often,
too often
everything ends

more often, there’s one
that doesn’t want
the end

they may
or may not know
it’s coming

even if
they know it’s
still death - Death

of the relation
death of a dream
death of a future together

emptiness is a river
that flows out of a stream

Why shouldn’t I share it
with you? What good is having
something all to myself, when I can
light up the faces of everyone

else? The sun doesn’t shine on only
one part of the earth. The sun doesn’t
stay in one place. It rotates. I want to be
a rotating sun. I want to spread my love on

everyone. Every line is a row of seeds. Every
page grows a garden indeed! Every day I water
it with my ink. It surprises me what comes up. But
whatever does I invite you in, before its cropped,

before its trimmed to experience the full
sensation. Because this is my work’s life. One
could say it’s my paradise. And it may not be
a Nirvana to many, but to me it’s my Good & Plenty.

others will gasp! She’s showing
her ***. She’s shaving her *****. She’s
doing it all in front of the camera, wearing
only a smile to enthrall. She’s not afraid of

what they’ll all say. Doesn’t matter,
because the ones that love her are by her
side. The other ones that don’t approve
can take a hike! She’s laughing at them all

the way to the bank. And she’s having
a ton of fun doing it! Others have censored
her. Some ridiculed. But she’s from the school of
“I Don’t Give a ****”

breathe
in the salty air
the spray of the ocean
wetting your hair

the crash of the waves
like a lion's roar
the azure horizon
stretching beyond the shore

the wet cool sand between
your toes
the gulls circling
above your nose

the serenity of a breeze
tingling your spine
the glow of the golden sunshine
pearly cockles in marmalade

I’d trade everything for a day
as this
the foam of the sea
lapping my lips
like a sweet beer kiss

He’s rough and says ****. He writes
about real stuff. He writes about ***
and drugs, cancer and urban living. He’s
not afraid to tell you about his carousing

ways. He gets right to the point, doesn’t
care if your noise is out of joint. He’ll
probably chuckle at that.  An editor told me
that I reminded him of Bukowski. I took

that as a compliment. And why shouldn’t
I? I can be as gruff as the next guy, writing
about ***** and ****, alcohol and mentally
unstable parents. Unlike those other

poets that only write about sunshine
and roses. They don’t dive into the salt
and the flesh, nothing that stands out as
a mess. Only sweet perfume on every page.

I gauge it they haven’t lived much of
a life anyway.

said this Friday
he's opening Georgia again when
bodies are still dropping. They can look
pretty for their
funeral. Their hair colored
and coiffured. Sitting pretty
on the pillow in their casket. And their
nails manicured, painted and shaped
for all to see as they lie across
their chest after this virus closes
their lungs. Yay! But they went
bowling! They knocked down the pins
as they did themselves!
Governor Kemp you're such a louse!

If you don't grab it
Someone else will have it
If you dont use it
You will lose it
If you don't bother
Thinking about tomorrow
Then tomorrow will be spent
Thinking where today went

They are your babies.
Keep them safe; nurture them.
Take them out; let them play.
Allow them to be foolish and young.
You’re only a child once.
Others may taunt you.
That’s because they aborted theirs.
They let theirs get cold.
They didn’t nurture them.
They didn’t take them out to play.
They didn’t allow them to be foolish,
in their child-like way.
Still, they come out when they sleep
to play by themselves in the dark
when no one else is around.
They hoard them as candy in their head.
But never take the wrappers off.
If only they could taste
what they’re missing!

Death took you like early spring.
Snow on the ground was melting.
You left me, guilty with desire.

I came along after the rain.
I knew hurt. I knew pain.
We suffered the same.
Both our wounds were open.

I gave my all.
You gave your best.
Our love was put through every test,
love that never should have been,
love that had a tragic end.

Death took you like early spring.
Snow on the ground was melting.
You left me, guilty with desire.

I made you pay the price,
for loving me, not once, but twice.
You were not supposed to.
That is what they told you.

Fate played us a very cruel hand.
Despite the warnings, we still began.
I needed you as my lover,
though I had another.

