Your best chance for your seed to implant is
The hot quent of my aunt from Atlantis
When she gets in the groove
You can feel the Earth move --
Chanters rant, but we know the risk scant is!
Since when again
Did grown men,
Clad in Death's hue,
Snarling, snapping
Like eager dogs of war
Warrant our excuses?
Their prey, again: Men, common, poor,
Humble men
Whose dark sin
Is hoping, working, and Mothers, fears trebled;
For Children, mate,
And lastly self.
And then most coarsely
The eyes of the Innocents,
Pulled from schools
Churches, Grandmas.
Understanding naught
Save fear, and
Daddy's gone.
The dogs of Hate
Surround, contain,
Hate and fool-fed fear
Fuel abuses
As they simply
"Follow orders."
Have we lost lessons
From Nuremberg?
Do Dachau, Auschitz,
And the frozen camps
Of Siberia
No longer urge,
Weep and warn?
Who gave hate
The bullhorn again?
Will we avert eyes,
Harden hearts
Excuse evil?
Will we feign the same
Naive blindness
To the trains,
To the pains,
The pleas?
May our hearts
Be melted,
Minds mended,
Resolute rightness
Returned,
Lest the High Court
Of tomorrow's
Hindsight
Condemn us for our
Complacency.
A world of color opened up
This week
As I crossed Sourland Mountain to work
Dim tones
Barely emergent
On the branches
Tiny, almost indiscernible dots
Of pigment
Where pointillism, Impressionism and stippling
All intersext
The spring is a series
Of tiny points
The woods now speckled with soft hues
Pollen thrusting outward
Emerging neon green
That color of leaves pushing
The deep red of oaks and maples
Tiny colored tines of fruit trees
Ivory apple flowers
Pears of purple
Cherry pink flowers…
All emerging
Pressing out
Birthing and being borne
I feel that energy
And I too am stimulated
Engorged…
That technicolor world
Of leaves
That cycle of ends on ends
Everything awake
And intent
One giant vibration
The world waking up and
Getting off
This phase of the cycle
Waking
Life emerging
And coming out
And everything before
After
And in be-fucking-tween
The Poet, Too Tired to Come Up with a Title,
Offers This Gratuitously Self-Important Phrase Instead
I've been quite indisposed. Like plain sick.
So my poetry hasn't much kick.
Thus, this weak little thing
That (half coughing) I sing—
A quite sad, limerickian shtick.
I wonder if you'll miss me when I'm gone.
Our life together hasn't been the best,
but back when times were good, our love was strong.
We've been together oh so very long
our separation gets me quite depressed.
I wonder if you'll miss me when I'm gone
or if it wouldn't matter. You've moved on,
I guess, in ways I haven't yet addressed.
I'm stuck where times were good and love was strong.
It leaves me in denial—sad, withdrawn,
and thinking all the time like one obsessed, I wonder if she'll miss me when I'm gone
or if, in future, you'll suppress a yawn
when asked if you remember my caress
back when times were good and love was strong.
I can't believe how things all went so wrong.
I really thought our life together blessed
back then when times were good and our love strong.
I wonder if you'll miss me when I'm gone.
I want you to give your body to me one more time.
It’s not what’s going to make things right
And it’s not what you may need.
I’m selfish like that.
I want you to bring yourself to me
Surrendering your lips.
Because that is the easiest way for me to
Fool your heart into my bed.
I’m counting on your past showings
Of weakness for contact of flesh
For my sheets to once more welcome your wetness.
I will tell you these lines in hopes that…
You not answer your phone!
Flatly deny my advances!
Letting me know you have the strength
To serve the desires of no one but yourself.
We talked again last night
We do that more of late.
Now I hear him, absent fright,
He said things; we could relate.
I used to throw things
Prayers and curses
Psalms that I would sing
And random Bible verses.
He called me ugly, undesired
Said i'm not really wanted
Not even by the kids i sired:
Truth; i couldn't be affronted.
He pointed out my lovely mate
Wouldn’t touch for love nor money
He mocked my loveless sexless fate
And said he found it very funny.
He nodded to the gun safe, big, black,
Sitting in the dark bedroom corner
Suggested to me that with all I lack
My next exam should be the coroner.
We'd had this talk a time or ten
He goading me to pull a trigger
I never thought at all back then
I'd see the attraction getting bigger.
When I finally left him, went to bed
She woke, asked who I was talking to,
Tired of hiding truth I just plainly said
"His name's Legion, all he says is true."
She just rolls away and sleeps
Unaware that the one beside her
Once again lays awake and weeps,
Still and evermore a sad outsider.
