Poemas de Laton Pulido

Laton pulido son mis poemas,

frotados con limon hasta que brillan.

Intenté tenirlos en mi rebozo

pero el mundo querían ver,

el sustento ganar

Hasta ahora han hecho dos dolares

meno la comision de Ray

Me pregunto,

como sobreviran?

Polished Brass Poems (Hebrew)

שִׁירֵי פְּלִיז מְלֻטָּשׁ

שִׁירַי עֲשׂוּיִים מִפְּלִיז מְלֻטָּשׁ,

מְשֻׁפְשָׁפִים בְּלִימוֹנִים עַד שֶׁהֵם זוֹהֲרִים.

נִסִּיתִי לִשְׁמֹר אוֹתָם לְעַצְמִי

אֲבָל הֵם רָצוּ לִרְאוֹת אֶת הָעוֹלָם,

לְהַרְוִיחַ אֶת הַחֲזֵקוֹתָם.

עַד כֹּה הֵם הִרְוִיחוּ שְׁנֵי דּוֹלָר,

לֹא כּוֹלֵל עַמְלָתוֹ שֶׁל רֵיי.

אֵיךְ הֵם יִסְתַּדְּרוּ?/

Love Poems

Imperfect Love 

True perfection,

the Persian weavers felt,

belonged to God alone

and so they left

a tiny flaw

in every carpet that they wove.

And that is why I love you,

not for your raging beauty

or your tender Latin heart

but for the blue vein

which crosses your shoulder

like a river going nowhere,

the overripe sag of your breasts

that once let pencils drop,

your spindly legs

which barely hold your frame,

the frizzy strands of hair

that can’t decide

despite the coiffeur’s best attempts

which way to fall.

Tell me your dreams

in a scratchy voice

like old blues records.

Describe the womens

that you met today

and inform me that

they’re coming until nine.

Don’t change one brushstroke,

don’t alter one sound,

don’t polish your grammar.

Stay exactly as you are.

(originally published in Vine Leaves Literary Journal)

Speak to Me

With your enigmatic smile

you were my Giaconda,

pouring out your sympathy like wine,

keeping your feelings bottled up inside

like aged liqueur.

You greeted our son’s death

with stoic silence,

numbing your grief with cigarettes

and concealing the butts in tuna cans,

Cancer creased your lovely face

like brittle leather,

they shaved your head and stitched you  up

like a rag doll

and all you had to say was,

“It always could be worse.”

Your feelings were shrouded

like the drenched Hawaiian landscape

on the last big trip we took together

the sunsets reduced to a blurry haze,

the tops of the mountains cut off,

but still oh so beautiful.

Look at these photographs.

Do you remember how

the whales breached  in the blue beyond,

the white bellies of the mantas

grazed  the divers’ heads

as they fed on plankton in the harbor lights,

how the fiery lava from Kilauea

slid into the sea,

disappearing but building something new?

If you can hear me, answer.

Speak.

(originally published in Third Wednesday)

A Small Love Song

My sadness was a heavy stone

That only you could lift,

My life a ragged shirt

Turned inside out

You patched the holes

And helped me

Get the sleeves on right

My heart an empty husk

Discarded on the road

You picked it up

And filled it with your kindness

My song a lifeless dirge

You placed my head

Against your breast

And hummed a comparsita,

Rocking me to

The rhythm of your heartbeat

The cadence of your breath

(originally published in South Townsville Micro Poetry Journal)

Kite Flying at Crump Park

I searched for you

in early morning reveries

and midnight dreams,

turning in my sleep

until the covers

lay  entangled at my feet.

but you had left

no forwarding address

and there was silence from your grave.

So I composed a poem for you

of all the tender words

that had remained unsaid between us.

I wrote it on the streamer of a kite,

praying that the wind would find you.

Your grandson insisted on drawing

a bright red heart at the end

for the Mimi he had never known

I hoped the purple dragon

with its fire-breathing nostrils

would not offend you.

I knew you would have preferred

monkeys,

the children’s favorite animal,

but the store was all sold out.

We raced across the field,

I unwinding the spool

and your grandson clutching

the last bit of line.

A gaggle of sleek black geese

scattered in our wake.

Let go, I cried.

The kite performed a somersault

and slowly started to climb.

I alternately tugged  and let out twine

until

reaching the end of the spool,

the dragon broke free at last.

Soaring higher still

in the boundless azure sky,

it shrank to the size of

the dot in the question mark

which follows the words,

where are you.

(originally published in The Poet’s Haven)/

Footprints

there was no time to say goodbye

she left him in mid-breath

her letters piled on the kitchen table

unopened

her e-mails choking her inbox         

unanswered

her voice still on the machine

apologizing for her absence

when he visited her grave

he kissed the tips of his fingers

and caressed the stone

as if he were touching her features

her friends placed rocks and seashells

on the gilded name and dates

but he proffered only memories

and his offering grew smaller every year

as he struggled to remember

he travelled to the places where they’d met

seeking traces of their passage

but the footprints were all worn away

the old, familiar faces gone

their quaint seaside hotel now seemed

small and shabby,

its puzzled owner wondering

why he’d come

grey-haired and bleary-eyed

with a photo of a woman

his father might have recognized

had he still been alive

the secluded cove

where they first made love

was littered with bronze bodies now

and watched by tall white condos

with an unobstructed view

of the flat green sea.

it was only when he held

his daughter’s newborn girl

searching for his breast

that he recalled his late wife fully

cradling the baby’s sole

in the palm of his hand

he wondered what footprints

it would make

(originally published in Leaves of Ink)

In Your Hands

In your hands, the fuchsia,

which had never lasted,

survived the winter

and bloomed again in spring.

At the first sign of frost,

you took them in and placed them

in a warm spot by the window,

caring for them daily.

Just as you’d brought me in

and sustained me through

a dark part of my life.

Just as you’d sheltered from the storm

a Maine Coon cat

who showed up at our door

like a hefty matron in a thick fur coat.

You called her “Misty” for “mysterious”

and while the wind shrieked,

she birthed five healthy kittens

in the upstairs bathroom,

who you named Bello, Cloud,

Neblina, Asteroid, and Spunky.

There was so much blood

I thought at first that tiny rats

were gnawing at her stomach,

but you knew better.

You stroked the mother

with your willowy fingers

and smiled at the thought

of all that new life.

(originally published in Literary Yard)

our world

our world consists of this and

nothing more:

our clothes co-mingled on the floor

your toothbrush next to mine

our coats on the same peg

our bodies intertwined 

like figures in a Mayan frieze

I can no longer tell, my love,

where you leave off and I begin

if you grow cold

a shiver chills my bones

I pause to ease your weariness

you drink to quench my thirst

your slightest wound

marks my skin with

clusters of tiny blue blossoms

I take your sorrows

keep them in a recess of my heart

and turn them into swallows

which circle round the chimney

and fade into the blackness

of the night

(originally published in Alba: A Journal of Short Poetry)

Scrabble Love

A passion for language

brought them together,

not only for the bingos like ecstasy

that earned an extra fifty points

but for Chinese words like Qi

a force inherent in all things

and Ka the Egyptian sense of soul.

They loved the way letters linked together,

forming and reforming words,

After her car crash and his accident at work,

they sat at their respective screens

She admired the way he coaxed new words

into spaces they could barely fit.

He liked the way she challenged

his bogus words like abey and painterly

They began to use a Webcam,

dressing up for each game

and suddenly they found

the words they formed

had grown more tender.

He linked her word dearest

with his word heart

And by the time the game was over

they had agreed to meet.

When he arrived at Starbuck’s

she had already set up the board.

He leaned across the table

and as his lips met hers,

their glasses got hopelessly entangled.

and the velvet tile bag went flying.

A solitary X and Z landed at their feet.

Zax they thought a tool for cutting wood.

That would be the name of their first child.

(originally published in Blue Hour Literary Magazine)

If ever we should meet again

If ever we should meet again

it would be on the beach in Cozumel.

I’d follow the footprints in the sand

that snaked between the raked

piles of seaweed and plastic bottles

and the milky turquoise sea.

I’d pass the grand hotels,

their rows of yellow stucco balconies

lined up for the show,

the orange-tiled villas

with their barking dogs,

the abandoned fishing boats

rotting like beached whales

and at the place where

the shore is choked by tangled growth,

and the jangal begins,

I’d see you wading in the water,

a book of crosswords in your hand,

the waves lapping the bottom

of the blue batik wrap

I’d bought you in St. Kitts.

You’d flash the gracious smile

everybody loved and say,

you’ve had your glimpse,

now go resume your life.

I’d reach out to take your hand

and find you spirited away

by the lively morning breeze

(originally published in River Poets Journal)

A Lonely House

A Lonely House

My heart had become

a lonely house,

abandoned at lands end,

deaf to the complaints of the wind

and the clamorous cries of the terns,

its empty rooms echoing only

the tumultuous roar

of the surf at midnight

When you came

the doors swung wide

the shutters clattered madly

The halls became       

huge inviting arms

which drew you in.

You removed your shoes

and the sand-strewn floors

caressed your feet.

The splintered window panes

multiplied

the blazing kindness

of your eyes

Your presence flooded

the darkest corners with light,

The thunder of the surf became

less frightening.

You came into my heart

like a guest

who fills a place left vacant

at the table.

You stayed as the secret sharer

of my cloistered dreams.

(originally published in Verse-Virtual)

A Marriage Poem

Young hearts in old bodies

produce beautiful bouquets.

Where gnarled roots cross

mimosas bloom.

We wed as players in a romance

who awake to find

all pain and longing vanished

like an insubstantial dream.

Here a daughter long thought drowned

is reunited with with her father.

There Caliban sits caged,

no longer able to wreak havoc

on an unsuspecting world.

Even if a tempest were to reappear

it could not budge us,

locked as we are in each other’s arms.

Marriage is the balm

that heals all sorrows,

restores the rightful order

to our temperate isle,

uniting Jewish princes

with lovely Spanish ladies.

As the lutist sings an air

of cuckoos and May flowers,

we gracefully join hands

and take our vows.

Everybody loves a happy ending.

Let’s not disappoint them.

(originally published In Leannan Magazine)

For Jackie

No one wants to say goodbye

when the music fades to silence

and the last dance is done.

Words of endearment,

left  unsaid,

linger  in the air

like silent accusations.

I walk home alone,

the eerie quiet  broken only

by a random passing train

and the racing of my heart.

Each morning you awakened

by my side,

dazed and fragile

rubbing your eyes

with the back of your hands.

You were my petite chatte pommee,

lost little cat.

I was your grand  ours,

big, lumbering bear.

We laughed at our reflection

in the bedroom mirror.

Je peux manger cacahuetes

de ta tete

I can eat peanuts

from your head.

We thought  the dance

would last forever 

its rhythms coursing through our veins

as we waltzed from Marakesh to Fiji,

Tobago to Provence,

traversing caves and canyons,

deserts and seas,

with consummate ease

But one day the music died.

the haze that lifted from the mountains

settled on your eyes.

when you stumbled  on a wooded path

pieces of our sweet, shared life

rained down in brightly colored shards.

The doctor gravely shook his head,

It would be a miracle

If the tumors disappeared.

Months later,

wheelchair bound,

you were still hanging on.

When our hands touched,

in my mind’s eye,

it was a moonlit night

in Tunisia.

The first star had just appeared

above the desert gorge.

At the waterfall you could hear

the faint sound of an oud

as we began to dance….

(originally published in Cyclamen and Swords Publishing)

Chagall’s Angel

You were my soul-mate, my beshert

and you swore you’d be my luck, my mazel too,

my silver eye, my lucky eighteen Chai

my sacred hand of God dangling from a chain

to deflect mischance.

Like Chagall’s blue angel,

soaring in the night sky of Vitebsk

above the lovers’ heads,

you gathered me in outstretched wings

and gave me secret names

so death would never find me.

When I’m lost in lurid nightmares

in a city with no name,

searching empty streets for long departed souls

guide me home to the familiar hollows of your body,

to the sweet refuge of your perfumed hair.

(originally published in Far Enough East)

Tulips

She was pleased he’d brought

her favorite flower, tulips.

She held them like a reigning monarch

and pecked him on both cheeks.

He searched for traces

of her former beauty

and found them only

in her steel-grey eyes.

She’d noticed his pronounced limp,

the resigned slump of his shoulders,

and wondered about his health

They talked about her daughters.

She fumbled in her bag

and produced two photographs

which he pretended to examine

but was really remembering

how they’d met here between classes,

every day at two,

he a young James Dean  

in his aviator shades

and a motorcycle jacket

that buttoned to one side,

she a preening model

in a miniskirt and fishnet stockings.

When the carillon struck three,

she left to get the girls,

placing a tulip in his hand

as she said goodbye.

He twirled it with his fingers

then put it in his coat,

returning to his empty house

and groaning shelves of books.