Death took you like early spring.
Snow on the ground was melting.
You left me, guilty with desire.

licking their chapped lips
for a cool, wet sip. I’m no mug
of beer. Out of here!

Guys be
paying in dimes
for a **** time. I’m no
chocolate bar or penny candy
in a jar.

Guys be
humdrum in their compliments –
same old ****. I’m spent delivering
men a peep show for little
dough.

You struck me as lightening
I walked in and the sky parted its hair
You had the courage of ten thousand men
To take on the tangles
A bohemian jungle of twisted lines
Then you were betrayed
I never knew it -
The light made me blind
I punished you for it
It hurt so much to see
Eve in the garden couldn’t believe
I gave you the apple
I poisoned you when you took a bite
You fell
I fell with you
On a deserted island no one knew existed
But we rose from the ashes
Someone who reads this would think -
There’s the happy ending
But they would only know
half the story

jump In
come on
you can’t
start
then stop
you’re either
Full In
or off
no half-attempts
welcomed here
you can’t let go
if you hold onto
fear
give it your all
or don’t bother
with me
less than
your best
is an act of
futility

to clap and praise
or slap a face
or hold that face to kiss
you can plant a tree
bathe a baby
or shoot a gun
write a poem
hands come
in many sizes
in different colors
they do many things
they caress
help a young child get dressed
paint a scene
make a delicious diner
whip cream
break a window
build a home
save a life
hands unite
or stand alone

she slips
into his grip
as red blood lips
press together
and locks on mouth
make hands move south
cupping her bottom
pulling tightly his *******
rotating in this slim jim dance
eyes lit the skies like Paris, France
he drinks silky milk from peach jugs
as he plugs the sugar walls
Oh my Gosh! Niagara Falls
her hair a scarf around his face
he's so undone like his shoe lace
hands on clock
rotate

dough
needed life to grow
that folded and pressed
and stretched
all the years of their lives
with structure and strength
to roll out and mold
that they have not to hold
watered and powdered
and turned
everything they have learned
into the bread
and fed their family and friends
with their hands
and still reap the salt
from this land

Don’t hold on
with one hand
dangling off
You can’t
get a grip
You’ll slip
Unless
you grasp
with all
your might
How are you going
to push yourself up
to safety’s landing
You’re not standing
You’re beneath it
It’s got you over
the edge
You’ll hang
swinging in the air
Fear is the height
Courage the plane

I’ve wiped her mascara tears so many times
I’m striped as a zebra. I patted her forehead when
she had a fever. Embroidered in me is the letter W,
the family crest. I’m not the original. I would have

been a P. I prefer the W, as it is not the sound
of a word that describes ****** functions. And besides,
it has more prestige. She’s wrung me out in her hand
waiting in the doctor’s office for her exam. I’ve been pulled,

and prodded. I’ve been stuffed in her
pockets. I’ve been beaten up in the wash. I’ve been thrown
and tossed. She took me to funerals. She took me
to weddings. She even used me when she didn’t have

a sanitary napkin! I’ve dabbed her mouth. It felt
sublime when her lipstick kiss imprinted on me like
a Monet garden swirled in reverie. I’ve been there
from the beginning. Sometimes I even smell like the sauce

she is cooking! I’ve cleaned up many a spill
for her. I’ve dulled and lost my color. But she still needs
me. I’m her best friend. What would she do when
her allergies start acting up and let’s out a Big A – Choo?

that flits and flirts
then fades as the shade
on a summer’s day. I back up
like my bathroom tub. Rub my

eyes in disbelief.  If only I were
a better thief! When he comes up
close and stays still I smell
the daffodil he’s lying on. I feel

his spots soft as a fawn. I see the orange
marmalade. But then he turns
and flies away –
just when I was about to
land him! My hand as steady

as a napkin that sits and waits
to be useful. Maybe I’m juvenile to
believe that it doesn’t pay to roll up
your sleeves.

than a shoestring. And tighter
than a clothespin. It’s distant
as the galaxies. And real as
make-believe. It’s elusive

as a butterfly. It landed on me
once. But I blinked and missed
it. And the crumbs it left swept
up by dancing in the wind. But it tinged

me with marigold. So, I’m
I'm bright. But I’m not too
old. I move too fast for it to sit. I’ll lay
still on the next visit.

