Sunday, November 19, 2017

Adrift On the Ocean.

Adrift On the Ocean.

Finding the island this far away would require
A heavy debate.  I didn’t want to debate anything
Right now, I wanted to get home.  The sun was
Stretching low over the horizon, glimmering red
Like a ball of fire, and our boat was drifting farther
Away into the great ocean, and we were getting low
On rations-we still had some worms left in the bottom
Of the color, and one spam sandwich I happened to
Snag from the fisherman on-shore.  We were a little
Too far away from the shore for my liking, but the map
We had gave no indication of any off-shore island,
And nothing was above us but clouds and a perpetual blue
Sky.  We were lost.  I knew it without glancing at
My mother or my father, knew it without certainty that
We would never find our way back home.
The sun was warm on our backs and our heads, but the sun
Was sinister in our minds-it could kill us, the longer we
Stayed out here.
Suddenly there was a breeze, ever so slight, and my mother
Took up the paddles and started rowing towards shore,

Her laughter ringing in the quietness.  We were all glad.

At the Height of Summer.

At the Height of Summer


I feel myself slipping
            Away from it all.  Not caring if I ever come
            I see a vision of myself ten years from now,
Raking leaves in a garden.  This is a promise
            I must make to myself:  to overcome all odds,
            To get out of being broken, used, abused.
Sometimes I see myself as someone else,
Giving myself a second chance at life, a second
Chance at success.
            Then I realize the only thing I eat for dinner
            Is ramen noodles.


At the height of an Indian summer,
You are there, lost in a midst of twine.
            You staple out hunger like a sieve.
            End over end, you begin to sigh.
It is the sigh of the long-lost dying,
            The sigh of someone who has seen
Defeat and risen from the ashes.

            The taste of summer is heavy in your mouth.

The Sight Within the Summer.

The Sight Within the Summer

The smell of summer fills my lungs.  It is like
A night without stars-the sunrise is a gorgeous
Array of colors that perpetuates the sky.
The summer apples are golden in the sun,
And the sun is golden, and everything around it is
Golden, too.  The grass smells of sweet summer
Rain.  Rain is etched with dew.  This is the end of
August, but summer is still here-still standing.
There is a light at the end of this reach,
Where every color matches everything else,
And the rain falls smoothly into a waterfall of
Crisscross colors.  Nothing is mismatched.
The apples are ripe for the picking, and the wildflowers
Need to be picked, too.
A light surrounds everything-in the grass, in the trees,
In between the bright-spoken leaves.  The leaves
Are bright green, so bright you have to wear sunglasses
To see past them.
This is what I imagine in wintertime, when it is so cold
I have to have the heat on 24/7, and when I go out
I am encircled by the coldness that reaches out into
Everything I touch, everything I see.
So forgive me if I want to see a little bit of summer

In wintertime.

A Pool of the Universe.

A Pool of the Universe

In the darkness, we dwell in a pool of
The universe.
The universe is vast.  It fills inside us like
A deep pool of water.
So deep, there is no ending or beginning.
It fills us up, up, up, and does not want to end.
There is a science of understanding that
The universe is vaster than this planet.
The planet whirls, spins, twirls.
Sometimes, it jumps off its axis and does
A dance near the sun.  It comes back again.
What little do we know about the universe!
How vast it is!  How grand!
DNA does not exist beyond the simplistic forms
Of it.
Aliens are on their alien planets-perhaps,
First on Mars or Jupiter.
Maybe they have their own space shuttles.
Maybe they dance with the universe-

As the universe dances.



The sight and sound of color does not exist.
It is a make-shift promise that belittles all else.
The wintertime is cold, colder than Hades,
And it goes through your entire body and into
Your bones.  Your bones are colder than you know.

The straightness of it, the grandness of winter-
Everything is moving slightly to the left.
The deceased will not dwell here,
The shadows will not move, ever so slight.
Some things are better left unsaid.

Color is like a movement that bends and waves.
Everything waves as if in a dream. 
We are born here, and then we die. 
The dying is simple in form; and then we rise
From our ashes.

Heaven takes flight.

No bones about it.

How To Break a Promise.

