Apr 30 2017

it’s like this

there will always be days
stretched tight
by the too dry skin
of living

there will always
be evil
rubbing shoulders
with light

always be witches
dancing circles
at night

always a cloud
blotting out
the gold sun

always loss and possibility
mixing chance
in roiling ocean

it doesn’t have
to be enough

or even

warmth is the illusion
of life

parody is pure
in the blossom of sight

and green things grow
from the cracks
in black ice





Apr 29 2017

stunned (and/or)

like the bird
bouncing off
the top studio window
or the tree
bent broken fallen
from harsh storm
the grandmother
hearing news
of World War III
or the 12-year-old girl
standing cold
in a dress
called provocative
in a country
still reeling
from impossible

100 days
is a phrase

with no rhyme

or right





Apr 28 2017

at least once a day

as if the sun carried stars
and the moon
danced with shadow

or your smile
meant the joke
it once

the way we wandered
through the streets
of a city left by

holding flowers
in damp palms
limp with longing


Apr 27 2017

in stereo

the wind shifts and

the tree frogs
are talking
to each other

warning of storm
and change
in a musical portent
of danger

i sit in this



shooters shooting
down at the gun club

neighbors mowing
fast-growing lawns

robins singing songs
of babies and love

youngsters driving by
too fast

sounds blowing by
on a breeze
bent on taking


the tree frogs
are talking
to each other




Apr 26 2017

laying the table
for summer’s picnic

in a brief dawn moment
when i remembered
not to forget

to look down

to notice

three favorite flowers


(a poem in a name)

(a poem of a flower)

and i smiled
all day




Apr 25 2017

how high’s the water, mama?

there are so many things i cannot reach
so many miracles behind glass and
roses i’ll never cultivate
and all these days filled with bugs
and better thans and never enoughs

there is always that sky
through the tall short-lived poplars
growing faster than posterity

there is always a kitten
causing trouble in a field
of grey mice

there is always hope and
always love
(that cliche of a word
even poets
can’t define)

and this one
grape hyacinth
growing stubborn
along the road
refusing to care
if i notice




Apr 24 2017

the bones of her face

mirror-moon and barely broken
downward dog and faintly spoken

i am hollow
i am raw
i am forgotten

i am refusal and predication
spitting out bitters
and smiling at wind-loose shutters

this is age and
this is mo(u)rning

and the narcissistic
will never reveal
the long-etched key
to revival





Apr 23 2017

time passes when
no one is looking

there’s an oak tree
in the brush line
by the driveway

with a branch
that’s been hanging
since the ice storm
of 1991

i remember my sadness
at the damage of trees

i remember being young
and appalled
at life’s cruelty

i remember how
the basement flooded and
the lack of electricity

i remember that my parents
came to stay

it’s been 26 years
and that branch
is still hanging

and i wish i remembered
how to cling with tenacity
to a tree still growing
through bad storm




Apr 22 2017

on the corner of chelsea and 57th

they said youth was the currency
and beauty the price

but we knew better
on the streets
of anarchy

where blossom
was never
as fragile
as ego
and thorn
was the tally
of vice




Apr 21 2017


prom dress pretty
and filled
with fresh hope

the irony
of this tall vase of tulips
all bare and innocent
amidst kitchen-table clutter
and the convoluted
of a too-busy week

but these are my days
and no matter how messy

there are always flowers

sometimes fresh

sometimes dying

sometimes too long
past gone
for shame’s sake


always a smile

on a short-sheet friday

and life’s
funny bone

silk purse
sow’s ear
and all that