Drinking the poison to **** someone else
Going around dazed in circles
Hooked on the past
Hate is cast

Truths you didn’t share
Shrouded fear
Injustice and broken trust
Playing the victim, a must

Never allowing acceptance
or forgiveness
Oscillating between an angered past
and a fearful future
What these wounds need is a suture

Feeling strong about being wronged
Trying to take back power
All you do is sour
any light that could be shed upon it

Slamming into your own stone walls
because you won’t forgone it
Being imprisoned by imagined beliefs
Here it comes - the happiness thief
No one will ever do this to me again!
Giving up the Zen

You’ve been looking
rather grim.
Seems your life’s
pretty dim

Why so serious?
So sad?
Just be delirious!
Be glad.

Be a ****!
Let it rip!
Shut the tube
Take a dip

Life is short.
Have some fun
Eat a torte
Kiss your ***

Smile
Make faces
Dial
Strange places

Do the things
On your bucket list
Cut the strings
They won’t be missed

Don’t Forget

Some tables are full.
Others are empty.
Some people have little.
Others have plenty.
Some people are alone.
Others have large families.
Some people have big homes.
Others don’t have any.
Some people are excited to kick off the season.
Others are depressed without any reason.
They wish it would be over soon.
Maybe it’s hyped up more than it should be.
It’s the time of the year to see friends and family.
Some people spend a lot of money on nothing.
Others have nothing to spend but time.
Some spend that time waiting in long lines.
Others couldn’t be bothered.
All of their gifts have been pre-ordered.
Eating, drinking and gaining weight.
Here, take seconds, fill up your plate.
Parties and celebrations,
short days and long nights of deprivation.
Some are missing ones they loved.
It’s the hardest time of year to be without.
Some losses are profound.
You can’t stuff them away inside of a turkey,
or cover them up in potatoes and gravy.
Soon enough it will all be over.
What have you done; what have you wished for?
Maybe there’s a deeper meaning
for celebrating this holiday season.

Hard is Unbreakable

You hold it all inside
because if anything were to leak out
it would be a break in the Hoover Dam,
a fire in the sky, an explosion of meteorites

as they reach land. You got it under
control. You keep it locked safely away,
a prisoner in solitary confinement,
who will never see the light of day. You must

control the thoughts. They have voices
and minds of their own. They must not
be released, and to others must never
be known. They are your secret

friends. They don’t take pity
on you. They are hardwired and
cruel. Once you were a chocolate cigar
left out in the sun. Once you were

a candy bar that the other children
spat on. You’ll never go back
to that place again. You’re hard. But
hard is unbreakable.

sweet as the cotton sheets
on the line outside, smelling fresh as

the daisies. But doesn’t amaze me
because after I pull them in, I feel as

something’s missing. That something
is discord.

Ever beat your fists wildly
against the wind? Ever slashed
your wrists for other’s sins?
Ever lay your body like sod
for lovers to trod upon? Have you

ever stirred at the crack
of a long leather switch? Reached deep
inside to scratch an uncatchable itch?
Ever scream so loudly you choke
on the stroke of a single word? Have you

ever been so terrorized
your blood doesn’t flow it curdles?
Ever know the sound of your heart
pounding in your ear? Ever been crushed
by the weight of your own stare? Have you?

a windstorm
out of a breeze?
I have.

Have you ever tried to squeeze
a mountain
out of sneeze?
I have.

Have you ever tried to squeeze
A ****
out of an unripe berry?
I have.

Have you ever tried to squeeze
a city
out of a ferry?
I have.

Have you ever tried to squeeze
Love
out of a stone?
You’re not alone.

