trying to get this out there.
Give it recognition.
For every ear to hear.
This is my true mission.


Honey I’ll Die

with it lying over me.
It will be my blanket.
Proving me much company –
so much that I will thank it.

Honey I’ll Die

Yet this will live.
It’s the way I want it.
It’s what I have to give.

my dear. It flows slow
and smooth. It’s gold
and mixes well. You wouldn’t
want vinegar in your tea. It’s tang

cuts the tongue. Think about when
you were young. You hated taking
your medicine. You’d pinch your nose
and close your eyes. And pray it goes

down quick. I don’t want you
to be like that with me. Make it
easy to be near you. No assault that
would fear you. Just a note of

song remembered long,
until we meet again. The amber
treat is a spring under your
feet.

dripping as tears
falling,
running down
the face. It makes

for a smaller candle
as it sheds its skin. But just as
tears shed from broken
hearts bled a new

life is created. Built-up
wax is soft as it runs
creating as yarn
that is spun. Making a sweater

of tears that provides
us warmth
through the
cold years. So,

weave my woman
tears as wax. Just relax
and let it flow. That's how
oceans grow.

eat so many red apples?
How can they hang on?
His hunger's waned.
He kicks the fruit that fall.
They grow soft and stained,
filled of holes from worms that crawl.

How can a man
fill his bag of apples till it breaks?
Leave the tree half empty
from all the apples he takes.
There's more on the ground
and less on his plate.
His eyes big as mountains.
But his belly plump and sate.

from the old wounds
when you keep making
new ones? The old scars are
black as tar and sticking

to the scab of my past. Each
time you make a new mistake
you’re pulling off this scab,
reopening the wound. I bleed out

again. My recovery has no
end. Don’t you see what you are
doing? You’re picking at my
healing.

How can I Make Him See

the apple needs the tree? Even when
said apple falls it never falls that far because
it longs to stay where you are.

How can I make him see
the honey needs the bee? A shy, retiring flower
needs a needle to pull up the nectar.

How can I make him see
the earth needs the light of the sun? Without it -
Darkness.

in a sky full of fire? When did
the pain turn to desire? It rains
splinters in the yard. Every broken
shard is sharpened with the axe,

and thrown back, poking holes
in their stories. They trumpet, the morning
glories in bright blue, climbing on
a twisted vine. Cutting their twine with

a searing hue in burgundy
till they bleed out their petal heads
jerkily. Smirking and mounting the steed,
riding off after planting the seed!

hand
with fingers interlacing with mine
turn ****** and hammered in no time?
And ivory face
turn brightly redden in place?

How did this
morning
of sunshine, sweet sky
and robins
turn cold and overcast?
and how pray tell, so fast?

How did this
man
who smiled at me
lie through his teeth?
and without pause?
Just because

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?

in your life?
if I was the earth
under your feet
I would gladly lay still
for you
even if it meant
being stepped on
by your shoe
because it would leave
an impression on me
and I would pray
for no rain
to wash it away
pressed down
compact
while everything
around me
is raised up
I’m flat
in the outline
of your sole
if that is not
heaven
to others
for me
it is so

the ocean, unleashed
from the sandy den? Do you smell
the salt of the sea? Are the sand fleas
waltzing in the air?  Can you

hear the crashing waves
as you squirm and wiggle,
flapping those flippers? Are you
not afraid that you haven’t

slippers? It’s a hike
for a little guy that can fit
in the palm of my hand. And predators
are waiting above to scoop

you up in their mouths. Still, you forge on,
not looking back. And if you make it
to the water’s edge and a white cap has you

riding her back are you then free of
attack? The ocean is a deep, black world
of danger. And you my baby,
are a stranger.

You could say it wasn’t me
It was you
Does that help?
Not really

Or you could ghost me
Vanish in thin air
Leaving me standing dumbstruck there
Wondering
Wondering
What happened to him
And calling
Getting no answer
And calling again

You could say we’ll keep in touch
But I know –
You’ll soon forget
Someone else will come along
The memory of me will be
Long Gone

You could cut it loose
Like the string of a balloon
Watch it float away
Until it’s never seen
Make-believe it was a dream

Or you could cut it back
Like when you mow the grass
So, there’s still a little there
When you’re lonely
And there’s only me –
Friends with benefits, I believe

since you picked a flower
picked your nose
smiled
how long since
you used that rusty tool
hiding in your pants
danced
called a friend
counted your
blessings
laughed
cried
think –
what you’re going to do
before
you die

chances can I give you
before I see right through you

How many
times can we do this
without ending up
in the same old mess

How many
excuses can I come up with
before I quit

How many
reasons will there be
to believe in something
that hasn’t come to fruition

use your imagination

can I give you
when we’re back to
being strangers? Nothing
changes.