(originally published in Poetry Pacific)

Engagement Poem

The burly stationmaster

Wiped his brow,

Gazed at  his pocket watch

And cried out “All aboard”

We were off.

I couldn’t promise you

A land where

Clocks spun backwards

And the old never wrinkled.

I could only invite you to share

The wonder

Of ordinary things,

The way my hand grazed yours

On the same leash

As we walked the dog,

The way you posed your legs

Across my lap

As we sat nodding

By the fire.

The station had shrunk

To a tiny distant speck

When I slipped the ring around your finger.

I asked you to come away with me

And you answered yes.

Simply yes.

Everything changed.

When I looked out the window,

We had crossed into

A whole new country.

(originally published in Still Crazy)

Apres L’Amour

You’ve already left for work

when I awake,

embracing the empty air

and breathing in

your dimestore perfume

that everyone mistakes for French.

“Apres l’amour” sings Aznavour

the tousled sheets still bear

the imprint of our bodies.

I can still feel the frisson

of your breasts

brushing back and forth

against my chest

like light riffs on a snare drum,

the touch of your fingers

cradling my sex as if it were

a small lost bird.

The first time

in the Rockaways

The Drifters were singing

“Under the Boardwalk””

in four-part harmony

as we fumbled at zippers and hooks,

our hurried climax

taking us by surprise

and dampening our clothes.

Apres l’amour we shared

a menthol cigarette

and strolled hand in hand

along the midway,

burying our flushed cheeks

in mounds of cotton candy.

We paid a buck apiece

to see a tatooed lady

with a giant cobra

draped around her neck.

We could have touched her skin

and felt the cobra’s oily scales

but that cost a dollar extra

and we were young and broke.

(originally published in Enhance Magazine)

Love at High Altitude

The blue blue lake

and snow-capped peaks

literally take your breath away.

Red-faced and panting,

chewing on your coca leaves

like a ruminating cow,

You trudge along the sinuous path

that climbs from the harbor

to the hacienda on the hill.

Your fiancée is fifty yards ahead

by now.

You nod and wave to her

That you’re okay.

Even the llama,

burdened with your bags,

is moving more swiftly.

The brochures have promised you

nights of blazing passion

on the enchanted

Isla del Sol

but the only thing that blazes

is the relentless sun.

At fourteen thousand feet

you have no appetite for dinner

much less for love.

Yet this is the perfect place

to pause

and summarize your life.

From the old stone bench

in front of the hotel,

you survey the scene below,

the network of intersecting paths

which traverse the terraced fields,

the lines of drying clothes

stretched out like giant pennants,

the V-shaped wakes made by

the reed boats on the lake.

The declining sun illuminates

the islands, coves and cliffs,

infusing each one briefly

with a burnished coat of

Inca gold.

You think of all the tiny steps,

the circuitous routes,

the false starts,

that have brought you to

these dizzying heights.

Your lover takes a seat

beside you.

Together you watch

as a pink glow suffuses

the jagged line of peaks

on the other side of the lake.

the wind picks up,

you huddle closer.

you manage to take

a long, deep breath.

You feel like you are sitting

at the top of the world.

(originally published in Writers’ Haven)

Rescue

You extend your hand

our two palms barely touching

and you draw me from

another bad dream

a sea-wracked sailor

buffeted by capricious winds

then caught in irons

on a breezeless summer day

the sheets heaped around my knees

like a fallen jib.

And had you not been here

to rescue me

I would have drifted forever

parched for the kisses

that used to fall

like sweet rain

unable to navigate my way

back home again

(originally published in the Magnolia Review)

moving on

you were an old man

crying in the shower,

forehead pressed against

the cold damp tiles

water drumming on your back

you’re growing younger now,

your grief a storm

which rumbles to an end

the wind dies down

the current slackens on the shoals

silver clouds  stretch across the sky

like satin sheets

you still remember

the splendor of her smile

the solace of her touch

but it’s time to move on

you start the engine

steer a steady course

and pray you’ll find safe harbor

in your new love’s arms

before  the night sets in

(originally published in Mouse Tales Press)

Only You

only you

can save me from the darkness

where hate seeps in

and poisons all the wells,

where the children are

mowed down like arcade clowns

collapsing in a rat-tat-tat of fire,

where runners’ limbs rain from the sky

like a Biblical plague

if you press your ear to the ground

you can hear the earth groaning

under our weight

as the polar ice caps shrink

as the forests recede into corporate farms

as the pelicans are coated

with mourning suits.

I shiver on this cold December day

you take my hand

and warm it with your breath

as if one seed of love

could change the killing fields

into meadows of lavender

(originally published in Curio Poetry)

A Small Memory of You

my memories of you

are like small coins

dropped last autumn in the yard

buried in the brittle leaves

blanketed by snow

and pressed into the soil

just beneath our feet

I raked one up the other day

and held it to the light

it showed you standing

on a hillside by the sea

your hair blown across your face

your laughter lost in the wind

so petite in your

high boots and corduroys

you could have passed for a gamine

except for the unlit gauloise

dangling from your hand

smiling, I placed the coin

still damp

in my vest pocket

to keep it warm and safe

(originally published in Muse: BellaOnline Review)

Melodies

After half a century,

You and I could pass each other

On the street

Without a glint of recognition.

But every time I listen to a Chopin polonaise

Or one of Billie’s songs,

The memories come flooding back.

I’m in your bedroom in the Bronx,

Perched on the edge of your bed,

Eating your wizened zayde’s

Paprikash

And sipping tea from

China cups with royal crests.

A cascade of notes

Soars from the baby grand,

Your fingers hovering

Above the keys

Like hummingbirds.

You pause to brush aside

A strand of ash blond hair

Which has fallen in your eyes

And dry your moist palms

With the handkerchief

You always keep at hand.

Your mother peeks in,

Ostensibly to monitor your progress

But really to make certain

Our four feet are on the floor.

Later that day,

Our legs are dangling

From a stone parapet

In Central Park.

We watch the mallards navigate

A flotilla of discarded condoms,

Their brilliant green heads

Bobbing up and down

Like buoys.

You press your hand against my cheek

And sing, in flawless English,

He’s not much on looks,

He’s no hero out of books,

But I love him.

En is szeretlek, I say, I love you too,

The only words you ever taught me

In Hungarian.

Ah, my luscious  Marike,

You lost your heart to me

But not your cherry

You gave that to an older pianist

With an apartment in the Village.

I didn’t even own a car

With a comfortable back seat.

As for the melodies you played and sang,

Still tone deaf fifty years on,

I can recognize but not repeat them.

Wherever this poem finds you,

At Carnegie or in suburbia,

I remain, as always,

Your rapt audience of one

(originally published in Cyclamen and Swords Publishing)

Form and Color

when you moved in

we combined our art

as we combined our lives

I stripped the walls

and stored my artwork in the attic

to be joined by yours

transported in a creaky U haul from Columbia

that we crashed into a gas pump on the way

we  brought down the pieces one by one

to be placed on the floors below

my Matisse with the goldfish bowl

watched de Riviera’s laborer

straining under the weight of his flowers

my embroidered blanket

from the mountains of Iran

smiled at your weaving from Bolivia

the twelve tribes of Israel

in a tapestry depicting

the creation of the world

said hello to the church in Granada

the Guayasamin portrait of mother and child

looked down on the Miro I got in Paris

your ceramic Lladro  sailor

with a pipe in his mouth

nodded to the tiled statue of a jazzman

leaning back to play his sax

the lovers in my Persian miniatures

glanced up at the string of bells

hanging majestically from the ceiling

all those forms and colors

speaking to each other

as I whispered that I loved you

in your ear.

(originally published in Big River Poetry)

Places I’ve Been

Alberto Has Visions

Alberto has visions.

You can see them mirrored

in his eagle eyes,

set in a face so finely etched

he might have carved it out himself

with the sharp edge of his chisel:

White bushy brows, unruly beard,

high forehead and prominent jaw

with two remaining teeth.

the face of a prophet

preaching in the wilderness,

his half-buttoned shirt

billowing in the wind

as he scales the rock face

with the sheer force

of his convictions.

The visions float like orchids

on the moonless night.

La Llorona howls in the pines,

weeping for her dear drowned children,

La Cegua in her corn leaf dress

stares through her long black hair

into your very soul.

He bars the door but still they come,

an endless succession of

serpents and wild beasts,

gentle Virgins and jilted brides,

wily devils and radiant saints

who hover over his sleep.

In the early morning mist

the jagged mountain peaks

are only faint blue shadows.

red-combed roosters

strut across the finca

like haughty lords.

Alberto rises from his bed,

a small cross in his hand.

He surveys the boulders and the cliffs

until he finds the perfect shape.

Then stroke by stroke, he engraves

upon the bare unyielding stone

the outline of his dreams.

His carvings line the wooded paths

between bromeliads and vines,

He points them out to us,

the towers of Jerusalem,

the volcanic lakes of Nicaragua,

Joseph and Mary in the manger,

one stately elephant

lumbering through the jungle.

Finally, he places in my hand

a white stone egg,

a rose marble sphere.

Here is the birth of Christ,

he says, here is the world.

(originally published in Buenos Aires Reader)

Yungay

This is not Pompeii

where the dead are on display

like plastic sculptures,

their last horrific gestures

frozen for the ages

while the guide drones on

with scholarly precision.

This is more recent,

more frightening, more real,

an entire city crushed beneath

the flowering mountain plants,

blessed by the downturned hands

of the towering white Christ

who stands atop the ossuary

like a groom on a wedding cake

The serene nevadas bear no trace

of the fury they unleashed.

Children circle around the monuments.

Finches alight on

four remaining palms.

As if the screams at the circus

when the earth split its seam,

of the people hudded in the church

when the avalanche roared down

were only the screams of a feverish child

awakening safely in his mother’s arms.

As if the coche de Ancash

were heading back to Huaraz as usual,

As if the premonitions of the good doctor

Were only the ravings of a loco.

No this is not Pompeii.

If it were our andino guide would not be

hiding her tears beneath dark glasses.

I would not be hearing

the cries of my lost son

as he slid beneath the truck.

Your best friend would not be

calling out to you

from the rubble in Managua.

(won second prize in the Reuben Rose Internation Competition in Israel)

Rapture of the Deep

the current caught us in its grip

and pulled us down a hundred feet

I held out my hand motioned to hold tight

but you had already slipped away

blowing one last kiss

and swimming after schools of blue tang

as if you belonged with them

when I surfaced I was clutching only shadows of the sea

my mask was filled with tears

now you visit me in dreams

lost in a swirling ball of jacks

astride a manta’s velvet wings

dwarfed by a gentle whale shark

moving up and down

with the ceaseless motions of the deep

(originally published in Stormcloud Poets)

Nautilus

I found you on a beach in Fiji,

a spiraled nautilus

which floated up from depths 

that even avid divers

could not reach.

Through years of ebb and tide

your countershading

kept you hidden

from all predators .

Seen from above

your undulating pattern

blended with the deep

while from below

your perfect whiteness

blended with the sun.

Like the Argonauts

for whom you’re named

you propelled yourself

with perfect ease 

pumping in and pumping out

and dined but once a month

on small crustaceans

within easy reach.

Lacking a single change

in your design 

you endured through epochs of time

cloistered in your chambered shell

invisible to your enemies

impervious to pain

immune to all sensation

How I envied

your splendid isolation,

What incalculable bliss

to withdraw into

the elegant spiral

of a pearlescent shell 

close off the opening

and sink 300 metres deep.

Then i remembered that

for drowning sailors

the darkness of the sea

can also be a shroud.

I want to sleep but not forever

I crave the dancing light

on the surface of the sea  

the glimmer in my lover’s eyes,

the sea breeze on my cheeks,

my lover’s healing touch,

(originally published in Cyclamen and Swords publishing)

The Cavers’ Bash

I picture my friend Allen

Knee-deep in the river,

Clad only in a derby hat,

Black bowtie, thong and gloves,

Serving  wine and canapes

From a silver tray.

This aint no dress rehearsal,

Allen used to say,

This here’s the real thing.

In the Grand Doodah parade

He’s holding a milk carton

With Batboy’s two-fanged face

Above the caption,

“Have you seen this boy?”

While a sidekick in a condom cap

Flings Trojans at the crowd.

At 3 AM he’s making

Naked beer runs from the sauna,

Wrestling pretty women

In a tub of ramen noodles

And playing

One last game of volleyball

Where everything jiggles.

You would have thought

The Randy Gandy Run

Would kill him,

50 cavers without a stitch

In a frigid river passage,

But it was cancer,

And now his spirit roams

The campground,

Still attired like a racy Jeeves,

Still carrying his silver tray.