I want to taste you he said. Thank God I’m coiffured
for the good doctor. My lips were large and parted –

as he started to go down south
hungrily feeding his greedy mouth. When you’ve given

birth twice it stretches you out like a linebacker. And I
trimmed the gym with a weedwhacker because no one likes

hair in their mouth. I wondered had he ever tasted patient
before? I would surely **** him if he said I tasted like chicken,

or worse yet fish. But I think he liked my dish. I seasoned
it well with perfume and powder after a long night in the shower.

as a buoy.
Every wave that passes
fogs up his glasses.
Arms flapping

as a bird. Everything
he says is slurred.
Legs swinging back and
forth, all the way from south

till toes pointed north.
Fingers strumming
his armchair. And that stare
hanging in the air

like smoke
from a cigar inside
a tight lid jar. I remember
September, I lost him
in a tremor.

pull her in
with painted lies,
dandelions hypnotize.

She's a wilting flower
within the frame
of the fifty-minute hour.

The ground is fertile
to grow. But he breaks her up
and turns her over like a ***.

Pulls her roots
that she clings/snips the feathers
off her wings.

Paid a king’s ransom
to sit all-day
looking handsome.

the same questions
Over and over.
Can’t calm himself down.
Doesn’t believe the

answers. I try to
reassure him. But it takes
a lot out of me always
having to repeat. He’ll be

stuck at two the rest of his
life, as well as mine. I’ll die
saying the same thing again
and again. Last week he

broke the staff’s eyeglasses. The
week before that it was his
dresser. Now it’s off track just as he.
Two vodkas tonight –

Better make that three!

every week. The answer
is the same. He can look
at the clouds and ask
how it rains. He can listen

to the woodpecker peck
at the trees, ask how he doesn't
leave, as not a spec is found. Man
has asked if the earth is round. He can
look at the stain in his carpet. I haven't forgot

it. True as the harvest moon,
a life in the stain. The woodpecker
pecks for insects in the hollow pit
of dead wood.  He pecks for answers

in the hollow pit of a dead stain. It's caked
on as the bark. Just a touch and it falls
off. The wind blew down the tree in her
yard. It's ashes now as her grandpa's

cigar. Planted years past by a woman's
hand, a madman's plans -
now is rotten as the stain. All's forgot. But
the plot it sits in silence.

in as a hurricane,
thick saturating rain running
down the gully. Everything
that he touches ends up being

sully. Knocking
down houses and trees. Hurling
debris out in the streets. Smashing
windows, shards of glass flying. Every nook

that I look women are
dying. In the garden all the flowers
are squash, just as her dreams. Rosemary
fell with the thyme into hibiscus cream. Chairs

are swimming on my front lawn. This day
the sun lost every ounce of brawn. The water
colors are grey, same as the sky. This is the year
that June ate July.

like an egg
cracked me
on the side of my head
beat me up
till I was thinly spread
threw tomatoes at me
till I was scarlet
But I became a juicy omelet

He broke me
like a shell
on the beach
I was crushed
beneath his feet
he does that to every girl
But I rolled out as a shiny pearl

He broke me
like a branch
off a tree
I splintered underneath
the fallen leaves
But a robin with redbreast
saw I’d be fitting
for her nest
So, I returned to
where I came –
But not the same

as lint on his clothes
skid-marks in the toilet bowl
snot on his nose
stones stuck in his sole

as crumbs in his lap
cat fur on the sofa and chair
pieces of scrap
long wisps of brown hair

as grease on the stove-top
stains on the kitchen floor
sauce on the porkchop
and I went back for more

as soot on the grill
in dripping mockery
and he did so at will
I'm just ***** crockery

a blight, a deformity,
a disease. And blew me off
in a sneeze.

He called me
a runt, pariah of
the litter. And ate me up
like a meat fritter.

He called me
every day
at the beginning. But his
ardor started thinning.

I called him
on it. He threw
a fit. Tied tighter than
a bonnet under his chin
I’d no place to begin.

when the leaves all fallen
in autumn
when she hit the bottom of a bottle
sunk like dottle in the old man's pipe
he couldn't wipe the pain
of the man that left the stain

He came
on the coldest day
when ice crystals of glass ****
danced in the air
on every garbled breath

He came
with smiles and blooms
on shirtless afternoons
swinging like crochet hammocks
melting like rocky road ice-cream
till they puddled in the grass
shunts in a bypass

He Came

plunging out
my womb –
not a moment
too soon

He came
crying
his eyes out
I cried too
at the sight
of him

He came
Sunday afternoon
on a hot day
in summer
full of wonder

He came
without an instruction
manual
sometimes I didn’t know
how to tell
what he needed


But he left
on Good Friday
while the world
was painting eggs
attending church
giving God praise

He left
by ambulance
out the front door –
left the world
he once knew
behind him
his toys
his bed
his brother
his pet

in early spring
as robins sing and
roses bloom. He spread over
me as sweet perfume.

