Scrooge has nothing on the toiling ants,

whose tireless pursuits are aimed at

the simple desperate art of surviving,

rather than droves of gold, they march

determinedly up to the jar of honey,

frantic and clawing each to earn their

piece, each tiny pincer set holding aloft

a golden nugget of sweet sugar to their queen.

“A penny saved is a penny earned.”


I remember that touch. The burning kiss, where flame met cloth

and slowly wormed into the threadbare carpet, so clean

you could eat off of it and still live, still walk, and so it glowed

brief and hesitating flicker of psuedo-life, pulsing, growing with

each slumbering rise and fall from his chest, cigarette poised

in graceful fingers that loved to kiss the waiting cheek of a child

with a slap so crisp it reverberated like a snap from a clean sheet.

So brought to life it glowed, grew and gave back to the sleeper

its own exhaust, heat licking playfully onto graceful hands, and

I heard the screams long before I smelled the smoke, the sudden

freeze before adrenaline. The dish still wet in small-girl hands,

unsure immature wet small-girl hands that clutched desperately

to cling to comfort; soft linen of mother, brothers already out in dust,

and to carry to safety the soft, calm warmth of Mama’s book of pretty rhyming words.


In the deep midnight blue
hidden in the creche dark
came the softest, sweetest song
a crooning, lowing lullaby baby
to a green-jealous moon
and a stilling heart.
The private audience heart
in that deepening blue
did watch a blushing moon
beam in the dark
a tune sweet to a baby
a wordless honey-breath song.
the tender-voiced song
whose refrain touched heart
to a restful, sleepy baby
with delicate closed eyes blue
in the fading dark
to a waning moon.
And to the sickly moon
not a gentle crooning song
in the predawn dark
but from a loving heart
to that sweet boy blue
the loved restful baby.
That handsome baby
whose jealous moon
paled green from blue
of that hummed song
from now a wishful heart
in the slowly lighting dark.
And from the lighting dark
there stirred a sleeping baby
in the gentle loved heart
far from that weak moon
a love song
to a coming blue.
No longer to linger dark nor ill moon
stirred my dear baby my singing song
from one full heart to eyes of blue.


I stood at the ocean, and watched as a seagull dashed a clam against the hard rock. Pecking, pecking, the tireless drone, like the words of denial we spoke, chipping and breaking away our connection, breaking and cracking sharply

Crack chip plunk crick.

We speak of impossibilities, across the seas, and yet we know, that no matter how sweet the words, the tender the reunion, we will never be what we see. The bittersweet taste in my mouth always lingers, your voice haunting some neural context in a faded dream. Words that you will never say come and rise from grey matter, your own voice trembles; it isn’t, it’s too close to the surface and threatens to split apart like an overripe fruit, and I weep for you, I weep for what we have lost, dashed across the rocks like the clam I saw in the jaws of that seagull, relentlessly torn by Nature’s distance until we remain, two halves of a shell lost at sea.

Body Language 2

“I don’t miss him.”

I state this calmly over olive oil and pita bread,

the Mediterranean smell of chickpeas wafting almost cloyingly.

You raise one eyebrow, mute contradiction implied.

I shake my head, almost sneezing as the motion wafts up honey,

hummus, grapes. Chokingly amplified by proximity.

We sigh, mirror images; you are my future, I am yours.

And we dip the bread in oil.

Not Another Love Poem

Yet again here we are, words which met love on a page.

I turn to you and grin, whisper words which only you hear,

and your groan, swatting me away. “Not another,” you grumble,

and with your eyes I see it. Potential. Pain. Pleasure, the

vulnerability that is us, the fragile link of communion, which

ended in an exclamation.

When you were gone,


and you go to Heaven,

and take my words too.


To which we move, slowly, leaning and yearning

for a taste of something, how we cannot resist.

It is so wrong to want, so wrong to ache and yet

I cannot resist your gravity, your pull to me

is dragging, I am not lagging, I am moving

and falling falling falling.

Folktale Love

They call her a woman,

that luminous nighttime lamp.

Was it, perhaps, her coy face

peeking behind gossamer curtain clouds?

Or could it be

her gentle luminosity, her changeable personality?

I see her each evening,

My love, my life, so beautifully full and bright.

My lover the moon,

and I am her wolf at night.

I come calling,

hoping for a sliver, a shy peek of silver.

Glinting off the lake,

rippling over my fur as she runs her pale hands down.

I cry with longing,

and yet she still flirts from her distant perch.

Forever beautiful,

forever lost; and so I sing a song, a love ballad.

Of my love and loss to her distant, cold heart.


Vanity hung, to glitter silver,

the young eyes watch, musing.

Already I see the age, the pull

of taut skin going slack,

the dull shine of eyes blue,

white leaching dark color from me

and spotting elsewhere, slowly,

bones pitted and mottled, stained

with each passing decade, the

fresh peach youth already dimming,

tipping so slight towards the end.


All I know that is is that rain never falls twice in the same place.

Dampness at my eyelids, sliding down cheeks, Hush my child,

it is merely rain. I am not cryin, those are not tears, and yet

even as the thunderclaps and the lightning sizzles ozone,

I am confronted with the loneliness of it all, silent and stoic,

palm trees flattened with the weight of rain, the wind which

screams like a woman and threatens to tip me over side,

to which all I can think is goddamn, this is my death

and I can only mutely watch as light burns and dark consumes,

that pain which slices deep, and you know, as I know,

that we never really speak of it though it’s there.