(originally published in Blue Ridge Literary Prose)

our room in Hvar

from our bed in Hvar

scented with silk bags

of crushed lavender

you can discern

a pot of red geraniums

balanced on a white marble slab

below a thin blue band

of Adriatic sea

a composition worthy of Matisse

your portrait is more byzantine

black hair splayed against the pillow

flecked with gold venetian light

a venerated icon

cloistered in memory

and I a faithful pilgrim,

lips pressed against your cheek

praying that this morning

lasts forever

(originally published in Artvilla)

Desert Views

 
Thronged by children
banging on the doors,
we’ve left the last bled
in our dusty white Renault
and turned onto a piste
that hugs the canyon rim,
bouncing from rock to rock,
watching the copper vistas open up
at every hairpin turn
like desert flowers
thirsting for winter rains.

We’ve wandered off the map
with no one to direct us,
not the silent Bedouins
astride their camels,
mummified in their brown burnooses
or the gold-toothed women
in purple robes and silver chains,
clicking their tongues
like disapproving hens.

This very night
we’ll make love
for the first time
in a hut of woven reeds
with moonlight
streaming through the chinks.

But we know nothing yet
of warm wool blankets
piled against the chill
of desert winds.
We haven’t seen the stars
above the gorge
incised in the pitch-black sky.
We know only the rock-strewn road,
and the fear of not reaching
the grove of date-palms
by nightfall.

(originally published in Knot Magazine)

Berber Song

sometimes the heart

is a dried up oued

nothing but stones

sometimes the olive trees

are arthritic old women

with twisted limbs

unable to bear fruit

sometimes we spend our nights

huddled close to the coals

our burnooses  drawn tight

against the cold Saharan wind

and then the rains pour down

like a gift from God

flooding the river beds

filling the valley with roses

so beautiful

they make the stones sing

the gardens are showered

with small apples

the sparrows flit

from rock to rock

in search of fallen fruit

the knowing storks

perch on the adobe walls

one leg tucked

under their wings

and nod as if they had

witnessed this scene

a million times

from the roses

we distill the perfume

which young girls

rub on their skin and

spray on their crow-black hair

and slowly love returns

(originally published in Knot Magazine)

Carpets

A beautiful carpet brings a smile to your face each morning

(Persian saying)

The skeins of yarn

deftly wound around the warp

in Turkish or Persian knots

have survived the tread

of children’s feet

the hurried pace of the dog

the clawing of the cat.

Their hastily sewn repairs

resemble the scars you bear

from falls and surgeries.

Their pile has worn thin in spots

like the balding pate

you hide beneath your hat.

On the merghoums and soumaks

the ends are left dangling

like all the unfinished business

in your life.

You and the carpets

have acquired a certain patina

that comes only from experience,

the saffron and pomegranate dyes

mellowing with age,

your hair taking on

a silver luster

your skin a jaundiced tint.

You’d like to think you’ve both

aged gracefully.

The almond blossoms and jasmine

on the baktiari

still fill you with love and longing,

The tortoises on the kashgai

continue to hold out

the promise of long life.

(originally published in The Fable Online)

Las Vegas, 2011

In Vegas you can get

Tori, a comely co-ed from L.A.

delivered to your door

in twenty minutes flat

or else she’s free.

Twins are only fifty dollars more.

But I’ve got Irma with me,

Tigress of the AARP

And living proof that spandex

iIs not only for the under fifty set.

A Dead Sea facial cream

has miraculously removed

every last wrinkle from her face.

Her latest boob job has restored her figure

to its pre-childbirth splendor.

When we get back from

the midnight sex show,

I am blue-pill ready.

I imagine I’m a

Cirque de Soleil artiste

dangling weightlessly

From two red streamers,

My whole body transported by

paroxysms of ecstasy.

Then suddenly I hear the scrunch and feel

the first rapier thrusts of pain.

By the time the paramedics come,

I’m  crawling like a centipede.

They insist on being paid in cash

so Irma grabs my poker winnings

from the pocket of my Gucci jeans

and sends them on their way.

I can hear them laughing in the hallway.

Who did Grandpa think he was,

they snicker,

the daring old man on the flying trapeze?

(originally published in Every Day Poets)

blue ice

the fog crept in

like a stealthy cat

balanced on the mountain tops

and swallowed up the view

the evergreens and snowy peaks

vanished like illusions

and he felt he was

the last man on earth

stranded on a swinging bridge

above a raging river

he could only hear

slowly methodically

he set off from each cairn

tapping the ground with his staff

like an old blind beggar

in a tale by Grimm

once he slipped

his fall arrested only

by his boot

lodged in a crevice

between two rocks

and it was then he saw it

a field of blue ice

as pure and clear as heaven

curled around the mountain

like a dog’s tail

he reached the cabin

just before the night closed in

and sipped his brandy by the fire

trading stories

with an English couple

who’d been lost for hours

when he finally nodded off

he dreamt of a beautiful Swede

with ice blue eyes

who held him captive

in her ice blue heart

(originally published in Lake International Journal of Literature and Arts)

White Storks

They came in mid-autumn,

sailing across the stark brown hills

like white ghost-ships

and settling on the tiled roofs

of the villas by the school

To the muezzin’s deep dismay,

they built a nest atop the minaret

and when the  birds began to mate,

girls hid their faces as they passed

and boys made lewd remarks.

For me they were more clowns than lovers,

flapping their black-fringed cloaks,

parading on stilts,

preening their finery

with comic strapped-on noses

as we, the audience, looked on,

sipping green tea from 

gold-rimmed glasses.

From my balcony,

we watched them take their leave,

beaks thrust out and legs dangling,

their puissant wings

overpowering the air

as if they were racing to

some imaginary finish line

in the far, far north.

When the last straggler had disappeared,

we headed back inside

and waited patiently for spring.

(originally published in Third Wednesday)

Crystals

At Buddy’s place,

so deep in the hollow

the sun has trouble finding it,

you can dig your heart out

in search of crystals

(to effing China if you like, says Buddy)

for only one dollar a head.

He sits there on the covered porch,

rocking his ass off,

a tin mug of Jack Daniels

in one bony hand

and a bucket full of dollars

in the other.

His overalls are badly patched,

the bandaid on his glasses coming off,

he hasn’t shaved for days,

but his caving pals have slapped

a fresh coat of paint

on his clapboard house

and somehow that has made him

more presentable.

Cavers, he’ll tell you,

are the only family he’s got.

His wife Bess lies in the rocky ground,

the quartz ring he made for her,

a real beaut,

still on her finger

or what’s left of it.

His son Wayne is incarcerated

two counties away

for God knows what drug foolishness.

his snooty daughter Myrna’s

locked up too, he likes to say,

under her own cogni-sense,

in a gated community

close to town.

Her infrequent visits

are nothing but ploys

to get him into a home.

I have a home already,

he tells her, gesturing at his house.

What the hell do you think this is?

Ah, but the cavers.

at their property

they invited him

to share their fire and

a leather pouch of Mary Jane.

At midnight he wandered into

the plastic sheeting that served as sauna

and found them, men and women,

happily conversing,

huge smiles on their faces,

naked as jaybirds.

Now they’re trudging

up and down the mountain slope,

armed with trowels, picks, and shovels.

Billy, who has a nose for gems and fossils,

nudges him awake

and produces from his muddy sack

the most perfect crystal

he’s ever laid eyes on.

Held up to the light,

its sleek, translucent planes reflect

a more robust image of himself,

before myrna, before Wayne,

even before dear Bess.

He is poised on the lip

of a powerful rapid,

paddle held crosswise to his chest,

scouting the terrain.

Suddenly he takes the plunge

and for one split second,

before he hits the water,

he digs at the air, sweet jesus,

flying.

(originally published in Whisperings Magazine)

Chez Heshme

It seems like yesterday

I was dining chez Heshme

on a pigeon given by a student

in payment for his lessons,

served on a bed of steaming couscous

in a piquant sauce.

Tears streamed down my face,

the tiny bones caught in my throat,

I cried for water

and the brown burnooses heaved

with raucous laughter

When I returned at sixty

with an envelope of old photos

Heshme had gone to his reward

but dining there alone

I could still see his bovine face

behind the counter

beaming like the laughing cow

on the boxes of French cheese.

I could still feel

the warmth of your petite body

curled up like a satisfied cat

on my straw mattress.

I could still hear

the muezzin’s cries as the lights

of the medina flickered on.

Nothing, no one lasts forever.

Before too long we’ll all be

dining alone chez Heshme

on a plate of fragrant memories.

(originally published in Pirokinection)

A Second Life

They came running

when they heard the crash

in the ravine

and found our car

resting on its roof

like a defeated beast,

its doors swung wide

its wheels still spinning,

its horn still blearing.

I screamed your name

and when I saw you

sitting in the dust

nursing your cut leg

I shouted with the villagers

Allahu Akhbar.

At the clinic

they closed the wound

with thread for sewing saddles

and nothing to dull the pain.

You squeezed my hand

as I looked on contritely.

God has granted you, 

the medic said, hayat thaan,

a second life.

Four decades later

as you lay in our bedroom

amid a clutter of tubes,

too drugged to speak,

I re-arranged the covers

and found the scar now faint

and thought of just how grand

our second life had been.

(originally published in Sukoon Magazine)

At the circus

She dreams she is a silver fish,

spinning on the line

at midnight,

catching the light

of a thousand stars.

She dreams she is an angel soaring to

ethereal heights

every hair still locked in place

a perfect smile

painted on her face

She dreams she is a bareback rider

in sequined tights

astride her lover’s neck

bowing to tumultuous applause

But alas she is a captive princess

bound to a two-wheeled chair

waiting for a large white steed

with violets woven in his mane

to carry her away.

(originally published in Poetry Quarterly)

Cairn

In the dim

blue

near dawn

I build a cairn of

small flat stones,

the kind we used to

skim across the lake,

watching the ripples

pulse against the shore.

There is no water here,

only the parched glyphs

of ancient inland seas

engraved on buttes and mesas

named after hats and bells,

their red and ochre bands

enflamed by

the first light

like love

surpising your heart

at seventeen.

(originally published in Mojave River Review)

The Old Man in the Nepali Cap

The old man in the Nepali Cap

stares back at us

from the gold-framed photo.

His widow’s black bindi

is artfully drawn between her eyes.

The women serve us sweets and tea

on copper trays.

The men

with shaven heads and white sarongs

move like spectral figures in a dream.

We’ve come to mourn a refugee,

hounded from his home

for nothing more than

speaking his own language,

professing the wrong faith,

wearing the wrong dress.

For twenty years

he languished in a camp

then washed up on these shores

like a fish stranded in a dry season.

A sudden rush of air

had caught his cap

the moment that he jumped

before the moving train

and laid it by the tracks

to mark the spot

where his soul took flight

and sailed across

the terraced rice-fields of Bhutan

to rest on the indigo peaks. 

Shanti, shanti, shanti,

may he rest in peace.

(originally published in the Indian Review)

girl with red kerchief

from time to time

she appears to me

staring through the window

of our battered Renault

in the same kerchief

patterned with red roses

she wore four decades ago

hugging the same puny dog

scarred by patches of mange

she is pointing with one cupped hand

at her parched lips

chubs bide she says give me bread

it would take so little

to open the window a crack

and toss out a few coins

but the dog looks rabid

and an ocean of children

all with the same pleading eyes

all crying the same chant

is gathering in waves behind her

ready to crash against the car

so we restart the engine

and move on

(Originally published in Innovate)

At the Hammam

the apartment by the tracks

that I rented from the dwarf

contained no shower

just a bucket of water

hanging in the courtyard

heated only by the sun

so on cloudy days

I frequented the hammam

where wiry cross-eyed Hamid

splashed bowl after bowl

of hot water on my head

worked up a lather

rubbed me with a rough mitt

and fashioned a long snake

from my dead skin

which he held up proudly

as if say see how dirty you were

then walking down my spine

he grabbed both arms and legs

and rocked me back and forth

like a heavy parcel

he was preparing to lift

until he heard a crack

and cried out with satisfaction

sahelik (or to your health)

a warm soak followed

and a wrapping of towels

as snugly as a mummy’s linens

they led me away to a room full of

comatose men

lying on mattresses

holding glasses of green tea

fingering their worry beads

sighing with the pleasure of it all 

my new flat in the medina

sported a modern shower

and a French douche

small consolations indeed

for the lost comforts

of the hammam

(originally published in Sukoon)

Ghosts of Budapest

They drift across the city

like clouds reflected in a lake.

You come upon them

when you least expect to,

wedged in the evening crowds

of spiked hair and leather pants,

asleep on benches by the Opera

or makeshift mattresses

under the arcades.

Covered by yesterday’s paper

on a sunny day in the park,

sitting by a classic fountain

with a sheet pulled over

their heads,

holding a cardboard sign

in the subway

scrawled in a language

you can’t make sense of,

clutching the hand of

a frowning child

with a bad complexion.

Bowing like penitents

with their hats between their hands,

rummaging in the plastic bins

on Fashion Street,

ignored by

the few remaining tourists

who, sated with plum cake

and brandy,

trace their way back

to their elderdown blankets

and soft antique lights.

