Cuckolded and cropped,
A shadow with no self.
Beaten, bruised, broken, bloody,
Footsteps falter beneath me.
Capped at this height,
Stunted; wingless.
Flightless Icarus
When once the sky.
Cleaved from the aether,
Dirt I reside.
In dirt I live.
In dirt I hide.
It is in the dirt
That I will die.
Countless words drawn from my lips
as looking above, I lie.
Bitter feeling enfolds my breast
Remembering the sky.



As the night wind blows

Making haunted howls,

The moon looking down

Illumined in vicious scowl,

The Day has died,

Departed or fled.

All that remains,

Or what lies ahead,

Is dark and wide,

Mysterious, changed, new.

Yet what is missed,

Thought dead or slew,

Returns aflame, bright,

Boldly breaking through the Night.

Last remnants flee,

Afraid of thee,

So should you brandish the light.

Moving Forward

I burned a few bridges
As I walked these paths
Made forward the only
Way to go

Where I’ll end up
And who I’ll be
I guess that
God only knows

I’ve seen cities in Europe
And rode ships on the sea
Found love in the arms
Of another

I gave up on dreams
As new dreams took shape
And went off
To search for wonder

I went off to school
And I had me a time
I learned more than
I needed to know

There are joys and sorrows
In what we call life
And I savored
The highs and the lows

The journey’s begun
There’s no turning back
There are mistakes
I’d rather undo

Quite a few dreams
I wish I had held
A bit longer
Then I held onto

I’ve hiked through the mountains
Surfed in the oceans
Found myself while
Searching for more

And now what I see
Is only before me
As I step outside
My door

A Golden Apple

I’ve reached it, as high as I could,
A Golden Apple, far in the branches.
(They will get that wrong.
No matter. In my mouth
The meat is the same. Juices.)
A juice. Sweeter than any in the Garden.
I open my eyes, closed involuntarily.
Ecstasy in that taste.
Not realizing, I chew my lower lip,
Longing for more.

The air is crisp and I nearly shiver,
Water molecules licking my skin.
Another bite.

My tongue rolls over my lip, 
Capturing some escaping nectar.
Laughing, hugging myself, I spin where I stand.
My heart races and an unusual feeling
Rises in my stomach. A flutter.
I shudder,
Knowing my need.

My husband lies in the grass.
He is naked.
My stomach flutters again, and it is good.
I offer him my apple.
He takes it. He eats it.
I do not have to offer him
     What else I have.
     He takes it.
It is good.


The phone rings. Who? Why? 

I look at the screen.


I wouldn’t have answered anyway.

They call too much.


Or otherwise.
In this darkness,
The glowing face of the phone is unwelcome.

In this silence,

The rat-a-tat-tat of some digital ring is unwelcome.

In my loneliness, 

The connection with someone else is unwelcome.

The phone rings again.



A night in blue

I turn on the jazz
The city unfolds before my eyes
Night sky with bright lights
Blazing from imaginary windows
Smoke and fog drifts soundlessly
Creeping over weary streets
From my private perch I watch
Listening to the sounds of the night
The song of the city
A tune that echoes in drums and lobes
Different in percussion for every skull
Notes still piping
Slow, vivid and hot
The picture it paints
Across the scape of my eye
Pupil and cornea alive with musical notation
Dancing, streaming, playing raw
Heat, fire, life.
It is where the soul lives
The heart beats
The mind creates
Those moments that cannot stop
But you can never experience again
Once they pass, gone
And you, holding on in the night
Wait to feel it again
See it again
Live it and know again
That it breathes into you
While I watch this happen
Inhaling air, tobacco and sweat
Breathing heavily
Night not cooling my body
Air just promising to break the heat
While my body feels the beat
The rhythm of music long since played
Echoing over these weary streets
And my bleary eyes
Take in the sights
Feeing no pain
And hoping the morning doesn’t come too soon

I Lost a Poem

I lost a poem last night.

“Where,” you ask?
“Did you mislay it, or place it
on a shelf, behind some
knickknacks, or under that
pair of old, wooden Foo Dogs?

“And I looked,” so I’d answer,
simply. “I lost a poem.”

“Well which one?” you might reply.

“It was unnamed,” I’d say.
“It came to me while I lay in bed,
awake, though I had tried
counting clumsy sheep.

“It blew in on a cold air,
streaming up from the
open bedroom window.
It settled on me, along
with the cool air, and I
struggled with the thought
of getting up, the first
few lines still fresh in my
mind, or staying warm and
oh so sweetly near the confining embrace of slumber.

“And so you lost the poem?”

“I did,” I say sadly.
“But I found this one while looking.”