He came to me
in late July
rising as the ocean tide,
azure as a crystal sky
swinging as a hammock
tied to the trees
the kiss of death
between my knees

He came to me
in mid-autumn
as hit rock bottom
as the crimson and gold
grew old
as I saw it all fall
billowing in large dust *****

He came to me
in winter
as I broke apart
and splintered
as I wept icicles
cutting my face
as I froze
standing in place

in the eye
till the lid closes into a slit
colored black and blue
swollen like a tennis ball
so, my eyeglasses do not fit
but he'll not take me down a whit

He can punch me
in the mouth
give me a big fat lip
knock my teeth out north and south
but he'll not crack me with drouth
on my radar he's a blip

He can punch me
in the gut
till my innards are mashed potatoes
and the blood clots like squashed tomatoes
into a sauce
it's his loss

anymore. He can’t come home
for Sunday night’s supper. You
can’t drive over to give him
his brownies. You can’t play

puzzles on the floor. You must
rely on others to take care of his
most intimate needs. You pray that
they don’t hurt him or that he doesn’t

come down with this disease. It spreads
so fast in these care facilities. He can’t
tell you how he feels or what he’s going
through. So, you worry. And you drink. And

you worry some more, until you’re climbing
the ceilings and stomping the floor. You
resent all the others who are safe at home
with their loved ones when yours is out

there alone. And nobody understands this,
the restless, sleepless nights when you lie
awake asking “what if.” You haven’t gotten
a full night’s sleep since. And when they don’t

call or answer you think the worst. Your
mind goes there over and again. Your mind
is your enemy. It’s never been your friend. And
you feel like you’re headed for a break-down.
You’re anguish is your thorny crown.

the nouns. The sounds can’t
pass his cheeks. High as Alpine
peaks, the air is thin soon
as he begins.

He can’t speak
the truth. It’s a decaying tooth-rotting
in his gums. Even a drill
couldn’t **** out all the tartar
crumbs.

He can’t speak
as his foot’s stuck
in his mouth. Like the swallow,
his song has flown south on wings
that grew sprouts.

He can’t speak
as the cat has his tongue. A feral
mother raised him as her young. Stuck
as a *** of gum under the high school
desk the hardened blob turns grotesque.

He can't speak
as his lips are sewn
with the splinters from all
the winters he has roamed.

that his Tommy Bahama
thyme linen shirt
is pressed. Every day he’s
dressed in a new color with
a stand-up collar.

He cares
that is ebony satin hair
is coiffured and sprayed,
parted on the left side and laid
flat. No gust of wind can
disturb that!

He cares
that his cobalt convertible
BMW is washed and waxed. He’s not
relaxed till it glitters as gold. If
there's a scratch on the leather
next week it's sold.

He cares
that his wine cellar
is stocked with Dom Perignon
in the first row up top.

He cares
about women -
every one of them,
long as they're beautiful,
young and thin.

memory in his handkerchief
tucked in his left breast pocket. In childbirth,
wiping sweat from her brow. Yellowed by her
cigarette. It's balled in wrinkles now. Dabbing

her tears with paisley cotton.  Once white
as the roses she carried the day
they married. She'd blot her crimson
lipstick lips before she planted

him a kiss. Her spilled perfume on
the dresser. The years had not made
his pain lesser. He'd waved the handkerchief
like a kite in the air, as she waltzed

down the stair. Now the square piece of
cloth has holes from the moths. But he
cannot wash it. He wore it along side
his lapel as they rang the wedding bells.