(originally published in the Germ)

the river wraps its fingers

round your paddle

and attempts to wrest it

from your grasp

to draw you down to where

the sleepers lie

amid a jumble of tires

and old roots

the catfish nibbling at their toes

from the cemetery on the bluff

the dead look down

impassive in their granite vaults

as you fly by

your paddle digging harder faster

the shoreline rushing by

in a blurry haze

until the current slackens

and you drift peacefully

raising your paddle in the air

once more you have outraced

the watery death

which will one day

overtake you

(originally published in Verse-Virtual)

La Luna del Rio

(for Manuel and Margarita)

At La Luna del Rio

the river rushes past

the wooden balconies

like a frothy sea,

swirling in eddies around

the bobbing canoes

as if it were going to engulf

the entire town,

to sweep away the pilings

and flood the cacao trees,

to carry off the young boys

dressed for las posadas

like the three wise men,

the small girls holding

the baby Jesus in their arms,

leaving only the herons

waiting patiently

in the tall grass,

the buzzards in the trees,

to inherit the earth.

At precisely five a.m.

exploding cherry bombs

announce la misa campesina

and a parade of red umbrellas

navigates the puddles,

heading toward the church.

To pray for what?

An end to the blight

that is spoiling the crops.

Orlando’s recovery from snakebite.

That the new calf is healthy

and the children live to be wise.

Our faith , says the priest,

is like the waters of

el lago de Managua

that nourish the great sharks.

So let the rains continue,

let the rivers roll

(originally published in Phree Write Magazine)

San Carlos

San Carlos is a dog

rousing itself from the paving stones

to comb the streets for food,

a kingfisher swooping down

on its glittering prey,

a woman singing to herself

as she sweeps the sidewalk clean.

Last night’s throbbing disco,

the accordians and guitars,

the people rocking in the doorways

have given way to

vendors on their pedales

hawking the morning’s catch,

girls parading with baskets of

warm sweet breads

balanced on their heads,

lanky fishermen

climbing out of  their pangas

with hoops of fish

slung over their shoulders

while their plump wives,

reclining in the stern,

hoist their babies into

the spotless azure sky.

On the malecon

a line of early risers

leans across the railings,

watching them unload

huge bunches of bananas

from the powder blue boats

onto the orange pier.

In the harbor 

the metal figure of a girl,

unable to shoo away

the herons perched on her arm,

gazes across the lake

to where the river begins,

and dreams of journeys never made,

of longings never fulfilled

(originally published in Phree Write Magazine)

Autumn Rain in Richmond

Propelled by last night’s heavy rains,

the leaves keep pirouetting,

covering the sere brown grass

like manna in the desert,

clogging the downspouts,

blocking moles’ tunnels in the garden,

filling hollows and crevices in the yard.

A hard winter lies ahead, say the farmers.

You can hear the staccato bursts of hickory nuts

raining on the roof.

Already, a first frost warning

has sent us scurrying

to move the potted plants indoors.

This is not our first autumn in the Piedmont,

yet we are still startled by

the mountains of leaves and

the daunting task of moving them.

We start by forming small mounds

and shoving them into black plastic bags,

each one tied with a red ribbon

like a bundle of Christmas toys.

When that proves insufficient,

we rake them onto a tattered blue tarp

and haul them away  like Amundsen

trailing his sledge across the glaciers.

We finish by simply blowing them

into the woods behind the house,

praying that a contrary wind

won’t turn us into Sisyphus.

Tidying up the yard is a bit like

tidying up your life,

raking the sprawl of hopes and desires

into discrete piles and

trying to wrest some order from them.

Lots of luck to ya’ll. You’ll need it.

(originally published in Cyclamen and Swords Publishing)

tiny things

I speak the language of

flamingo tongues

scrawled in ancient script

upon my shell

I am translucent

like a cleaner shrimp

studded with blue beads

I wear the finery of nudibrancs

turning over to reveal

my fancy crinoline

I am a yellowheaded jawfish

launching my slender form

from a hole in the sand

I have the elegant plumed head

of a juvenile drum

weaving back and forth

like a lost child

the comical face of a goby

peering out from a sponge

the spotted pea-shaped body

of a juvenile cowfish

floating under a ledge

I am a golden sea horse

struggling to stay erect

winding my tail around

a trembling sea rod

to see me you would need

the patience of a frogfish

lying in wait with its lure

but distracted by

larger more important things

you swim on

while I vanish in the blink

of a flounder’s eyes

(unpublished)

how to catch a caiman

Felipe’s headlamp

sweeps the shore

until we spot the red eyes

glowing in the mangroves

like two live coals

Manuel cuts the motor

and we pretend to be a log

when suddenly

the cries of the toucans

the beating of bat’s wings

are joined by the sound

of thrashing tails

Felipe climbs out of the darkness

caiman in hand

displaying it like a trophy

one hand holding the tail

the other clasping the jaws shut

until Manuel can manage to

bind them with strong cord

chattering monkeys

swing from the ceiba’s limbs

like Chinese acrobats

trying to make out

what is going on

even the sloth

curled up in a furry ball

is beginning to stir.

my camera’s flash illuminates

Felipe’s giant smile

and the caiman held in his arms

like a dangerous baby

don’t try this at home, he says

(originally published in Verse-Virtual)

In Coral Seas

Come with me

gliding like a great pelagic

through coral seas

of emerald green

and Prussian blue.

You’ve sprouted wings,

the current nudges you along

like a mother’s hand,

time stops,

you hear nothing

but your own breath

rising in a stream of bubbles

above your head.

A tiger grouper waits with parted lips

for cleaner shrimp,

a speckled moray draws a breath,

a school of snapper pose beneath

an overhang of orange sponge,

a stoplight parrotfish gnaws the reef

with sharp, pointed teeth,

a nurse shark raises his bulbous head

like a huge, satisfied cat.

You know that this is not your world,

yet lulled by the swaying of sea fans,

drawn in by the beckoning fingers

of the blue-tipped anemones,

dazzled by the encrusted jewels

of the spiny lobsters,

you could easily succumb

to rapture of the deep,

ignoring the warning alarm

on your dive computer

and the increasingly frantic

gestures of your buddy.

So you stuff your ears

against its siren song

and slowly, regretfully ascend.

(originally published in Phoenix Soul Digital Magazine)

Senior Citizen Bike Tour

We’re headed for Oregon

on the aptly named Transam

to dip our toes in the Pacific

more than three thousand miles

from our start

The turkey vultures

lurking in the trees

scouting for fresh prey

will have to wait

hold off boys we tell them

haven’t you heard

ninety is the new eighty

and dead the new ninety.

And so we cycle on

through undulating fields

of towering corn

barns with american flags

the rusting iron ruins of industrial towns

lining the abandoned  railroad tracks

the tumbledown backwoods shacks

where the only sign of life

is a Christmas wreath

nailed to the front door

places in the mountains

so remote

they consist of a post office

and one lone gas pump,

Given our advanced age

you might ask what happens

if one of us perishes on route.

We’ll simply dig a deep hole

by the side of the road

say a brief prayer helmet in hand

send an e-mail to their kin

and carry on.

We’ll still be cycling

in the sweet hereafter

our Treks chained to the pearly gates

lest an angel or a saint

be tempted to swipe one

and pedal away

(originally published in The Paradox Literary Magazine)

On Rama Cay

The breadfruit hangs so low

You can pick it from the porches

Of the hodge-podge houses

Planted on their pilings

Like egrets wading in the sea

Strung up with lines of laundry

Like a loaded Christmas tree.

On Rama Cay

Pink-eared conch shells

Listen to the children’s laughter

As barefoot and shirtless

They play with sticks and boats

And bursting cherry bombs

Hurtling down the hill

To the red-roofed church.

On Rama Cay

The men bob up and down in pangas

Or sway in hammocks

Lulled by breezes from the bay.

The women tug at buckets

Rising from the well

Or tend the catlle and the chickens

The piglets nuzzling the corn,

And stretched out on the hammock

The pastor looks us over

With his one good eye

Peels an orange with his knife

And tells the Rama’s story.

To be sincere with you, he says,

We don’t like work, it’s not our custom.

We live from fish and kindness

From stangers such as you.

I pull a twenty from my billfold

And hugs and handshakes all around.

So to the dock we make our way

And wave farewell to Rama Cay.

(originally published in A Little Poetry)

Postcard from Little Corn

This is the land of happy dogs

 trailing wide-eyed children

 down the red paved sidewalks,

 past the pink and turquoise shops

 with their hand-painted signs,

 the coffee-colored women

 leaning out from the tortilla stands,

 the girls weaving bracelets,

 the tall black man selling empanadas

 from a plastic bin.

 And following the muddy paths

 through the piña and coco groves,

 they arrive at the sea,

 roaring like a hungry beast,

 licking the palm trees with its foamy tongue

 devouring the sand.

 Tomorrow, Melvy has told us,

 will bring calmer winds,

 the ocean will fold its legs and lie down,

 but for now the empty rocking chairs

 are propelled by ghosts,

 the dogs are huddling

under the eaves of the casita

 as the storm breaks,

 drumming rat-tat-tat

 on the rusty tin roofs,

 making the whole island

 dance to its beat.

(originally published in Blue Hour Anthology)

Legends of the Falls

a sign posted at the entrance
cautions overweight children
to avoid the footpath
at the base of the falls
where the little men
los duendes
dressed like stoplights
in their yellow caps
red smocks and green boots
snatch the ones
who can’t run fast enough
and drag them to their caves
to dine or to be dined upon
no one knows for sure
since they’re never seen again

poor swimmers the sign adds
should steer clear of
the falls themselves
lest lulled by the soothing songs
of the little ladies with fish tails
las sirenitas
they are pulled
down
down
down
to the silty lake floor
where mothers
in houses of clamshell and bone
tuck in their children’s tails
and tell them bedtime stories about
the hairy scary creatures above

(originally published in Red Rever Review)

Selva Negra

From our Hobbit house
nestled between
orchids and canna lillies
with a garden of bromeliads
sprouting from its roof,
you can hear the ghostly howls
of the monkeys
the bereft cries of the owls
the electric trilling of the birds
the honking of pink-tongued geese
as they strut up and down
the landscaped paths
like haughty lords.

I embrace you
as a liana winds around an oak,
as the ficus clutches at the soil
with its twisted fingers
and climbs halfway to heaven,
as the blushing sacuanjoche
parts its lips
to drink the morning light.
Your kisses are sweeter than passion fruit
your touch lighter than
a dragonfly’s wings.

(originally published in Red River Review)

on rope

you travel down

the nylon highway

as if you were descending

into your own grave

allowing the rope

to slide like a snake

between the titanium bars

you back away from the lip

and step into the darkness

turning from side to side

like an astronaut

tethered in space

the silence admitting only

the sound of dripping water

the swish of the rope

your breath racing hard

as you descend

into a cavity so immense

your light fails to reach

the cavern walls

finally the faint thud

of your feet finding

terra firma

the clang of your harness

hitting the ground

your cry of offrope

answered by

the echoing voices above

spelunk the cavers say

is the sound your body makes

when it falls a hundred feet

but happily not today

(originally published in Ealain)

Punta Sur

Like a dreamer settling into

a long, deep sleep,

you sink oh so slowly

into an immensity of blue,

a stream of bubbles

rising from your reg

as a barracuda looks on.

The blurry shadow of the reef

approaches like

an old, familiar friend

and you gradually make out

the orange and violet sponges,

the sea rods shivering in the current,

the small bits of coral

floating above the parrotfish

and humpback wrasse.

But you want to plunge still deeper

into a labyrinth

of passageways and caves

where crabs with spinning claws

and giant lobsters

lurk beneath the overhangs,

where groupers wait

with open mouths

for cleaner shrimp to floss their teeth

while you squeeze through the openings

and check your gauges

to make sure

you haven’t gone too deep.

You emerge to see

a colony of garden eels

poking their heads

like peekaboo babies

through the pure white sand.

An eagle ray swims by

and you feel a strong desire

to perch on its spotted wings

and let the current carry you away

wherever it will.

(originally published in River and South Review)

Samos, 1964

You can taste the sea-salt

in the air

as you follow the old man

and his donkey

into the olive groves.

From his woven sack

he conjures up

a feast fit for

the Grecian gods,

of ouzo and retsina,

pita and feta,

potatoes and olives.

You converse with gestures

and a worn Larousse,

he counts his sons

with three raised fingers,

his rocking arms become

their children,

he shuts his eyes

and leans his head against

his two clasped hands

to say his wife

has slipped away.

You drink to her memory,

to the three strapping sons,

to the babies they have made

until you doze off

with the empty bottles

at your feet,

a chunk of pita

in your hand.

When you awake beneath

the twisted olive boughs,

the noonday heat has passed,

the old man vanished

like an apparition.