How To Break a Promise

This is the man that breaks the promise,
The time that is forgotten before the man.
Hope is not a withered stem of roses,
That glitters between the thorns.
We make leaps and bounds and sometimes
Fly through the sky on rocket ships,
And the quietness is so great that it makes
A loud boom-a sonic boom, if you will,
That gravitates towards a blackhole.
The understanding of time is nothing more
Than a blank page of misunderstanding,
I thought I was a scientist yesterday but today
I am a human being.  Or maybe I am an alien,
Trapped in a veil of withered veins,
An old man on his last life.  Sometimes he screams,
Sometimes he cries, sometimes he doesn’t realize
He is doing these things.  His arms and hands
Are a mesh of simple things,
And my dreams are hoped with vines.
The ravine is deep and dark and I can swim in its
Depthness.  Sometimes I can see my hand in front of
My face, other times I can’t even breathe.  The withering
Of time is broken, just like all those broken promises
And yesterdays that turned into storms of youth-
The rain was pitter-pattering on the ground,
The glass, the roof.  I couldn’t find my gloves until
Late January, they were packed, hidden, in the attic
Upstairs, and it took me so long to find them that I almost
Gave up.  But I bounced back and went outside in the cold,

And it felt exhilarating.  

Sunday, November 12, 2017

The Learning.

The Learning.

What now is learned, cannot be unlearned.
The grips of understanding are the lack of man.
Turn myself over the other hand-and judge yourself
Lest ye be judged.
The forest is full of wild beast, and just like man,
Finds himself wandering cold and alone.
His head is carved from Tempest’s stone.
The wandering is not the time for anything,
And I have set to myself to fall into an abyss,
The abyss that is myself.
She who cannot think deep thoughts will never
Understand the goddess of divinity, or the purity
Of the notion that one can be born without rule.
The color of the mind bends, and darkness is quiet.
Without us, darkness cannot rule.
Do you understand that the doubt in your mind
Creates rule, without a lack of understanding?
Without a lack of passion?  The thought is forsakened
By man alone, and judging what he wants,
He shall be ruled by greed.
Greed is the ruler of the planet, the ruler of the lion.
He stalks his prey.  He is a wonderer, not a wanderer,
And bleeds like a goddess bleeds.
His heart is not his own.  He dwells somewhere,

Far away into the nothingness of doubt.

Saturday, November 11, 2017

Published poem!

Here's a copy of my published poem:

Friday, November 10, 2017



The headache can be pinpointed to the back
Of my mind-a memory that slowly resurfaces.
Clutching a small doll, walking like a monkey
Towards my mother, all smiles.  Then I say, “Up!”
And she picks me up and takes me over to the couch,
Where I flop down and watch cartoons as my parents
Talk over morning coffee.  It is Saturday, and the bright
Sunshine pours into the small house-small, compared
To some, but large enough for me, because I didn’t
Understand money then.  No one told me what it was.
As I wait for my breakfast to be made, I watch cartoons,
Trying to find some sense in Wile E.
Coyote and the Road Runner-dumb names, I thought.
They should make up more interesting characters.
That was when I started making up stories to myself,
Then, as I grew older, I would write them down on paper,
And sell them for a nickel to my Grandma, who was
Always there for me, until she grew too old to take
Care of herself.  I remember the cookies she used to send
Us as care packages all the way from Florida,
Especially chocolate chip, which was my favorite.  The headache
Is pounding at my brain and I take some aspirin, trying
To keep myself from going into the alcohol cupboard for
A bottle of gin.
“Does alcohol age?” I ask myself, and I search for the answer


And She Thought of the Names of Her Children Would Be…

And She Thought of the Names of Her Children Would Be…

She sat staring at the parking lot, in the middle
Of winter, thinking about all the names she could name
Her unborn children.  Rome, Monte Carlo, or Garden City-
These names rolled off her tongue like red wine,
Places she dreamt of visiting before she would have the children
She was destined to have.  She thought she was supposed to
Have children.  She thought it was supposed to be her dream.
But the names of children-Sarah, Robert, Poinsettia-they didn’t
Feel right, they gave her an unsettling feeling in the back of
Her mind, the way a spider bite would, as if it were biting
Her insides, slowly emptying in the void she called her heart.
Even though she was married, she was bitterly lonely and thought
She might visit Mexico City one day and paint a portrait of a homeless
Man, perhaps someone she met outside a soup kitchen one day,
Just strolling around as if he had no care in the world.
That’s how she wanted her life to be like.  Walking about with no

Care in the world, homeless, but living off the land.

Wednesday, November 08, 2017

And She Was Thinking About the Man Who Said He Drove the Mercedes.