When she made babka
I'd grind walnuts into a jar
shaped like a smiling lady
and when it was full I'd sprinkle
nuts into cinnamon-scented batter.
Fridays when she made challah
I'd watch her deft hands braid,
then daydream next to the heat register,
warm by the rising dough.
There is no comfort, no safety
so all encompassing that even
my lover's arms couldn't offer
such security as Mama's kitchen
where she and Bubbe spoke mamaloshen, the language
of the heart.
The morning still held
a whisper of spring’s softness.
Cool grass kissed my feet
as I walked barefoot—
to breathe, to think,
to meet the quiet
mother nature brings.
And then I saw—a glint,
a sparkle on a blade of grass.
Smiling, I bent down to pick,
thinking it's dew, a morning gift.
But calm can mask—
and pain comes fast.
A sting.
Blood welled up
from my finger
brushed against
a hidden razor blade
thrown by careless hands
into the heart of our green land.
Though the wound was light—
the feeling wasn’t bright.
A garden is meant to heal,
to soothe the soul
and lift the day.
And yet,
our thoughtlessness
waits like blades in the grass.
Let us tread with care—
for nature gives freely,
but we must not take from her
and leave behind harmful things.
And this haiku, to remember:
I bend down to pick,
trinket from the blade of grass—
blood oozed from the cut.
On Via Fiorentine, we saw dark Somnambulic figures hover upon the steps
of Santa Maria Novella, under summer night skies
Hoping for a reprieve.
In the cooler morning, the nuns scurried in and around
the church grounds,
And formless beings hung and fluttered lazily
From clothes-lines, as mothers chirped across the way
Medici-dreaming, we traversed the river Arno,
And under the noontide sun, stole away
Upon rickety carriages towards Sienna to walk
On Gramsci's cobble-stoned heart. The buses never came.
What foolish minstrels sang for us that afternoon
In a nameless piazza and kiss-wrapped our futures
In a box of melted stars? Do they still sing today, does the
I remember the taste of wild cherries
stolen from a neighbor’s fence—
sun-warmed, skin-split,
bleeding red down my chin like joy
trying to escape my body.
I was nine.
And for a second,
it was enough.
But even sweetness has a spine.
And I learned young
to chew around the pits.
To smile while swallowing
the things that could choke me.
Laughter came in bursts—
loud, but careful,
like we feared joy might alert the storm.
Daddy's voice was thunder behind closed doors.
Mama's silence,
a faucet left dripping in another room,
wearing down the sink.
I remember the bike I never rode.
Bought secondhand.
Handlebars bent like broken promises.
It sat in the yard like freedom I didn’t deserve.
And when I touched it,
I heard her say I was ungrateful.
Heard her say I was too much.
Heard them both
before I heard my own name.
We painted the walls yellow.
They said it was the color of light.
But no color could brighten
a house that taught me
quiet was survival
and love was earned
by becoming small enough
to not be noticed.
I still flinch
when someone offers me happiness too quickly.
Still trace the outlines of old wounds
when people call me strong.
Because strength was never a choice—
it was the only thing I was allowed to carry
when tenderness went missing.
I look back sometimes—
at hopscotch chalk and Kool-Aid grins,
at scraped knees and cartoon mornings—
and I want to believe it was simple.
But the light there always came through blinds,
slatted,
angled,
never quite whole.
So if I seem bitter now,
if my joy has thorns,
understand—
it’s not that I don’t want to bloom.
It’s just that I was taught that gardens lie.
That beauty comes with bruises.
And that everything sweet
has a price
you can’t always afford to pay
twice.
Ox-tongue in blood broth
And Sunday gun-metal fog.
Apparitions strut and fret
In a dumb show.
On an evening, the traitor
Wails on Duncan's angel wings.
These days, after the haunting
Cries of the Lady of perfumed Arabia
I see my Sisters in moorish dreams,
Fair-foul incantations. I sense another
Second-coming.
A witches' brew to whet the prophetic stone.
"The gains made in the past forty years
By black and brown Americans,
And by homosexuals will be wiped out.
Jocular contempt for women
Will come back into fashion."*
*These are the words of Historian Richard Rorty who predicted the Trump phenomenon in 1998:
"The nonsuburban electorate will decide that the system has failed and start looking around for a strongman to vote for—someone willing to assure them that, once he is elected, the smug bureaucrats, tricky lawyers, overpaid bond salesmen, and postmodernist professors will no longer be calling the shots. . . . One thing that is very likely to happen is that the gains made in the past forty years by black and brown Americans, and by homosexuals, will be wiped out. Jocular contempt for women will come back into fashion. . . . All the resentment which badly educated Americans feel about having their manners dictated to them by college graduates will find an outlet"