Content to find your limbs

still straight and sturdy,

you take the shaded path

back to the sun-flecked sea.

(originally published in Illuminations)

Procession

Sisters of Marie Laveau

chant for me dance for me

sprinkle me with incense

adorn me with gris-gris

the feathers of rare birds

strings of brightly colored beads.

Brothers of Jelly Roll

let me lose myself

in the low sweet moan

of  your muted trumpets

the surly growl of your trombones

the soaring solos of your clarinets.

Press your lips against

a sunlit tuba

and blow joy into my yearning heart.

Let me do the two step

past Lafitte’s cutthroat bar

past the wisteria

tumbling down

from the wrought iron railings

past drunks crying from the balconies

the ghosts of beaten slaves

watching from the mansardes.

Let me wind my way to

the crumbling vault

at the end of the streetcar line

where I bury all my sorrows

feet first

on a raised concrete slab

lest they be disinterred

by the next big storm

and come floating back

into my life.

(originally published in the Dead Mule School of Southern Literature)

Shenandoah

the higher you climb
the more the summit
seems to recede
like an unobtainable dream
in the end you’re scrambling
over bare rock
at times skirting a granite wall
on a narrow ledge
searching for handholds
at others hoisting your large frame
over smooth boulders
and squeezing between them
until finally you stand on
a small plot of level ground
and the view opens up
like a feast spread at your feet
the clear ribbon of the river
the toy houses and barns
the interstice of small roads
winding through
the green and golden fields
and you carefully store
the details in your mind
saving them up for
the cold spare days of winter
which you know lie ahead

(originally published in Misty Mountain Review)

O to be in Tehran at Nowruz

and watch your dark,

seductive eyes

catch sparks from the flames.

You chase away the mangy jube dogs

sniffing at the gutters

and leap like a doe

through the fires

raging in the streets

your head covered with a black chador,

your son nestled in your arms

gazing in wonder

at the conflagrations.

You give to the flames

your sallow face of winter.

and take from them

the redness of pomegranates

and sweet wine,

of Rumi’s love poems,

of the robes of Haji Firuz

which rustle as his blackened face

bursts into song.

You’ve arranged the apples,

garlic, berries and pudding.

the sabzeh sprouting from the bowl

like a cleric’s green beard.

You’ve eaten one decorated egg

for each of your children.

You’ve fed the goldfish

circling in their bowls.

You’re ready for whatever

the new year

may choose to deliver.

(originy published in Up the River

Glimpses

glimpses of beauty
so rare
they seem imagined
the white tip 
on the shark’s tail
sashaying past the rocks 
the glassy eye of the scorpionfish
peering through its camouflage
the spotted wings of the 
baby-faced eagle rays
blending into
the murky grey of the deep
like a dream receding
into the night
you stifle the urge
to tear the hose
from your mouth
and just let go
carried away by
the currents and swells
to a place where nothing rests
every last tendril
of your body
set in motion
feeding 
throbbing
quivering with life

(originally published in Verse-Virtual)

Hollywood Rapids

from the cemetery on the bluff

the rich and famous

sealed up in granite vaults

stare down upon the river

as it swirls round you

a vortex of brown  foam

wrapping its fingers

around your paddle

and attempting to

wrest it from your grasp

it wants to swallow you whole

to draw you down

to where the sleepers lie

amid a jumble of logs and tires

undisturbed by

the long-nosed gar

the whiskered catfish

the brim nibbling at their toes

you have no wish to join them

and so you paddle harder, faster,

the shoreline rushing by

in a blurry haze

until you reach calm waters

and raise your paddle in the air

once more you have outraced

the watery death

which will one day

overtake you

(originally published in Verse-Virtual)

The Young and the Old

Little Worlds

(for Jonah)

In Jonah’s  little world

my aging SUV’s

a crusty dowager

named Goldy,

whisking him away

to a thousand magic places.

At the pond where Mr. Turtle

and the heron share a log,

the turtle nods in our direction

and says, I do believe he’s grown.

The heron flaps his giant wings

in thunderous assent

and bids us both adieu.

An endless freight train

struggles past us

at the crossing,

its engine painted with a

straining human face,

its boxcars crammed with toys

for patient girls and boys

on the other side

of the mountain.

Hi Thomas, Jonah waves

and Thomas winks.

At the pool I am a great white

nibbling at this toes

and he a hammerhead

lunging at my chest.

On his grandma’s Yahrzeit

when he lights the wick

of the wax-filled glass,

you can see her reflection

dancing in his eyes.

It must be the little world

they share.

(originally published in cahoodaloodaling review

Just A Number

When it comes to age,

we’re all in sweet denial.

A jury bribed to overlook

the evidence

has ruled that we’re still young.

It’s just a number, right,

says Tommy, my Greek barber,

don’t count the summers,

you knock a quarter off.

Il Kwon, the Korean grocer,

dyes his hair jet black,

José, who paints our kitchen,

takes a younger lover every year

and conceals her from his wife.

We all light up

like pinball bumpers

when we’re carded for

our senior discount

at the ticket booth

or when the huckster at the fair

misguesses our age

by a full six years

and we walk off with a kewpie doll

for which we have no earthly use.

Can’t they see the furrows

ploughed by sleepless nights,

the six-months paunch

straining against the belt,

the hair combed a little too artfully

across the barren plains?

God bless your failing eyesight, sir,

won’t you drop a coin or two

in our tin cups of vanity

before you travel on?

(originally published in Paradise Review)

Snipe Hunting in the Blue Ridge

(for Boris)

To hunt for snipe requires

a pirate’s cunning

and a child’s willful suspension

of disbelief.

No adults need apply.

One whiff of them,

the creature slinks away,

crinkling his snout

and hoisting his tail

in undisguised disdain.

Nor is snipe hunting for the faint of heart.

It’s best done on an autumn night

when the oversized moon

makes mountain boulders seem

like alien forms of life

and windswept limbs reach out

to draw you deeper in the forest

than you really ought to go.

Since you appear to be

a plucky little lad,

I’ll furnish you

With everything you need:

a chunk of moldy cheese,

reliable flashlight,

ten feet of rope

and a sturdy canvas sack.

The trick is to meet him

rodent to rodent,

crouched on all fours

as he enters the trap.

You yank hard on the rope,

voila, he’s yours.

Any questions?

what’s he look like?

I can only guess.

A cross between a squirrel,

weasel, chipmunk,

and badly fitting toupee.

There’s none in captivity

and the testimony of six year olds

as we all know

can be highly suspect.

you’ll recognize him

by his scent, though,

worse than Uncle Joe’s limburger

and his dog’s most pungent farts.

Still care to go, my friend?

or would you prefer

to spend this evening by the fire

toasting s’mores?

(originally published in Big River Poetry Review)

A Dream of Flight

From early on

I dreamt of flight.

By day I was a puny schoolboy,

by night a man of steel,

cape billowing in full sail,

ears ringing with the wind

as I soared over

toy cars and houses and stores.

From far below

my tiny mother waved at me

and I waved back.

In my super tee,

emblazoned with a bold red “S”

against a field of gold,

I could outrace the fastest train,

overleap the tallest building,

corral the masterminds of crime

as if they were stray mongrels

destined for the pound.

At least by night.

My cousin Lee,

who seldom ran on

all four cyclinders,

determined he would fly by day,

and so he pulled his dyed red undies

over blue pajamas

and climbed up to the roof.

“Don’t do it Lee,” I cried

but he had already jumped.

We found him face down

in the sandbox

with a broken collar bone

and two bruised arms,

telling anyone who’d listen

that before the ground rose up

to meet him like a bully’s fist,

he had tasted for

one brief moment

the miracle of flight.

(originally published in Poised in Flight)

Old Vines

we’re old vines you and I

our best vintages a pretty memory

but our fruit retains some sweetness yet

the first frost hasn’t touched it

it’s ready to be plucked and pressed

into the second wine,

la piquette it’s called

consumed in grey clay pitchers

by the farmers in the village

sitting in their stuccoed kitchens

with their muddy boots and overalls

it lacks the richer notes of

for example

the grands crus of Bordeaux

but it sits well with Camembert

which, like you and I,

grows softer and more flavorful

as it ripens

(originally published in Eunoia Review)

His Grandma’s Breath 

Everything at his grandma’s house 

sighed with the burden of 

advancing age, 

the sagging sofa with its 

threadbare antimacassar, 

the chipped Italian figurines, 

the peeling grey linoleum 

on the kitchen floor.  

Even the parakeet  

hovering on his clipped wings 

had an ugly growth 

on his green breast. 

His grandma’s breath

bore  the sour scent 

of black plums. 

He averted his head 

when she bent to kiss him 

as if he feared 

her toothless gums 

would suck his youth away. 

Her dentures floated in a pink solution 

on the bathroom shelf, 

grinning back at him 

every time he went to pee. 

She served him tea 

in slender clouded glasses  

that he mother rinsed out twice  

in scalding water 

As he ate the unfamiliar food, 

he imagined that the cows 

were licking him 

with their pickled tongues, 

that the glassy eye 

of the whitefish 

was looking up at him 

accusingly 

as he picked its bones. 

He watched his grandma’s eyes, 

magnified by lenses 

thick as old Coke bottles 

roll back and forth 

like giant marbles 

as she studied him. 

So, boychik, she said at last, 

take a good look, 

this is what it’s like 

to grow old. 

Now give me your hand. 

She placed a silver dollar 

on his palm and 

gently closed his fingers. 

But you, you have a while yet, 

so go enjoy. 

(originally published in Writers Haven)

Love Comes to Happy Hills

Those little blue pills

made the folks at Happy Hills

a whole lot happier.

They strolled the grounds

with canes and walkers

like lovestruck geese

the men in bow ties and straw hats

the women heavily made up

in peekaboo blouses

both smiling as if they shared

some special secret

no one else knew.

For the staff of course

it was a nightmare

all those comings and goings

like a game of musical beds.

They had to knock and cough

before they entered.

They had to remember

who got which medications

and where he was.

And then poor Mr. Williams’ heart

gave out as he lay

basking in  post-coital bliss

right next to Mrs. Smith.

The supply depleted

things pretty much returned to normal

the sex becoming a pleasant memory

like camping fires in the woods

or the smell of fresh baked bread.

Those little blue pills.

All in all

I’m glad I left them there.

(unpublished)

At the State Fair

(for Luna and Jonah)

The carousel begins to turn.

I’m hugging a white horse

which shimmies up the pole

with front legs raised

and nostrils flaring

as if it has been frightened

by something in its path .

Each time I come around

I’ve grown an inch or two,

a new tooth’s pushing in,

I’m beginning to acquire

the serious demeanor of my dad.

A dozen circles later,

I’m tall enough

to ride the Whirlybird

which spins giddily in the air,

its giant legs unfolding

like a tarantula stalking its prey.

Alighting proudly from the beast,

I refuse my mother’s

outstretched hand.

A decade has spun by

when, strapped in tight,

I brave the Cyclone,

racing with my girlfriend

toward oblivion,

our heads thrown back,

our voices drowned out

by the shrieks of the riders,

the whistling  of the wind,

the rumble of the rails.

And now, my back bent over

like a figure on a broken clock

who can no longer strike the hour,

I grasp my Luna’s tiny hand

as I place her on the painted pony,

standing watchfully by her side,

waiting for the hurdy-gurdy music

to start up again.

(originally publsihed in Poetry Quarterly)

lost

we’d lost the trail

the woods here were

a different shade of green

we passed a creek we hadn’t seen

the blazes on the trees had changed

from blue to white

and as the shadows lengthened on the hills

we plodded on into the night

to calm the children

I told how Silly Annie

following the bear

came to the lonely hermit’s lair

and how he grew to love her

like the daughter he had lost

by the time I finished

you could see between the trees

lights flickering like fireflies

laundry dancing in the breeze

the farmer crammed us in his truck

among the bags of feed

and the children held on tight

as they watched the stars appear

one constellation looked like Silly Annie

the other was the bear/

(originally published in Bookends Review)

Silly Annie

No matter what the weather

she always wore

a shiny red raincoat

with a matching rainhat

tied neatly under her chin.

She had mischievous blue eyes

and a freckled nose

which scrunched up when she laughed

and she loved to run away

and have wonderful adventures.

She followed a bear into the woods

and met a lonely hermit

stowed away on a tramp steamer

bound for Panama.

floated in a red and blue balloon

above the Seine

disguised herself

as a short gondolier.

Each time her hefty mother

Mrs Flugelhofer

discovered she was gone

she fainted dead away on

lanky Mr. Flugelhofer

(chief widget salesman for the Acme Corp)

and nearly flattened him.

It turned out all right

in the end though

with Annie introducing

Mr. F. and Mrs. F.

to her new friends

and promising to never ever

run away again

and with you curled up in my lap

like the Chinese princess

Sara- Ling-Poo

sitting high above the Yangtse River

waiting for the prince

to rescue her

but that is another story for

another night.