And She Was Thinking About the Man Who Said He Drove the Mercedes

“You need to leave the mountains,” he said to the girl behind
The counter, who was wearing a blue suede vest with sequins.
She had just gotten back from a party and was just starting her work-
She downed a cup of coffee, and asked him for his ID.
“I don’t have an ID, I have a driver’s license, stupid,” he said
In proud disgust, and handed it over to show her what he meant.
“What do you drive?” she asked him quickly, trying to steer
The conversation in another direction-perhaps from her earlier mistake.
“A Mercedes,” he replied.
“That’s good,” she said.  “Maybe I will leave the mountains.  I don’t feel
Like I’m doing anything worthwhile here, what with all the crime and
All, everything is getting chaotic.”
And everything was chaotic at the cafĂ©.  There were people from all over
The place who came there to drink coffee.  Coffee made up of
Hopes and dreams, coffee made up of broken promises.
Sometimes, couples would go there, kissing and holding hands,
And the waitress would look on at them with a sigh in her mind,
And she would dream of the day when she, she would have someone
To kiss, to hold, to talk to, but she was always alone, alone in a way
That implied she was lonely, always reading books, going out alone,
Watching tv alone, taking a shower alone.  She would remember
The times a man would talk to her, and she remembered a man,
The one who said he drove a Mercedes, and she thought maybe he was
Single, perhaps not taken, but that didn’t sit well in her stomach and her
Mind drifted elsewhere, to another time and place.
“You need to leave the mountains,” he said.

She thought about that some.

Tuesday, November 07, 2017

Freedom In the City.

Freedom In the City

The lights from the glow of the city streets
Beckoned me from my window.
I was a Scottish woman, driven to America by hate
And greed, and this was the first time I felt a little
Thrill of excitement at being on my own.
I had just arrived to Columbus, Ohio, the night before
From Scotland-having nothing with me but a garbage
Bag full of old clothes and food I needed to take
With me.
I wasn’t looking for anything but freedom, which was
Rare in those days, rare in the way that women weren’t
Really supposed to have any freedom, that my parents
Just wanted me to marry someone I wasn’t really in love
With, an older man with a degree in Engineering and who
Slept too much and drank too much and wanted me to cook
And clean.
I didn’t want to live a life like that.  I wanted to live a life
Making my own decisions and doing my own thing, marrying
Who I wanted and taking any job I please-anything but a
Homemaker, I thought, as was the style at the time for young
Women exactly like me.
Most women weren’t like me at all, I was a red head out of so many
Brown heads, a duck in a meadow full of swans.
I even walked like a duck, but I didn’t talk like a duck, I had an
Extensive vocabulary that my mother didn’t much like-she was brought
Up to be a homemaker and not focus on schooling, which was
What I was doing.
I moved to get away from her, to be able to think and do as I please,
And to find my own light in a world full of darkness.
The city lights beckoned me and I jumped out of the window of my
Apartment and climbed down the ladder, and wandered about
The city until I found a place to belong to.  Which is really what

We’re all trying to do, isn’t it?  

Friday, November 03, 2017

A small request.

Please vote for my nephew he can win some money:

Just click on the stars.  He is the police officer.

Rebelling Against My Parents.

Rebelling Against My Parents

My father used to work at a radio station before
He became an author.
Standing six foot two at two hundred pounds,
He was my mother’s only lover-long, black hair
And a black bomber jacket, he rode around in a Harley,
Shouting slurs to dumb blondes and country waitresses,
Wishing they would ride on the back of his Harley
With him.
He thought there was something going on between
Every woman he met-online or in person, from the grocery
Store to the library, which I forced him to take me to every
Sunday, just so I could get my hands on a copy of poetry
Magazines that I wanted to submit to as an adult.
I wrote poetry as a child but they weren’t nearly quite good
Enough as the best of the best as I called them-Sylvia Plath;
Phillip Levine; Maxine Kumin, whatever I could get my hands on,
Even the underground poets of the dark web, as my mother referred
To it, since, as a teenager, I wasn’t supposed to talk to people
Online, but I did it anyway, deep in the night when the
Darkness all but thrums in my head, getting me drunk on the
Excitement of getting caught, but not getting drunk from
Alcohol, since I wasn’t supposed to drink any at
That age.
I still don’t drink, and maybe that was one thing that my
Parents taught me, how to be rebellious without getting

Yourself into too much trouble.

Torn Between the Autumn Wind, and the Night Sky Poem.

Torn Between the Autumn Wind, and the Night Sky

It is autumn.
The stillness of the night has awakened me.
It is an internal reverence.
The wind whispers through the autumn leaves.
I am torn between the quietness of my room,
And the sound of the wind-which seems to carry
Voices and floats towards me through the window like rain.

But it is not raining.  The sky is clear and it is midnight.
I walk outside down a darkened road, and no one
Is around but myself.  It is I alone, except me
And the autumn wind, which caresses my face,
My hair, sighing longingly like a lover.

“Come,” sighs the wind, “come play,” as if he were
A child, instead of something that cannot be seen.
There is a break in the clouds, and the moon shines
Down on me, spilling light like a yellow brick road
Towards Oz.

Maybe there is an Oz, and maybe I should find it.

But it is autumn and I must go back home and sleep.