Deep in our burning bowl,
colorless carp writhe along
river veins, concealed under
hydrangea tears. In the
coming days, good citizens,
carved from ivory and
emerald, will be driven beneath
browning branches and into cool
corners with strawberry-butterscotch
stars swimming in their eyes. Those
who endure shall frolic in
chrysanthemum’s shadow.
Category Archives: free verse
The Tranquil Tiger
Rippling crystal becomes bistered and soiled,
staining learned thumbs with mud from this noble
land. Immature garnet tresses lay slumped beside
woven palm leaf, gasping for air with the fire of our
founder on their faces. They will never know the
power of their ancestors, those heaven sent messengers
with twisted fingers, blighted by warts, but which smell
of tropical winds. One quick slice and a tiger’s hide
is exposed. Stripped of black bands, the beast is tamed,
becoming a willing servant to body’s desires.
Untitled
Like a stretched-out cat, she gazes into a
melting mirror but does not know herself.
Her reflection stares back vacantly, neither
offering insight into past’s predicaments nor
future’s footsteps.
Apricot Moon
That droning throat buried in
his fingers, cracked and tanned as
barren earth, narrates the tenderness
of our times.
Into the wind, from hoping souls,
agile lungs stain this burning night
with the bittersweet shades
of our days.
Somewhere past midnight,
but well before dawn, silence
falls betwixt brandied cheeks,
yet our hearts wail on.
Honey Girl
Eyes not yet open,
hidden in warm honey,
stare into comforting darkness,
searching for safety.
Will you look upon me,
or shall my face be your
eternal, distant,
advocate?
Eyes not yet open,
hidden in a flourishing orchard,
refuse to see the
dangers that await them.
Shall I look upon you,
or will your face be my
lone, unknowable, lantern
in life’s teeming tide?
neither shadow nor shape
To cast a shadow in
a land without light
is the fight of giants.
Blessed are those who
stretch for high heaven
to burned-out beacons,
unaware of their bite.
Nowhere to be seen, but
in the clouds, we shall meet.
Dinah’s Day
Salt-smudged mud, square-toed Oxfords;
hard leather heels flap like blackbirds
through a New York morning swarm.
Time don’t wait for crusty-eyed snails
full of midnight gin and tipsy tales.
That green-fisted fiend snaps at her back,
whatever the score, he’ll beg for more.
Those chords don’t tweet for love alone,
but for now, she owns the throne.
Return to Sender
In a tan station wagon, cruising up Fifteenth Street,
we were mere seedlings, aching to shoot up from our
earthen pots.
Bare bones in the breeze, floating on the back of a
Victory-8, murmur of deprivation from the
shadows of their lives.
Meet me by the streetlight next to the mailbox that is
no longer there (you know the one); I shall wrap you in
the balmy blankets of 1996.
arc of the day
The arc of the day
slips beyond your eyes,
tapping you on the back
before you can see it.
You sense it just as its
rays meet your retinas.
Its startling grasp shines
softly off your school shoes,
working its way into your
pocket, knocking you to your
knees…head hanging low.
Cards From Yourself
Invisible letters,
which never blessed
your hands, were
drafted on the night
when you first wept.
Her words were branded
upon you cheek
during the penultimate
painful yet powerful push.
Listen to your heartbeat;
its pulse is her precept,
offered up to you.
sundry folly 