(unpublished)

State of Wonder

(for Luna)

They named you Luna

for the hints of moonlight

in your charcoal eyes

and Naia for the joy

which flowed into our hearts

the day that you were born.

Reclining on a pillow

in the penumbra of

your parents’ bedroom,

your world’s a floating carnival

of colors, shapes and sounds.

Your rapt gaze,

flitting from place to place,

alights on your aging grandpa’s face,

with its big nose, beard and glasses.

I bury my nose in your belly

and plant a kiss there.

Je t’aime beaucoup, tu sais.

The honeyed sound of my French

makes the thin edge of your llips curl up.

You  regard me in a state of wonder,

 a master of enchantment,

sprung full-blown from your bed

to shower your days with gladness.

After your mother’s nursed you,

you lie in my arms,

still looking for the missing nipple.

You begin to cry.

I’m in a state of wonder too,

discovering new worlds of feeling

in your delighted smile

which turns so easily to tears.

(originally published in Writers Haven)

Almost Gone

Happy Birthday indeed.

Old men like me

are the last leaves

clinging to the tree.

One waft of God’s breath

and we’re gone.

After that? Who knows?

I hope there’s plenty booze

and fine young women.

You were almost gone yourself

that Sunday by the pond

when I glanced up from my paper

to see a floating bag of Wonder Bread

and no trace of you

or the mallards who had fled.

Frantically searching

the reedy shallows,

I made out in the murk

your frightened eyes,

your flailing arms

attempting to claw their way

back to the balmy summer day.

On the shore

I pushed and pulled until

a tiny pool of brackish water

formed at your lips.

Then gathering you in my arms,

I whirled you round and round,

trees and pond and sky

spinning like the first creation.

Let’s cut the cake now.

The first piece is yours.

Mind you, don’t go

and feed it to the ducks

(originally published in The Blue Hour Magazine).

survivors

the earth wants them so badly

it swallows up a few each day

their lives acknowledged only by

the dates and flowers on their graves

the rest still hanging on

like the last annuals in the garden

unnoticed by the young

despite their best attempts at

platinum hair and pencilled brows

since their husbands’ deaths

they will talk to almost anyone

the pollster on the street

the telemarketer to whom they give

five good reasons why

they can’t accept his offer

the cat who looks on quizically

while they describe

down to the smallest detail

the cities that they visited

the faces that they kissed

a lifetime ago

they are the last slow movement

of the symphony

the denouement of the play

we know too well

the guest who remains

after all the others have left

telling the bare walls

how wonderful the party’s been

their husbands are long gone

their friends dwindling by the day

but they’re not about to bring the curtain down

they’d like to get a little maryjane from Colorado

just to relieve the pain

maybe have a small butterfly

tatooed on their ankle

but DEATH let the bastard wait.

(orignally published in Muse)

No Season for the Old

This is no season for the old

or even the old at heart.

Better they should stay

shut up in winter,

covered by an afghan,

gazing through the window

at the grey slate sky.

Better they should be spared

the brilliant blues, the first greens,

the tulip tree catching fire,

the April rains dousing the flames,

the petals crushed underfoot

like limp desires.

They’ve viewed this film

so many times

they know the scenes by heart.

The Japanese beetles,

ignoring the bags you’ve hung,

devour the blossoms.

The fruit falls too early

and is consumed by jays.

A pileated woodpecker

bores holes in the bark

and ants rush in.

A fungus covers the leaves

with brown spots.

The August sun broils them

to a crisp.

Acorns rain upon the roof

like volleys of hail.

What is not dead by autumn

is barely hanging on.

What is the use,

they sigh to themselves,

of beginning all over again,

only to experience

the same disappointments?

Leave that to the young.

They have more heart for it

(originally published in Fredericksburg Literary and Art Review)

Eighteen Again

A lanky eighteen

with hair covering my ears,

I’m awakening

on the other side of the world,

a beach near Antalya to be exact,

denuded of hotels and discotheques,

back then only sand and sea

a string of rickety shops

and a small patch of bamboo

where I do my business

until a farmer shoos me away.

I’ve traveled on everything that moves,

a donkey in Goreme,

a truck bed filled with watermelons,

a bus with luggage precariously

strapped to the roof

where I hawk my banlon shirts

to earn a few bucks

until the next check from home.

Boys fight to invite me to their houses,

linking my pinky with theirs.

Their mothers serve me soup with

fish heads staring back

and when they leave the room

I feed them to the cat.

It’s no wonder that along the way

I’ve picked up my fair share of

microbes and coughs and scabs.

As Cookie in the scout camp puts it,

Boy, you weaker than chicken shit.

The yoghurt drink I buy each day

helps a bit to clean me out

but I dine at greasy spoons

where flies do backstrokes in the sauce

and workers eye me like a Martian.

Still, leaning against my pack

and watching the waves roll in,

I’ve never been so happy before or since.

The sky retains a faint pink glow.

My day is just beginning

(originally published in Mused: BellaOnline Review)

Baseball and Polio

The rush of warm weather

brought the two things

Richie feared the most:

polio and baseball.

Polio for its ghastly iron lung

and baseball for its laceration

of his self-esteem

On his watch, fly balls

disappeared in the sun

while grounders bounced

tauntingly between his legs.

They exiled him to deep right,

Siberia for the Uncoordinated,

and he spent his time there

staring at clouds

until the batters wised up

and adapted their swing.

He prayed for polio to come,

not in its debilitating form,

but as  a slight limp which would

excuse him from the game.

It was rugged captain Bill

who got sick instead

and was sidelined for the summer

with a brace clamped to his leg.

The other players swore

they would win one for the gimp

and on Richie’s red-letter day

they were close to sewing it up.

Bottom of the ninth, up 8 to 7,

two strikeouts for the other side,

the smell of victory as pungent

as a Jersey landfill on a muggy day.

Then three successive singles

loaded the bases

and the chanting began:

“Sock it to the retard. Sock it to the retard”

All Richie remembered later

was the crack of the bat,

the soaring sensation as

his feet left the ground,

and the dull thud he made

as he fell back to earth,

rolling over and over,

the ball still nestled deep in his glove

like a baby sparrow in its nest.

(originally published in Storyacious)

Saturday Mornings at the MOMA

Saturday mornings  at the MOMA

After art class

He climbed inside the huge Monet

And hid there,

A small pink form

Floating in the limpid blue

Of the reflected sky,

His head resting

On the swirling clouds,

His feet trailing in

The dark green lilies.

On other Saturdays

He was a series of dots

In a tree on the Grande Jette,

Watching the ladies

Parade with their small dogs

And parasols,

The men stretched out on the lawn

With their fine broad mustaches

And fancy tophats.

(originally published in Every Day Poets

My Other Life

The truth was

I couldn’t hit the ball

or catch or run

but in my other life I was

a young Hank Aaron

slamming them out of the park

my sleeves rolled up

to show my biceps to the girls

Neither could I act.

They booed me off the stage

and had me doing props

but in my other life

I landed all the juicy roles

in college plays

I got straight A’s

I was pre-med

I flashed my Colgate smile

and knocked the ladies dead

I went into insurance

and shuffled papers 8 to 6

but in my other life

I was a gifted doctor

with a team of shapely nurses

gathered at the surgery door

hanging on my every word

It was touch and go I told them

but he managed to pull through

When they burst into applause

I held up my hand and said

I have no claim to fame

Give the credit to

my Latin actress wife

my all-star sons

and of course my collie Lady

who saved two toddlers

from drowning

just the other week

(originally published in River Poets Journal)

My Friends, My Family and Me

The Memory of Love

(for Nathaniel)

As sleeping children place their arms

around their pillow,

so we embrace our grief,

my fingers tracing circles on your moist cheeks,

your warm breath caressing my ear

with words like it’s all right

when clearly it is not.

Language cannot bear

the weight of our sadness ,

our grief is from the heart,

the barely audible cry of a lone whale seeking out his pod.

Our son has disappeared

without a trace

an almost man

with stubble on his chin

who loved funny hats and Monty Python songs,

who played klezmer on his clarinet

and danced to gamelan,

who wanted clowns

to lead his funeral.

What dark vision propelled him

beneath the truck’s wheels,

we cannot say.

He left behind

no parting words,

just an out-of-tune piano,

sitting in a corner of our bedroom,

unplayed

People greet us on the street

with homilies about God’s plan

We don’t want him in a better place

We want him here with us.

Yet all that remains

is the memory of love,

tentative and fragile

like insect wings preserved in amber

and the half-completed imprint

of cretaceous leaves on shale,

our only proof of his existence,

our only consolation.

(originally published in Touch, z-composition and Muddy River Poetry Review)

At the Wedding

When I heard that Uncle Joe,

teetering like a spinning top

at his niece’s wedding,

goosed matronly Aunt Gert,

I pictured a squawking fowl

being shoved up her dress.

A pure product of the Old Country,

Joe paraded in his undershirt,

blew his nose between two fingers,

slurped borsht straight from the bowl,

ate cheese which smelled like dirty socks,

and pronounced w’s like v’s.

Vot a vonderful ass you have,

he said to my aunt

as he claimed his prize.

Flushed with anger, she removed

her sequined jacket

and with a strength acquired

from years of bowling,

clipped him on the chin

and sent him sprawling

on the ballroom floor.

He lay there,

believing he was back in Minsk,

refusing to get up again

until all the Cossacks

had gone.

(originally published in Big River Poetry Review)

The Island

Your nervous old world father,

with his giant mustache,

paced the lakefront

crying out your name

and muttering to himself

in frantic Hungarian.

Supine in a leaky rowboat,

hidden from all prying eyes,

we drifted across the lake,

barely lifting our arms to steer.

The tips of my fingers lazily

traced circles on your breasts,

your blonde head rested tentatively

against my thigh.

As we approached the island,

the first drops of a summer rain

began to fall.

The smell of honeysuckle

was so intense

it nearly made us choke.

You dared me to undress.

Released from my shorts,

my angry red member

pointed at you,

accusingly.

It’s cute, you said.

it has a tiny little head.

You turned your back

and I undid your bra,

but when you faced me once again,

your arms were crossed.

No fair, I said.

As if you were unwrapping

a precious gift,

you gradually revealed

two delicate mauve nipples,

Is this what you want, you asked.

Even at fifteen , I was sure that it was.

(originally published in The Chaffey Review)

the epitome of cool

peering through my granny glasses

my long red scarf

flung around my neck

my army greatcoat brushing the ground

sprinkled with snow

my hair half covering my ears

beneath a Greek sailors cap

I was Sergeant Pepper

leading the lonely hearts club band

I was Jean Paul Belmondo

at the wheel of his sports car

with a close cropped gamine at his side

I was Dylan singing in a gravelly voice

in a dimly lit joint

on McDougal Street

I was the epitome of cool

we got stoned

and added food dye to our meals

green meatballs and pink spaghetti

watched the laundry turn in the dryer

as if we were at the movies

and searched for hidden meanings

in the Beatles’ lyrics

the sheer peasant blouses

favored by the ladies

revealed the dark promise

of their tender nipples

while their kinky oiled hair

sprouted Medusa-like

in all directions

I wished that I was some new cause

they would passionately embrace

tell me about the sixties you say

I’d happily comply

but to truly understand

you’d have to be

at least as cool as me

(originally published in Verse-Virtual)

The Nicest Guy You Ever Met

The widows in the Catskills
loved my father.

They ran their fingers through

his wonderful silver hair

and marveled at his virility.

When he was 82

we found a giant box of Trojans

in the glove compartment

of his totaled car.

That was before

he started hearing Mafioso

talking through the plumbing

and saw the Germany army

advancing on the front lawn.

Because of some imagined sleight

he re-christened Father’s Day

as Holocaust Day

and referred to his son-in-law

as “the bum your sister married,”

deriding his many illnesses

as proof of bad genes.

Before they carted him off

to Sunset Hills Home,

he drew aside the curtains

in the ER

and gave a hearty ovation

to doctors and patients alike.

Nice performance, he said.

You can all go home now

In the end, they finally

got the medication right

and he became adored by widows,

the only fully functioning man in the Home

and loved by all the grandkids,

in a word, the nicest guy

you ever met.

(originally published in Y’all’d’ve)

Tyson

The first time I slept with Mayela,

her boxer, Tyson, climbed into the bed

and refused to leave,

shifting his ninety pound bulk until,  

his derriere perfectly aligned

with my face.

he became a one-dog band,

snoring and farting

in two-part harmony.

When shown the door,

the dog  would whimper

like a spurned lover

begging for one more chance

and yet, I had to admit,

her boy was the gentlest of boxers,

his huge brown eyes

melting the steeliest heart,

the inquisitive tilt of his head

proof of  an agile dogsbrain

straining to comprehend.