How many chances
until I learn
that with you I’ll always get
burned?

How many chances
will it take
before this heart in me
breaks –
again

How many chances
before I say
this is
The End

do you have? I have
one. Do you wear
yours on the front
or the back? When you’re

done do you switch
off? Are there ones
in your closet? Does it
get confusing, all the masks

you’re using? Are there ones
you keep shiny, while others
rust? You’ll go to your grave
covered in dust. And when you do

you’ll be stripped of the faces,
all of them! We’ll be alike, you and I –
skeletons!

did he take his frustrations out on me
blamed me for all his misdeeds
I didn’t hold a gun to his head
I didn’t force his pants off to get into bed

How many times
did I listen, be his audience
cater to his child-like needs
get on my knees and **** his p

How many times
did he hide me away
I was his ***** little secret
that he took to his grave

But I’m not going to keep it

can you sell me
the same lines? They sound
like music as you say
them. But the music stops,
as I play them back to you.

How many times
can I weep
over a cold, hard stone
I thought once a
pillow? But I lay my head on
a heaving billow.

How many times
can I say you'll turnaround? Only to
the stillness of dead air and the weight
of a fiery glare.

can I walk toward the fire
like a moth to the flame
wearing my yen
having my wings burned
again and again

How many times
can I leave the safety of the shore
swept up in a riptide
over my head
lied flat as a piece of driftwood
on the seabed

How many times
can I weep
till these eyes are pools
a hundred feet deep
big as a mountain
till I froth as a soda fountain
and can't see the trees
or their crimson leaves

How many times
can I scream
till my breath is shallow
my voice raspy
I don’t have an answer
when they’re having to ask me

how many times
can you go on like this?

How Many Trees

did she lay for this? How much
black blood spilled out for the
performance? Who will
benefit? They needed to be chopped

down and processed. They needed to be
enveloped and packaged. That’s the only way
they could be delivered. How many trees
did she lay for this? As many as it took.

insults can you hurl
to a green girl
till she is shamed
from all you said
and cannot
remove this stain
you embed?

How much
can you smack her
with the back
of a wooden spoon
till she’s afraid
to leave her room?

How much
can she weep
without wetting her sheets
and jiggling as jello
of the shiny yellow belt
flying down hard
leaving her welts
the size of
a deck of cards
in black and red marks?

How much
can you strip
of her dignity
you make-up-haired witch?
You’re all over her like
a fast-spreading itch.

How much
can she take
till the heart in her
breaks?
till her wings
are shorn?
till she'd better off
not born?

can you squeeze
out of me? Little by
little I whittle. Not
a drop left to swap
with anyone.

How much
whacks can I take
before the back in me
breaks? As a bent nail
you can’t hammer me
in. You’ve more luck
with pin.

How much
grains of sand
can fall before
there are no grains
at all? Everything’s
settled to the bottom.

in one sitting before quitting
How much can the sun shine before
it turns dusk?
How much can the baby cry before
it learns trust?
How much can the rose bloom
before it withers on the vine?
How much can I pen?
There’s always another line

she asks him during her first
session. She knew just who she
could push buttons with. Anyone else
would have been angered with this
question. Not him! He answered
“not that often; when my wife is away”
Where do you do it, in the shower
or in the bed? By now most psychologist’s
eyes would be rolling in the back
of their head from the very intimate
interrogation. But not his. He told her he
has *** outside in the moonlight by the
lake in the thick of hot summer’s
swelter. She envied this because her husband
always needed shelter to copulate –
there was nothing daring in him
unlike her swashbuckling questions.

