in your embrace,
my nose buried in the skin
above your collar,
I did not detect a discernable scent,
but the warmth-
that I stole:
won’t … can’t … give it back.
Winter Moon II
A full moon sits heavy in the cold night,
mist shimmering around its curve weeping
icy dew drops on my freckly cheeks,
rushing over me like an Irish tide:
thunderous, rock splitting calamity.
Ducking inside, away from its strong pull,
I’m home in the lonely painted red room-
winter frozen, stirred by the warming glow
of the ghost light left burning to welcome
spirits that inhabit the deepest dusk.
Sleep comes quick as my head hits the pillow,
my dreams unsettled and full of panic
as lunar waves push love away from me,
daring me to chase it down and take it
before it’s ripped away and out to sea.
Sirens call for me to dive under and
swim around and through sandy silt and weed
that languish and fire across in a play
of the cyclical connection that sea
and night sky’s pearl know to be magnetic.
Gulping air, swallowing salty water,
I reach for a rock slimy from the sea
and pull at a branch broken from its tree,
trying to beat the sharp ice’d current
to the safety of the dark rocky beach.
Awakened by the fury of the night,
I lie still in the wave of tossed blankets
left to wonder the outcome of the tale,
did I beat the winter moon's dark challenge,
is love close or has the tide pushed it out.
Note: I wrote another version of this poem almost two years ago. I have changed it some. I realize that it is a little heavy handed, but the moon, to me, is a very romantic figure. And its pull on me ... is very tragically romantic.
Note: I wrote another version of this poem almost two years ago. I have changed it some. I realize that it is a little heavy handed, but the moon, to me, is a very romantic figure. And its pull on me ... is very tragically romantic.
Christmas cookies
as soon as wheels hit the tarmac
they’re making cookies
at grandma’s blue house on the corner.
in pjs and aprons, flour running across the floor,
chocolate chips, snickerdoodles,
hey, don’t forget the gingerbread cookies,
we need to make so many more.
eggs cracked with one hand,
shells littered across the counter,
fingers greased and at the ready,
more dough hits the tummy
than the metal sheet.
is that a cardinal out the window?
where are the hummingbirds?
no sweetie, they only come summer.
ding, ding, ding the timer sings,
cookies come out and are gobbled up
faster than the next batch hits the hot oven.
making cookies at grandma’s blue house on the corner,
we need to make so many more.
tease
he fucks with me
like
cat and mouse
ah, but I don’t run
for the hole in the wall
if my tail is caught
he
can have it
do it yourself messiah
old Tony plopped down next to me
flurriously
at the do it yourself messiah.
sitting in the altos,
his warbling, questionable tenor
threw me off
my nascent attempt
at choral singing.
he smelled of mint
and at half-time explained
that he had driven three
hours from Madison-
to sing.
Sing? Yes.
have some peppermint water,
it’s good for the voice,
he said.
he moved out,
stumbling for a fit,
fishing for his cap
under my seat.
Hallelujah. Hallelujah. Halle-----lu---jah.
pearls
Doris saw her
wearing pearls
on the 5 o’clock news
and thought,
she isn’t as pretty as my girl;
and so bought me a strand
with her charg-a-plate.
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