Category Archives: poetry


Let it all go, like autumn leaves on a river.

Let the world break. Let the stars shiver.

You and me, making a life up the highway.

No more bosses to please or bills to pay.

The sky bright red and every bleeding hue.

Baby I’m yours. Baby I am so in love with you.

We’re children rolling on the morning tide.

We’re leaving the world. We’re taking a ride.

You curled up, dreaming and asleep,

as over your face the new sun creeps.

A life where he can’t break you down.

A life we’re you’ll get your wedding gown.

Up the highways something good is waiting.

I’ll taking you there, never hesitating.



Mistrust Rose From Angels’ Misrule

She looked back, unsure, unsettled.

There was an unhappiness in her today.

She didn’t know why.


It was getting harder to talk to others.

The words were useless, like the grease

encrusted papers after eating your meal.


Like those papers, they once held something

of worth, but what was off worth had been taken,

and only the husks and wrappers remained.



There was a young woman she wanted to know.

A young woman, cocksure and brave and strong.

That one seemed untroubled, unbowed, unashamed.


She’d see her, perhaps on her lunchbreak, smoking,

idly scrolling her phone, looking out on all the people.

Her eyes seemed like an eagles, bent on finding prey.


She always turned away from that young woman.

Kept her head down, looked at her feet, muttered.

She felt unworthy, as if an angel looked, found her wanting.



Market Square, crowded at lunch time, so much noise.

She walked, still looking back, still unsettled and disquieted.

The world was outside of her grasp, her knowledge, her hope.


Her heart ached. Mistrust rose from angels’ misrule. Banal chatter.

She made her way to her favorite vegan restaurant, already packed.

She waited for a table outside, feeling it all close in, a psychic vice.


And she looked back, at the little park, and the little dogwood trees.

She couldn’t say why, but she wanted to be there, among the shade.

A forest was once big enough to swallow her. Now had only shoals.

Lucifer and Gold

I might write a name, sacred and held close, to recall a person back.

I might write a word, profane and proud, to believe they were there.

I might prick a finger, make a drop of blood, to call all the demons to me.


What might I say, as they are gone forever, not looking back, out in the plains?

Where might I go tonight, to find someone else that will be a ghost in September?

What can be made from candle wax and honeycomb and thought chasing starlight?


Fall will be cooler, the only soothing part of it, as masks are only my stock and trade.

A vampire and a devil might walk past my door on All Hallows Eve, but no curses come.

I made an idol of passion, neglected bravery, and did give Lucifer gold freely today.


Fall will be cooler, but not much else. Darker, with the trees naked and sleeping.

I will walk those narrow streets stuffed with houses, an dead orange leaves melted.

I will walk until a ghost comes for me, in the smell of wet earth, and cotton candy mist.

Barely Breathe

Constance wears a blue and white swimsuit, cheap sunglasses, a pewter saint medal.

She looks out on the sea, briny wind stiffening her short and punky and bleached hair.

The mermaids are out there, pissed and perplexed, ready to make war on us in earnest.

They are easy in the water, and in the dark so far from here, and she can barely breathe.


Saints are filled with anger, just like the prophets, but are human in their denial of flesh.

Constance’s lips ache for the kisses that a lover can give, soft and tender, a carnal piety.

The mermaids watch her past the breakers, but she will not go to them, no more baptism.

Baptised in a Hollywood swimming pool, and drowned in the guilt of men’s faith.


The water that was mother’s womb, the warmth of dreams of becoming, that was free.

The mermaids swim close, but no one pays them no mind, for only angels are welcomed.

Tenderness can corrupt, and that lover broke Constance’s heart, and only hunger remains.

The water does not clean, and she is not native to the cold depths, only wishing to go in.

Races, Shootouts, and Air Hockey

Daisy, so bright and free,

As we play in the arcade,

Races, shootouts, and air hockey.


You win and cry out proudly,

Hands above your head,

Every bit of you flushed with pride.


I may lose, but I win, seeing you

So happy, so pleased, so cocksure,

So beautiful in your happiness.


Bouncing around the mall,

You buy a poster of your celeb crush,

And I buy a shirt for a favorite band.


Eat ice cream by the fountain,

You talk about your novel writing

And a planned tripped to Tel-Aviv.