I get lost in the miracle mile
I get tossed by a tangerine smile
I get blown by cornflower blue
I’m thrown off by the things that you do

I get roused by carousel ties
I get ****** on wavy, haired guys
I get flung like a worn-out shoe
One would say that I’m hung up on you

Hurt

perpetuates hurt
You pull back
and hurt me
from your lack
I need to hurt you back,
so, I hurt you more
Now you pull back
further than you had before
There’s a wall growing
between your hurt side and mine
It’s dividing us in two
It got thicker as it grew

If I put all my worth into someone else
when that doesn’t work out, I’ll lose yourself.
If my happiness relies on another person
when they can’t be available to me
I will lose my happiness.
I have a full life with many avenues to choose.
People are fickle and unpredictable.
I decide how I spend my time.
Isn’t that wonderful!
It does not rely on someone else’s mood.
I will no longer put someone else on a pedestal,
including myself.
Because I make mistakes.
I will learn to forgive.
Live and let live!

for men
my page
for the stage
my rhyme
for a dime
my muse
for *****
my respect
for affect

Forgive me
for acting on misunderstandings
placing blame on you
when I knew what I was getting into it
easier to point fingers
I’ve got two hands filled
with enough digits to go around
I look in the mirror
see I’m not perfect
rage is my weapon
resentment my ground
and revenge keeps coming around
I’m self-destructing
in delusion
I got enough work
to take care of the planks
in my own eyes
thanks to forgiveness
isn’t it lovely
isn’t it beautiful
that I’ve only myself
to take me down

to get the better of me. I have
these fantasies of what could go
wrong. And I hang onto them
longer than I should and allow them

to interfere with my life, knowing
they’re no good. The worrying turns
noxious as bad company. I can
kick the bad company out –

but my worries have tendrils that
wind around each corner of my
mind. I tug and pull at them. But
they’re as static cling and rise as

high as a mountain. Anxiety is
a dreaded curse. I wish I could cut
the threads and move on with
my life. But instead I clutch like
I’ve got a punch in the gut.

what’s fattening
like chocolate cake
and bread pudding

I always want
what’s bad for my health
like cigars and alcohol

I always want
wants immoral to do
like stealing from stores
and ******* other men
when I’m married to you

I always want
what I can’t have
time and again

who I say I am
backed by my own demands

The canvas stays stark
without the paint

The page stays blank
without the ink

The diamond stays rough
without the cut

I’m a cut above the rust

Am I?
I can
Can I?
I know
Know I
I am

hot as a sidewalk
in July. You can fry an egg
on me. I’m a hustling, bustling
public street.

I am
cool as a midnight
serenade, covering you in
golden brocade. You’d get lost
in the reverie of evergreen,
turquoise waters
and bubbling streams.

I am
a starlight band. You can
dance in the moonbeams and
rainbows, weep in the milkweed
and widows.

I am
a baby lamb, soft as the first
snowfall. But building in
tempo. You can paint a farm
with me. I am the orchards. I am
the bees. I am the marmalade sky
and fields, the whippoorwill and
daffodil.

I am
black and white
on paper, a scratching on
a napkin, glossy print in
a magazine/stuck in pages
in between a book. Never **-hum –
I am poem.

a seed
covered in dirt
alone and cold
in the dark wet earth
but out I sprout
into the sun
just as I am
alongside no one

I am
a cloud
hovering in the grey sky
I rain on everyone
that passes by
but I cool off the grass
as the afternoon passes
and spread my shade
on every emerald blade

I am
the dust
that lays on the table
swept up as Clark Gable
in a switch of the wrist
but I’m grist for the mill
with my paper and quill

a rock
I was a pebble
an untreated freckle
under men’s feet
stuck in the grooves
the bottom of some man’s shoes
till I wiggled free

I am
a rose garden
I was a ****
men pruned
till the sun shined on me
and I bloomed

I am
a songbird
I was a worm
a slimy germ
for bait
hooked on a line
twisted as twine
till I sprouted wings
and began to sing

I am
a mountain
I was anthill
till I grew a set of *****
two thousand feet tall
now men have to look
up to see me

I Am
No one makes me
No one breaks me
No one claims me
No one shames me
I am
No one stops me
No one tops me

of everything
you are
and lost
of everything
you ever dreamed
of every shred
of what had seemed
that was cut
from another cloth
and lost its colors
in the wash
that sticks itself
with needles and pins
and anguish cries
of might have beens
the beautiful angel
and evil twin
residing in
the same skin

You can take my money
Rob me blind
I’m still sweet as honey
And twice as kind

You can take my clothes
I still have my skin
All you have is prose
Poetry is the house I am in

You can take my car
I still have my feet
I’ll never be where you are
I am complete

It’s Ok to cry the tears
to feel the fears
that hold you back
to have a panic attack
to be angry and bitter
it doesn’t make you a quitter
it makes you human

To be less than Ideal
whatever that means now
someone’s spiel
on what is real
often changes
how -
based on little information
that compounds with expectation

I was lonely and looking for the answers
in every stranger’s eyes as far as I could see.
I ended up compromising all that I believed.
Until the day I recognized, I wasn’t being me.
I wasn’t being me.

