Monthly Archives: December 2017

Red Wine, Red Morning

New Year’s Eve, as the sun rises

Behind my house.

Bottle of wine, warmth in my chest,

Deceptive, like the changing of

The year.

The world is the world.


A war is coming, and we all burn

Paradise for profit, and God long

Abandoned us to our tears

And our demons.

The year changes, but nothing is

Ever closer to peace.


The stars retreat, a fading tide rolled back,

And the ocean of sunlight is crashing

Its waves on the sky.

Still drunk, still too afraid to hope,

I look on a new year almost here,

Knowing nothing else will change.


Lilac and Blue

Lilac and blue,

The sacred colors

Left behind;

What I cannot remember.


A ghost in dust,

That hides you away,

The desert vast, cold.

I choke on my tears.


In dreams we play.

I was not left behind.

You are whole, not an angel.

I can hug you close.


Winter, snow here.

The desert bitter, like me.

Bring her back,

And all the years between.

Sealed Fountain

Teresa is walking along the edge
Of the fountain,
Her heels off, held in her hands,
She is barefoot.
Too late to kiss the stars, one by one,
Her clothes immaculate.

World’s Fair Park, as the sun rises, Solstice.
A star falls.
She is lingering here, her footsteps counted.
Leviathan watches her.
We danced together, slow sway, sappy ballad.
Now a memory.

I catch her as she jumps from the edge.
Leviathan purrs blasphemy.
She is warm, soft and a reminder I am lost.
Leviathan is sealed.
She will fly out tonight to Bucharest, beloved.
No perfumed gardens.

Wonders of the Sky

She walks barefoot on the cooling rock,
As the desert begins to coldly sleep
As the warring sun falls away.

She is lingering here, as sunlight
Fades away, to whisper in starlight her hope,
That he is kind.

Barefoot outside in summer, free,
This sharp fanged Eden that passes
On now.

Starlight prayers are true in trembling
Voices, quiet hearts. Enough to light
The girlish dreams.

Standing before the old gnarled tree that
Was once something more, forbidden fruit,
She knows what time has come.

Under starlight, she walks the path that
Can no longer lead her to the wonders of
The sky.

The last time it can lead her home.


The girl on the bike is outside my window.

She is there in the night whenever I wake.
Long honeyed hair haloed by the streetlight.
Navy blue hoodie, khaki shorts, her armor.
She is still 17, a spirit of restless, angry furies.
She is the thorn in my mind, prick of regret.
Spirit or her incanted avatar, still I feel shame.
She is still 17, and when I was 17 I left her behind,
I lay in bed sometimes, and see through her eyes.
The soft gold of streetlamps in empty suburban streets.
The hidden groves where stars crown her head.
What the moonlight reveals to the still of heart.
She loved me, Angel, a true companion in the night.
I led her on from a holy moment, kissing on Christmas Eve.
The snow falling in fat flakes, wet and veiling the world.
The moonlight in her hair, such starlight in her eyes.
Soon after I was gone, chasing a succubus that ruined me.
I sleep alone, and when I wake she is there outside.
On her silver and chrome BMX that she rode to Eden.
Bikes to run these streets and make kingdoms of them.
We didn’t have cars but we had the world as ours.
I watch her, want to call her in, but there’s no going back.
No forgiveness or recompense. No wiping it all away.
Those dark eyes remind me of what could have been.
The regret, the shame and guilt, never ending punishment.
Then she rides away, onto the angels and forbidden grace.
Her hood up, her hair tied up underneath it, free from me.
I am still here, having blown every chance, ruining myself.
She is free and adored by heaven, and I cannot follow.

The Beauty of a Passing Desire

Snowy night, 2am, Christmas Morning.
All night convenience store, The Fort.
Coming for some hot, black coffee,
Just to escape my choking room.

Sip gently from the cup, still burn my tongue.
Watch the wet snowflakes put on a mask,
Make this dingy neighborhood look clean.
The cold puts the lie to a world reborn.

There’s a young woman standing by the freezer
Where you get the bags of ice out front.
She is lingering here, smoking a cigarette,
Her eyes distant, harsh and so wide open.

I smile at her, and she gives a small one back.
She’s strong and tough, with short, pixie hair.
Amazon and dreamer, staring me down.
I look away, sip my coffee, with its futile warmth.

I walk back to my apartment, my knit hat
Becoming wet, my lungs sore in the cold,
Making in my mind a vision of the young woman, so I can write these words now.

The beauty of a passing desire.

Slate Blank Sea

Thin and petite, lithe and strong.
Tight black capris. Light blue button down.
Walking, carefully, slowly, on the sea wall.
She looks down at her feet,
one tenderly placed in front of the other,
on the high wire between earth and sky.
She walks, all the way to the end of the wall,
doesn’t falter, doesn’t trip, no false step.
She passed the test, will be welcomed into heaven.
She jumps off at the end, onto the grey sand,
the colorless beach, to slate blank sea,
and watches the horizon.
Is she waiting for something, for the angels,
for Jesus to come in glory, for her final reward?
Or is it just the peace of the moment?

I Wish I Could See Mermaids Again

Rhonda is swimming, in her bright red bikini,
her long dark hair still tied up in a ponytail,
in the cold, deep river running through our home town,
a place we know beyond remembrance.
It’s spring again, and everything is green, but rains
may not be coming soon, or they’ll only come in black storms,
that wipe away all that is growing and good here.
Might push this city into the river itself, hungry, eternal
Rhonda grabs my hand, and we dive into the waters,
cold and deep and dark and full of things we don’t want to know.
We surface and she pulls me close, kisses me softly.
Our bodies floating together, like angels out in space.
And everything is green and bright and warm,
and it’s another day that makes it easy to ignore
all that’s crumbling and falling away and will be lost.
It’s green and bright so we pretend it always will be.
Rhonda swims too shore, gets a soda out of the cooler,
and drinks greedily of it, her favorite treat, favored vice.
I look down the river, wishing I could see mermaids again,
the wild creatures my family hunted to extinction.

Cold Rain, Christmas Morn

Sophie’s long, dark hair is tied up and hidden
in the hood of her thick, navy blue sweatshirt.
Her chipped, bitten nails show as she holds
a flute of red wine, watching the cold rain.
It is Christmas Morning.
The Fort, seems like a forgotten kingdom now,
empty and dark with these closed in streets.
We watch it from our balcony with our wine,
with the rinky dink white flashing lights on the rail.
Jesus is born. It can be new again.
Platonic friends, which makes it perfect here,
not saying a word, just looking out on our world.
Soon we’ll go see family, and feel we belong there.
So often strangers in this city, this whole bloody world.
You can be clean again. You can be whole again.

I Carry Those Scars

The young woman, who’d lived wild and free and easy,
and who had those scars,
played with the toddler girl, on the edge of the pool.
Young woman, too close to a child, but too far from innocence.
And all these young ones, drawn to children,
who were true and free, who had what had been lost.
They splashed at the water, blue and clear as sky above,
and they laughed, and made up games,
and by accident spoke the names of angels.
The toddler would one day be like the young woman,
wild and free and easy and would have those scars,
and would be drawn to children just like her.
Those who still had what was lost.
Generations turning in corruption and loss.
And I am the same. I am one lost. Wild and free and easy.
I carry those scars.
And I laugh now with a child, and we make up games
and accidently speak the names of angels.
For a moment, my heart doesn’t ache.