We brought in a Goodwill couch

with broken springs that creaked

at every movement

and he spent his nights there,

hiding  his muzzle in a pillow

each time we made love

as if to say, I’ve seen enough.

Not that he was a prude.

Even with his missing equipment,

he tried to mount the youthful Pink,

the nub of his tail quivering

with delight.

But that was merely sex.

Mayela remained his only love.

In the end,  like Jules et Jim,

We made a tacit agreement

to share the girl.

(originally published in Cyclamen and Swords Publishing)

Marlene

you were a child

of the East

not yet nineteen

hunched over your sitar

playing ragas for me

in your bedroom

your feet tucked under

the green sari

you always wore

your long braid 

tossed back

over your shoulder

your body had already

turned against you

but you talked about

the immortal soul

born again and again

in new incarnations

what form have you taken

now that you’ve left us?

are you the sparrow

perched on the fountain

or the caterpillar

inching its way

across the railing?

I imagine your ashes

floating down the Ganges

accompanied by

saucers of burning oil

petals of exotic flowers

and I a mourner on the shore

holding a candle

in a paper lantern

chanting a prayer to Vishnu

remembering  your ragas

which changed

according to the season

according to your mood

(originally published in Pyrokinection)

At the Wedding

When Uncle Joe,

teetering like a spinning top

at his niece’s wedding,

“goosed” matronly Aunt Gert,

I pictured a squawking fowl

being shoved up her dress.

A pure product of the Old Country,

Joe paraded in his undershirt,

blew his nose between two fingers,

slurped borsht straight from the bowl,

ate cheese which smelled like dirty socks,

and pronounced w’s like v’s.

Vot a vonderful ass you have,

he said to my aunt

as he claimed his prize.

Flushed with anger, she removed

her sequined jacket

and with a strength acquired

from years of bowling,

clipped him on the chin

and sent him sprawling

on the ballroom floor,

believing he was back in Minsk,

refusing to get up again

until all the Cossacks

had gone.

(originally published in Gravel-A Literary Journal)

Becoming Mastroianni

I was an existentialist

before I could pronounce it.

If God wasn’t absent

He was certainly sleeping on the job.

That same year I saw La Dolce Vita

and got a glimpse however brief

of Ekberg’s monumental breasts.

It changed my life forever.

I read Camus and Sartre

I wore a tailored trenchcoat

and a rakishly tilted Panama hat.

Arthur no more,

I became the languorous Latin lover

with the sad bedroom eyes,

Arturo Mostroianni,

my trigger finger

curled around a cup of capuccino

the other hand beneath the table

caressing a young girl’s knee

European women bowled me over.

Ingrid swam topless

around a cove in Korcula

climbed on a rock

and changing into panties and a bra

asked me to hook the eyes,

Lina didn’t wear anything at all

beneath her peasant dress

as we gathered wild mushrooms

in the Vienna woods.

Monique lounged on the bed

a Gauloise in her hand

in the quaint Montmartre hotel

with its creaky lift

its tray of warm croissants and

marmalade of little plums.

I married a French girl

from the Vosges

whose impish father

got me roaring red-eyed drunk

the night before the wedding.

I never really sobered up

and throughout the dinner

ranted about Deneuve, Loren, and Viti

inviting all the guests to climb

fully clothed with me

into the Trevi Fountain

(originally published in Two Words For – Paris)

After the Operation

After twelve hours

under the knife,

she had awakened like a tourist

reluctantly returning

fFrom the other side.

It was such a peaceful place

she could easily have stayed

but her son, who had resided there

for nine full years

had sent her back

with the admonition that

it wasn’t yet her time.

In recovery,

she was speaking French

to puzzled nurses.

When I arrived.

her shaven head

and crisscrossed stitches

at the base of her skull

gave her the insouciant air

of a punk or pirate.

How do you feel, I asked.

She shrugged and said,

it always could be worse.

Her incandescent smile

lit up the room.

Two hours out of surgery

she was already

the darling of the cancer ward.

Back home she was the queen,

much admired for

her sagacious wit.

ensconced in her recliner,

she entertained the court

with tales of ditzy nurses

and after-hours parties

in her hospital room.

All tears and sadness were

banished from her kingdom,

the tumors given funny names,

the  angry scars concealed

by brightly colored caps,

crocheted by her daughter

in a fit of cancer chic.

She learned to walk again,

with the slow, hesitant gait

of a baby taking her first steps.

Later, in her beloved gardens,

she wielded her walker

like a chariot,

navigating seas of flowers

with a gentle wave of greeting

to reassure the frightened children

in her path

Struggling with gaps

in her memory,

at times she groped for words

as if they were butterflies

hovering just beyond her reach.

In frustration she decided to invent

a whole new language.

Scallops became notshrimp,

English muffins were transformed

Into littleroundbreads.

By the time she left us

the scars had faded to

tiny blue rivulets

on old maps.

She had entered the seventh age,

become an  infant

to be turned and fed,

And so there were no final

words of farewell,

no pure adagio of love,

Only her enigmatic smile

as she greeted her lost son.

(originally published in Big River Poetry Review)

Bargains

It could have been the war

or his impoverished youth

but for Dad it was a mortal sin

to pay list price,

worse than marrying

out of the faith

or eating in front of the shul

on Yom Kippur.

He returned our birthday gifts

because we paid too much

and looked down at men

Who’d taken petite wives

as if they’d gotten shortchanged

by the butcher.

He couldn’t resist a sale.

Like Jesus he multiplied

wonder bread and gefilte fish,

returning from the Super with

sufficient rolls of toilet paper

to wipe the tushes of

an entire army.

When I asked him

where I came from,

He replied,

without a moment’s hesitation,

The discount house.

He liked to tell the story of

how I was carried off

by a swarm of beehive hairdos

picking over lingerie

like vultures divying up

the kill.

They found me sobbing

under a plywood table,

clutching a red brassiere,

my shorts soaked clean through,

my pride torn into

a thousand tiny pieces.

We headed for the Boys Department,

where, luckily,

pants and underwear

were all fifty percent off.

(originally published by Bop Dead City)

Somewhere

At unexpected moments

he could feel her fingers

plucking at his heartstrings,

playing the tune

they used to sing

off-key

on long trips

while the old Toyota

chugged up the mountains

barely doing forty-five

and the children fidgeted

in the back seat,

counting license plates

from every state.

He was Tony,

hanging from a fire escape

under Maria’s window,

both dreaming of a place

where they’d be safe to love.

He placed his hand on hers

and sang, “we’re halfway there” 

as the children whined in back,

“how much longer?”

A lifetime later,

the children grown and married,

his wife in a grave marked with

colored stones

they’d collected on their trips,

all that remained was the music

and a strong feeling

she was still waiting for him,

somewhere.

(originally published in Big River Poetry Review)

Helen and Irving

Aunt Helen covered all the furniture

with plastic and made the sun

wipe off his feet

before she let it enter

her immaculate kitchen

where she let her fingers run

like a blind musician

over counters and cabinet tops,

not content until she found

the last particle of dust

Only Uncle Irving and the dog

refused to be cleaned up,

Irving reveling in his disorder,

never cleanly shaved or coifed,

always reeking of liquor and garlic,

the dog urinating everywhere

when it got excited

and snapping at children’s heels

as if they were pieces of raw steak.

Returning one night in a drunken rage,

he kicked the dog clear down the stairs,

lost his balance, hit his neck

and had a massive stroke.

When last I saw him,

he was no bigger than a child,

dressed in starched pyjamas,

his blue eyes staring into space

as she fed him pudding from a spoon.

“Look how clean I keep him,” Helen said,

wiping the spittle from his chin

and tucking him in.

He’s my baby.

(originally published in Fine Flu Journal)

Class of 63

He’s searching for a pair of

sea-green eyes, a strand of

streaked blond hair, the full lips

he hungrily kissed by the lake in

Central Park some fifty years ago.

It all comes back,

impromptu concerts on the A-Train,

grimy stations with “Bird Lives”

sprayed on every wall,

Marianna playing Debussy

on her shiny Baby Grand

while her cross-eyed zayda

makes strudel in the kitchen,

the hefty pretzel man

shouting “getemwhyltherhot,”

petitioners for world peace

jogging to keep warm.

He listens for a Magyar accent,

he watches for a handkerchief

held in a moist palm.

The women are utterly transformed,

their hips much broader now,

their breasts more shapeless,

their faces scarred by tiny lines

like dry-plate etchings.

Without the plastic nametags

he wouldn’t have a clue.

For the hundredth time tonight,

he’s condensing

the banal story of his life

into a few brief paragraphs,

the words already ringing hollow.

He hears a voice, he turns

in her direction and

half a century collapses

like kindling in a fire.

He’s seventeen once more and

love is flaring up so strongly

he barely hears her introduce

her husband Marty.

(originally published in Every Day Poets)

postcard from Managua

you can call me vos

(tu in other parts)

I am Arturo Puro Corazon

a Latino trapped in a gringo’s  body

his legs too long for the taxis

in Managua

the knees crammed up to his eyeballs

his feet too large for any sandals

failing to keep the beat of

the chachas and merengues

his head so heavy

it falls on. his chest

after a mere two shots of rum

his voice singing besame mucho

like a barking seal

but his heart ah his heart

it is so filled with alegria

by his stunning  Latin wife

you could tie it at the base

and give it to a child

who watches in wide-eyed wonder

as it climbs up to the clouds

(originally published in Sandy River Review)

To Carla With All Our Love

to say that Carla had problems with men  was like saying the Sahara

was a tad bit dry.

she made light of them herself,  but the wounds ran deep.

she wore them like a second skin,  numbing them now and then

in rivers of alcohol.  we found her once,

barely coherent,

in a pile of Jim Beam bottles  on the kitchen floor,

her little poodle teetering   as she licked the linoleum.

Calamity Carla was a sobriquet   she richly deserved.

her love affairs went down  with a heavy dose of irony.

Father Paul in puerto rico  had paid for her abortion

but refused to leave the church.  she had crashed the motorcycle  of the crewcut lawyer,Bill,

into his office building wall  just as his wife pulled up.

visiting Jjoe’s artist loft  to surprise him with

a pumpkin and a jug of cider,  she caught him en flagrant delit

with a flannel-shirted plumber.

her lovers were always on the verge  of giving up something for her,

as if every month were lent.

this one, his failed marriage with two kids,  that one, his obsession with the track,

a third, his addiction to the bottle,

but promises came and promises went,  and still she found herself alone.

so when she phoned from california  to say that mr. right, a stunning

wunderkind from the valley  had shown up in his Porsche

to pop the question,

we were cautious but elated

then his life flamed out

the day before the wedding

in a head-on with a drunk in San Jose.

her latest is a biker, Rolf,

his name emblazoned in 6 inch letters

on his back

just in case you forget it.

(originally published in Poet’s Haven)

Waiting for Daybreak

Curled up like a new leaf

poised to spring open,

I don’t dare budge

lest I find you spirited away

with last night’s muddled dreams.

My capacity for sleep

has long been spent.

I’ve already gotten up

three times to pee,

thanks to the rushing waters

of your soothing sounds CD.

Yet I remain glued to your side,

My thumb pressed against

The back of your hand,

Waiting for daybreak

To suffuse the room

with its warm, even glow.

You’re wearing a tweety-bird T-shirt,

A washrag draped across your eyes,

Your knees propped up

By three large pillows.

Your sensual lips,

The only visible part of your face,

Form the perfect oval

Of a carnivorous plant

About to swallow its prey.

I can’t tell if you’re

A hostage of Al Quaida

Or the sultan’s latest acquisition

For his harem.

Our little boy i.e. the dog,

Is quite a pasha in his own right.

Sprawled across his love seat,

His classic Boxer head

Sunk down between two paws.

He emits squeals of excitement

As his hind legs pedal faster and faster

In pursuit of squirrels.

Finally leaving gravity behind,

He flies from tree to tree.

Slowly, the house stirs to life.

Appliances hum,

The plumbing begins to groan.

The carillon at the Baptist Church

Produces a rendition of Amazing Grace

As the garbage truck pulls to the curb

And clanks its doors.

Precisely at seven,

The dog appears at our bedside,

Licking our hands

And demanding to be let out.

We exchange a final hug and rise.

That’s it? Yes, I’m afraid so.

I have never believed in a

Grand scheme of happiness.

It packs the churches

And sells a lot of books.

But as an aficionado

Of all things woven,

I prefer to think of every life

As a small piece of embroidery,

Quiet moments of joy

Loosely stitched together

In exquisite patterns.

A work in progress,

Always uncompleted

But never unraveling,

As long as memory prevails

(originally published by Cyclamen and Swords Publishing).

Kelly and Rachel

Kelly was fighting Irish

all the way,

a former choir boy from Troy

with close-cropped hair,

his mind and body tuned

like a fine Italian car.

.

Rachel was , let’s say,

to a gentle manner born,

a daughter of Israel  

from New Rochelle

with the soulful eyes

of a frightened doe.