Now let me tell you I am who I am.
And who I am is good enough for me.
I am who I am without pretention.
Upon exam you’ll see that I’m totally free,
without reserve.
If I hit a nerve in you, I’m sorry.
But nothing’s going to stop me from being me.
I got to be me.

I am hill
I move
I am still
I am earth
I am sky
I lay down
I fly
I am desert
I am storm
I am cold
I am warm
I am sea
I am shore
I am me
you are yours

I wish I could be one of these –
Gibran, Yeats, Blake or Whitman
I am not –
One of the immortals
That live again
Their lines have their own section
The visited Graves
Engraved in scholars
Read in study halls between the flickering lights
and plastered walls
past the vending machines and the coffee bar
the beige stains on the pages and pencil marks
the folded ears that leave off where they are

a fish or a
kumquat. I am sick
of picking out cars, bridges
motorcycles and

buses. I won’t discuss
this. I am a woman trying to
share her passion. And I’ll post
it like a sticky note on

everything. When has art gone
out of fashion? I create something
new every day, through my words
and videos, through my paint

and the way I pose. And I’m
sick of waiting in a twilight-zone
swirl, checking off boxes
and being asked if I’m a girl!

I am not spam.
Spam I am not!
Have you forgot?
You don’t give a ****
Who I am!
But…

I am not spam
You do not like
I am not spam –

Would you like it
If I digress?
Would you like it
if I suppress?
Would you like it
if I undress?

You would?
Well too bad for you!
Grow a pair!
I’m not going anywhere!

I am Sound

You can bore your holes
in me. Turn me into Swiss cheese. I’ll still
keep my shape.  I’m getting stronger

because I don’t identify with what people
say. Blithely I turn away to caustic
words. People love echoes because they like

the sound of their own voice
returned. You can have your thoughts
spray painted on the walls, in the form

of artwork if it makes you feel
important. Publish them in magazines. Broadcast
them on social media. Stand in line as an infantile

child screaming to get his turn. I’m getting
stronger because I don’t identify with what people
do. I stand up for what I believe. I don’t need

to convince you, call you names or put you down
for your beliefs or opinions. I am sound.

My womb was home to my sons
I created two beautiful humans
I left to this earth more than my worth –

My eyes expressions of love
You can see in each wrinkle and line
that I am tender and kind

My arms reach out to hold
They enfold dear ones to my heart –

My heart has musical strings
like choir bells that ring

My hands are my best friend
They take what’s on my mind
make it dance with rhyme
It comes out a heartfelt song
a gift to give one and all

a week, only a few minutes
each. I said that therapy extends
beyond the 50-minute session. I’ve
been drinking heavy for years. I just need

someone to care. It was a drastic transition
from seeing him from five hours to one. And his
burn-out made him pull back from me both
physically and emotionally. We didn’t talk about

the fall-out until recently. My running to
the board and threats had made him feel stupid
for giving me a second, then a third chance. My
constant running away and rage also cut down

the intimacy in an extreme way. So, after fourteen
years we’re at a new beginning, each willing
to give a little more, to re-establish the trust that’s
been lost from all those years before.

salted with crimson tears
that rolled so low
their feet stuck to my hair

turning black
from ear to ear
I’ll not have back
this lost year

Now I caw
from dusk till dawn
this has gnawed
the man I spawned

thinner than a wafer
I’ve not felt safer
since the incident
I'm bent as a crowbar
and just as hard

and you look through me
as if I’m a ghost, with no skin
or bones, as you drone on, bored
like a skipped needle on a record.

I bare my soul
and your clock says that
it’s time to take a walk/feed the cat.

I bare my soul
on my knees, clutching
my chest. I can’t breathe. I weep
a puddle on your floor. And drown
in it once more.

I bare my soul
as a hurricane. You shake
my hand, leading me out
into the wind and rain. My hair
wraps around my face. Fills in
the space between eyes, nose
and teeth. So, I look like a russet sheath.