take a look
again. Fire up the ink in my wooden
fountain pen and paper it with a wedge
of lime and yen.

to the same place I always
end up with you. I’m sick of
staying stuck, thinking we’re doing
better when we’re not. I’m sick of

going back to the same old excuses
that we both been using. We’re a bad
habit without the high. It’s time to ask
myself why I’m staying in this. I wear

my anguish like my lipstick – thick
My heartstrings become a dipstick for
measuring the pain. Tears connect like beads
on a chain.  The spell’s been broken a long

time ago. I came back after I let go. It was
a bad decision. They are the only kind I make,
for the sake of keeping the status quo. Why?
Who the **** knows!

in him. He'll turn as
the weather. And shrink you
down as a wool sweater in
the wash. Toss you out as

as he flies off, flapping his wings,
like an albatross. Stormy as the sea. Scabby
as a dog full of fleas. He's a snake
crawling on his belly. Fake as

a pseudonym. Nugatory as
a broken limb. With shards in
the chardonnay he'll grind you
as a French pate'. Spreading himself

thinner than the air around
an airplane. Nosediving you till all
****** fluids are drained. Leaving a stain
on the carpet. All along, you were his target!

If you won’t come in through
the back door, don’t bother knocking
on the front. The front faces
the street. It’s mowed perfectly. There’s

a welcome mat that smiles in the image
of a child. The number 35 is off
to the side, branding this place.

A clay rabbit sits on the grass.
The neighbor’s son pats it occasionally.
The mail carrier drops off the bills
and the ads in the long metallic box, with a lid
on the top.

There’s a sliding door
out back that’s off its track. To get to it
you must climb the broken stairs, up to the deck,
splintered and peeling.
Enter there

is the way you see
yourself. Anyone can say
“you are beautiful” but if you
don’t believe that or feel that

it really is worthless. If you see
only your flaws then your flaws
will become your scars. And the
more they grow larger in your

head the more they will spread
to the outside of you. And then
others will see them too. There’s
many people that will cut you

down. So, why do that to
yourself? Don’t make comparisons
to anybody else. You are beautiful
in your own right, the one thing

that makes you uniquely you. No one
else can be you or your kind of
beautiful.

No more hellos
Is it too much to bear?
A simple exchange
To show that you care
Only a minute
Out of a twenty-four-hour day
Only a minute
For you to say
Hi there; how are you?
Remember the time
You used to?
Remember the time
it mattered?
I was important to you
Whatever happened
To:
A call
      An email
         A text
A simple exchange
would take
A minute or less.
A simple exchange
God Bless!

back the rind. You’ll find
the soft flesh and sweet juice
of youth.

Peel
the debris piled on.  Thicker than
the lawn. It's a clutter
of pain. A clog is in the gutters. So,
they can't drain.

Peel
away the dead skin
of sin. So, it'll grow
anew. Clear the smoke from
the flue.

Peel
off the red paint
from this wall. Underneath it
all is a lost city.

to my velvet black.
Grey is slack.
And I’m not that.

Don’t add white
to my fiery red.
Pink is girlie-
‘Nough said!

Don’t add white
to my dark navy.
Don’t do light.
I’m not chicken gravy!

when no one’s looking
in your dreams
behind the bathroom curtain
in-between your bedroom sheets
upon your written lines?

Are you
what you call yourself
who you believe
who you stage yourself
to be?

Or are you an ephemeral female
that entertains the psyche?

with yellow teeth. I hang
the pieces on my door
gathered in a wreath. If you
touch me, my jagged edges

will cut your hand. Some
days I strand fragments of the
glass when I've time to pass. I wear
the reflection around my neck

in quartered sections like
Aztecs. A jeweled medallion
tattooed on my breast, burning me
in the sunlight, in flames upon

my nest. The whole me distorted
in the fractured glass. I'm manufactured,
not built to last. A young girl becomes
a prisoner of her past.