I feel so peaceful, so sure, with you,

And all the glitter in your voice,

All the manna in your smile.


I steal a quick picture, as you

Blow a bubble with your gum,

The goofball in the brave woman.


And later, I look at it,

Sitting in the dark of my room,

Trying to hold onto that perfect night.


Trying to hold onto you.

Blue and White

Did she come to the sea? Did she walk into those summer waters?

She wore costume angel wings, and devils came as sadistic plotters.

August, still so warm and bright, before school and senior year began.

Is she hidden remains in tall grass? A bright star in heaven’s endless span?


Blue and white bathing suit. The mark of her sainthood, indifference to boys.

The sun bleached hair, long bangs over her blue eyes, such aghast, lost decoys.

The brackish salt water marshes are the lost kingdoms of King John the Brave.

That monarch was on TV, in a popular show, supposed a guide for her to behave.


It’s September, many years after, and I still see her out of the corner of my eye.

Like poets see dragons in lazy clouds, and church ladies see Jesus in turkey on rye.

I loved her in a selfish and greedy way. Making amends, I search the littered fields.

Bring even bones home will soothe spirits, but not heal.  No grace to this evil yields.


I Don’t Know About Grace

I don’t know about grace, or how to love easily.

I dream of her coming close, and touching my face.

Hesitant fingers, tender and exploring, finding light.

Summer is here forever, no winter now in which to sleep.


Her second hand, semi-reliable scooter, driving to the

edge of town, to that little used book store, as sun fades.

Me holding on tight to her, never doubting I am safe.

There are dark clouds above, but rain never comes.


In dark aisles and dusty books and thick, stale air,

we’ll look for some forgotten thing, some great vision

that will make sense of our hopes or our devouring fears.

October no longer brings the chill of the dead coming back.

Glass Coffins

My old attic room, white walls and rock or horror movie posters.

She was asleep in the old upholstered chair, curled and crumpled.

I took her picture with a disposable camera left over from vacation.


Her shoulder length chestnut hair fell over her closed eyes, a pallisade.

Her cheeks were soft and warm, a fair face, despite blemishes, redness.

I thought of Sleeping Beauty, glass coffins, soft kisses, things almost outgrown.


I put down the little camera, laid down on my bed, and let her sleep awhile.

Sunday Evening, tomorrow back to school, and the desire to escape this world.

The TV at the foot of my bed chirped endlessly, the menu screen to an abandoned game.


Cleaning out the room years later, the house empty and about to be sold off.

In a left behind box of curious, I found the picture again, that long ago moment.

With her gone from my life now, but tender feelings remaining, a boring afternoon


seems now perfect.



Cemetery Poem

Beneath the soft green grass,

beneath the rolling hill,

I lay in the deep brown earth,

I lay there still.


I knew a woman,

she was my wife.

She was my companion,

in the days of life.


I had a daughter,

so loving and bright.

She grew strong

and was my best delight.


Those years in my soul,

as the world goes on,

fill my dreams in this night,

and touches the dawn.


My wife and daughter are here,

they too dream and sleep,

we, a family in this cemetery,

where the Spanish Moss creep.


And if you pass by, stay a moment,

know you to will come to earth,

that a moment in the sun,

is all that’s given at birth.

Bare Limbs

She asked me to go on a winter hike,

the snow still bright and unturned

up in the high mountains, dense forest.


She is wearing a white and teal beanie

with the fleur-de-lis, and a blue jacket.

I almost lose her in the white snow and sky.


St. Joan, her heroine, crowned a king in war.

She is a saint, most common kind, of little things.

The opened hand, the kind word, soft embraces.


We walk up the path in silence, in harsh breaths,

and little tears from the biting winds, rapid hearts.

Without words we carry no weight or loss with us.


It’s her birthday. The snow was falling in 1977, too.

The days or the stars or the season are not crowns.

The height to see the distant forests is her pilgrimage.


At the top, we stand and look at the bare limbs in snow,

all the blight and burning hidden by the nakedness of winter.

She wraps and arm around my shoulders, and squeezes, silent.


The sacred is without words, prayers unuttered in their purity.

We drink hot, black coffee from a thermos, scolding and bitter.

I am at peace and at ease with her. I am a quiet angel once more.