aside like a cracked eggshell
after he scrambled
my brain. Cast me aside
in the rain like a broken umbrella

unhinged from the wind. He cast
me like an empty bottle of gin
after he licked his lips of the last
drop. Just tossed me off in

a trash bin filled of garbage
and rats and tin cans.  He cast me like
a doctor casts a broken leg, wrapped up
in plaster. And men drew with their

marker, calling me sweetie, till I looked
like a wall of graffiti!  He cast me with
the flick of his hand like an actor
in his play in a role I still have today.

like the seasons
from the full bloom of lilac spring
till his room was billowy grey clouds
snowing in shrouds. He was

a ripe banana left in the noonday
sun, turning from bright yellow
to pitch tar, my Freud smoking
cigar. A caterpillar

morphs into a butterfly. But I
died in his cocoon in late
June. Like a blood orange sunset
at night, down went my light. I was

a silhouette hung on his wall. He
dressed from green to red like colors
in the fall. And then stood bare like
the trees. Empty branches

scratching the windowpane
through the howls. The lakes are
sheets of ice that I don't walk
on. The moon will change by dawn.

with his silver spoon,
hitting the shell of this hard
boiled egg.  I fracture like
a broken leg. Splitting off in

misshapen jagged pieces
he discards, like a pair of ripped
leotards. I'm just a chip off
the old block, a weathered plank

from a floating dock. A wood shaving
from a cedar tree. He scatters me
like the autumn leaves. I've worn
so many coats my colors are flaking. Peeling

like paint, these curls blanket the ground,
sticking to blades of grass like pollen
fallen from the sky. Polka-dots dancing
pirouettes on his tie.

stairs two or three steps
at a time. His pants are baggy
hanging off him. He's lanky
and his nails aren't trim. His hair

is greasy and unkempt. Doesn't hold
conversation, but makes attempts. He
doesn't have a diploma. He once lied,
eyes rolled back in a coma. Doesn't

wash himself or hold a job. Some
see him as a slob. But I see him through
a mother's eyes, through his hugs/not his guise.
I see his smile light up the room. I loved him
as he grew in my womb. That love

crosses boundaries and time. That love
doesn't die. That love lies up at night walking
hospital floors, going to meetings, lawyers
and school boards. That love climbs summits

through rain and shine.  That love is savage
as a mountain lion. But gentle as a baby
lamb. Pushing for his health from pushing a
pram. Not every parent can grow a man that
climbs two or three steps at a time.

Dedicated to my handicapped son Alex

like socks –
mismatched
trading them as stocks

He collects women
like cards –
in diamonds and hearts
shuffling them apart
turning them to lard
till he grows hard

He collects women
like stamps –
thumbnails that are tramps
sticking them to his sheets
by pounding city streets

He collects women
like coins –
shiny tender
after an all-night ******

from his hands.
It spread as Poison ivy.
It clumped together in
thick clusters. And the oils spilled
out. Enough to fry a trout. So, he kept
his hands in his pockets. But the oil
bled right through.

He couldn’t wash it
from his face.
Who can wash human stain?
He covered it up with smiles,
careless, foolish guile. And hoped
it would go away. But it never went
as far as his back yard.

He couldn’t wash it
from his mind.
It came in
waves. And when it came
it drove him further from his reality
until he was lost at sea.

He couldn’t wash it
from his heart.
It was unreachable
at this point. But he couldn’t own
it. So, his heart stopped

thicker than my ma’s
pasta sauce
and turn it off
faster than I can
down these shots. You never knew
when he’d go off. He’s was
a lightning storm
that downed
the wires. So, I lit the
candle and held it
in my hand. But I grew
tired and my hand was burning
from his psychotic rage –
“Take the gloves off Sandra”  
He would say. He’d chase me
into a dark ally. A woman
asked as I passed
if I needed help. I told her
yes, as I gulped the humid air
and smog of the city. The sweat
under my arms wasn’t looking
pretty. Luckily, I passed
an officer and asked him
to stop my psychologist from
chasing me. He turned to him
with a warning. I called
my husband to pick me up
in the adjacent parking lot. He came
as he always did. And drove me away
to safety –
at least for that day