She called him at the dorm

to say it was all over,

she couldn’t  bring herself to marry

out of the faith.

He collapsed like a miler

crossing the finish line

then tore the phone

right off the wall.

Friends  carried him to Sully’s

where a sympathetic barman,

a serpent running down his arm,       

doled out shots of  Irish whiskey.

By evening’s end, the empty glasses

were lined up in regiments

the whole length of the bar

and two townies lay cold-cocked

against a stool.

He headed for the Susquehanna

where they’d first made love

on the flannel lining

of his army parka,

the shadows of the flames

dancing on their flesh.

From one pocket

of his bomber jacket

he produced a diamond ring

and threw it far across          

the cold dark water.

From the other he retrieved

a felt-tip marker

and walking to the Jesus Saves sign

by the Pentecostal Church,

he wrote in large block letters

MOSES SUCKS.

(originally published in Storyacious)

Nina’s Five Husbands

The trouble was

they were too horny.

The trouble was

they were too gay.

The trouble was

they gambled madly.

The trouble was

they passed away.

The lawyer couldn’t resist

a pair of shapely legs

and fathered children by the maids.

The designer ran off to Buenos Aires

with his handsome friend.

The accountant,

in need of ready cash,

put the house up as collateral

for his gambling debts.

The cardiologist,

twenty years her senior,

clutched his chest

and collapsed in the garden

like a deflated doll.

None of them could

hold a candle to her collie,

(a present from her son)

who trotted after her

on long walks in the woods,

warmed her  bed on winter nights,

watched for her at evening time

from the upstairs window,

his tail ticking like a metronome

as she turned the lock.

She called him Alegria

for all the joy he gave her.

Her friends referred to him as

Nina’s Number Five,

the most loving,

the most faithful of them all,

the only one who was fixed,

the only one who barked

and  defecated outside.

(originally published in Cyclamen and Swords Publishing)

Pardonne-Moi

They say that men

who are a little maladroit

make better lovers.

Actually, nobody says that

except moi,

when I want to improve my chances

of having a petite affaire.

I used that line on FrançoiseIn the captain’s lounge

when,

with one dismissive geste,

I spilled a glass of

Château Haut Lafitte

on her chic white dress,

leaving a stain the size of

Ile-de-France

I suggested we adjourn

to her private stateroom,

where she could,

I hinted,

change into something

more recherché

and test my adage

about clumsiness and love.

Mais oui, Cheri, she said

and pressed my hand.

professing la timidité

she insisted that I disrobe first

and when my back was turned,

she kicked ajar the cabin door

and tossed me out.

Go ahead ami and laugh.

since you’re the one who found me

cowering behind a lifeboat

a poil, like the baby,

you’ve probably figured out by now

what happened next.

just keep it to yourself.

There’s a hundred euros for you

if you go collect my clothes.

(originally published in Parable Press)

Falls Trail, Early Spring

The river welcomes us

with soothing songs

it sings the whole night long.

We balance like high-wire artists

on a mossy log

and reach the other side.

We’ve got here just in time

before the forest closes up

with growth run wild,

before the rivers slow to a crawl

and the mosquitos settle in,

when only a few precocious

dogwoods are in bloom.

They say the first green is the finest.

That’s me nodding by the fire

from too much Yukon Jack,

boots toasted by the flames,

and that’s big, brawny Bo

roasting squirrels on the coals.

Here’s full-bearded Bryce

firing up his antique lantern

and incinerating several trees,

wide-eyed Horace finding the rubber snake

we planted in his sleeping bag,

bare-chested Bill singing in an icy waterfall, 

the children catching  crawfish in the creek.

There’s Junior shining a flashlight

in the eyes of the stoned college boys

who have stumbled into camp.

Confronted with three giant black men

decked out in camouflage,

they drop their beer and make a run for it.

Holy shit, they cry, it’s the Marines.

And the through-hiker, skinny bastard,

living for weeks on fungus,

sleeping under a plastic sheet,

but not too proud to eat our stew.

Yes, I’ve been down this trail before,

but never in the rollicking company

of so many ghosts.

(originally publiahed in the Dead Mule School of Southern Literature)

A Warning

the cat awakened us at three

instead of the customary six

with a cry so human

we thought a teething baby

had crept into our bed

she led us to the sliding door

pacing back and forth

as if to warn us

of some vicious creature

lurking in the damp leaves

beyond the compass of the floodlight

an opossum or the bloated white cat

who patrolled the neighborhood

like an overweight thug

in search of fresh prey

hush we said it’s nothing but the wind

go back to sleep

and rubbed the warm soft spot

beneath her chin

until she purred and dozed off

on her velour pillow

but we who shuffled back to bed

lay awake until dawn

tossing and turning in the tangled sheets

with visions of impending doom

dancing in our groggy heads.

(originally in the Paradox Literary Magazine)

Night Wanderers

Like a sailboat striving

To catch the wind,

I shift from side to side.

Each time I get up and return

You awaken too     

As if in loving you

Our two lives have become

Synchronized.

You tuck the paisley comforter

Beneath my chin

And take my hand in yours

As if I were a frightened child

Seeking reassurance

From  his mother’s warmth.

When I slept at Mike and Gert’s apartment,

I listened to their comings and goings

Until I  learned to recognize

Their endless ablutions

And medical complaints.

Light on, light off,

They paraded through the night.

Now I too have joined the ranks

Of the night wanderers

It happened all too suddenly

The evening I looked into the mirror

And found my father’s tired eyes

Staring back at me

With such serious intent

I had to catch my breath

(originally published in Poetry Pacific)

Out of Sync

We are two watches

set for different time zones.

I steal across the bedroom like a thief

pants draped over my arm

shoes and socks in hand

while you sleep on.

I clean up after lunch

while you sit down for morning tea.

I soak up the tropical sun

while you hide under

two floppy hats

one inside the other

and hold a silver parasol

like a Victorian lady in Bombay.

You stay out of the water.

The one time you snorkled

you almost drowned.

The mere mention of seafood

leaves red dots on your skin.

I glide like a dolphin

through the waves

and disdain red meat.

You believe in saints and angels.

You recite novenas to Mary

for all your sick friends

while I believe in

a vague spiritual force out there

or a God who lost all interest

milennia ago

(originally published in Tulip Tree Review)

Sweets and Coffee

The finest candy in the world

is exuded from the hole

between an insect’s legs

and collected sweet and sticky

from a plant in north Iraq.

Al mann, it’s called, or manna,

after the white substance

which rained from Heaven

upon the wandering Jews.

We brush off the flour

by tapping the pieces against

the side of the box.

and clump by clump,

we savor the chewy dough,

the small bits of pistachio

clinging to the roofs of our mouths.

The finest coffee in the world

comes from Bali,

brewed from beans digested by

a civet

and shat out in his cage

at seventy bucks a pot.

We drink it slowly

in a  demi-tasse

just to get our money’s worth.

There’s a moral in here somewhere:

when happiness finally comes your way

don’t search too hard to find its source.

(originally published in Just a Touch of Saccharine)

Zits

the evening of my date

with luscious Gail

the zit on the tip of

my huge Shylock schnoz

exploded like

the cream-filled center

of a Barricini chocolate

and left an angry slash

across my face

that was Rudolph writ large

but without the sleigh

I patched the damage

best I could

with a 2 by 2 of gauze

and prayed for

a quick and painless death

on the tracks of the

Astoria line

Gail peered at the

sad masked stranger

in the peephole

and reluctantly let me in

it’s nothing just a scratch

I shrugged

old lady on the IRT

two punks grabbed her purse

I fought them off

but not before

they broke your nose

oh Arthur

I leaned my head against

her cashmere breasts

and studied the dimple

on her chin

while she fed me

dates with marzipan

dulce de leche

scoops of Häagen-Dazs

the foods that I liked best

the ones that gave you zits

(originally published in Twisted Endings)

Wear Anything But Green

When Mom succumbed to cancer

at a  tragically young age,

Dad spent his evenings

seated in a green recliner,

wearing his green cardigan,

only getting up to fetch

another bowl of breakfast cereal

which he dubbed the perfect food

or to change the channel on

the black and white TV

with the missing remote.

He carpeted the living room

to match the chair,

shuffling his feet

until it came to resemble

a worn putting green,

which seemed only fitting

since he’d been a caddy in his youth.

He was wedded to that color

more than any Moslem prince.

God knows how many times

we offered to redecorate.

We tried to broaden his spectrum

by buying a color TV

but he said they hadn’t perfected it yet

and returned it to the store.

We attempted to replace the chair

but he wouldn’t stay out of it long enough

for us to give it away.

As for the carpeting,

we joked he would be buried in it.

To this very day,

my sister and I won’t wear

anything green,

not even for St. Pat’s Day,

and I threw over an Irish lass

for a laughing señorita

who revels in red.

(originally published in Voices Israel Anthology Series)

The Nose Job

at eight everyone said

you were my bride to be

we played hopscotch

on the sidewalk in front

of your second floor flat

or sat at DeWitts’ marble counter

while the jovial owners

doled out sundaes laced with

hot fudge and nuts

I loved the way your green eyes

caught the light

like the catseye marbles

in my collection

I loved your laughter

which exploded like summer rain

I loved your exotic nose

curved like a sparrow’s beak

when you decided in your teens

to exchange it for something

less overtly semitic

I was disconsolate

they removed the bandages

the swelling went down

and you could hang a plumb line

from the bridge to the tip

it was that straight

but it belonged to a stranger.

Dewitts was closed by then

the games we played

on the streets of New York

were gone forever

(originally published in Bop Dead City)

Sometimes I Dream a Poem

Sometimes I dream a poem.

It rubs its eyes and wakes up

with the perfect features

of a newborn child.

I rock it in my arms

and think of a good name.

More often,

I wrestle with the words

like Jacob with his angel,

trying to pin them in place

before the vision fades.

I sound out the lines

a hundred times,

fishing for the melody

which swims elusively

beneath the meaning.

To the joggers in the park,

I am simply

a crazy fool in a cowboy hat

who talks to the dog

as it strains at the leash,

who mumbles to the ducks

as they bob their pretty heads

and preen their feathers.

(originally published in Eunoia Review)

The Sleeper

As I nod off

the book slips from my hand

the wine glass drops to the floor.

I simply cannot keep awake.

My head hits the recliner

I’m down for the count.

As a kid I’d fall asleep

packed like a frozen fish

in a musty subway car.

Teachers threw erasers at my head

to wake me up.

Now I doze off at movies

and awake to find

the closing credits

scrolling down the screen.

My rumbling snores

keep pace at concerts

with the timpani.

At bedtime your shapely form

stuffed into a teddy

elicits barely a grunt.

I drown myself

in rivers of caffeine

I jog I swim

I work out at the gym

but still I close my eyes

before the guests depart.

When I’ve gone to my eternal rest

I’ll be remembered less

as a poet or a prof

than as a sleeper.

“He was a good man,”

my wife will say,

“the short time he was awake.

Good thing I had a lover

for the other times.”

(originally published in Corvus Review)

Mad Poets and a Prose Woman

Sans aucune doute,

it was cousin Jacques

the poet in the family.

He lived near Domrémy

where Jeanne first had her visions.

Jacques’ visions were of a different kind,

inspired by Verlaine, Rimbaud,

shellac and bad hashish.

He faithfully recorded them

in wild, frenzied images

until one day, in a narcotic haze,

he set fire to the kitchen curtains

and was put away for good.

Pepère penned verses too,

mostly of a bawdy kind,

which he recited to his pals

at the bistrot in the square,

brushing back his cap

as he filled their glasses

to the brim.

That was before cheap wine   

pickled Pepère’s brain like sour beets

and he was canned by the chemin de fer

for dozing off at the crossing.   

Now he rails against les Boches

(who were here in the Great War)

as he stacks wood in the rain.

The wood is for the antique stove

which Memère carefully tends,

bent over from her scoliosis

like the crippled plum-trees

reaching down from Church Hill.

Memère is pure prose,

not an ounce of poetry in her,

except for the pretty words

she feeds to the rabbits 

as they nibble her crooked fingers

in their lopsided hutch.

(originally published in The French Literary Review)

David

His claim to fame was

playing with Grace Slick

in the Sixties

and writing psychedelic songs.

The Great Society

I believe the band was called.

That was before he went

from Rock to Lit

and married fiery Anna

with her low-cut peasant blouses

and a temper which flared up

like a violent summer storm,

the children huddled in the bedroom

until the thunder passed.

When Anna kicked him out

he showed up at our door

at 2 a.m. guitar in hand

looking like a sheared sheep,

his beautiful locks completely shorn.

We made up a bed in the attic

and he sang himself to sleep.

For several months he donned a wig

and sold insurance.

The children came on weekends

and we grew to love

the fair and mischievous girl,

the dark and pensive boy,

deciding to have children of our own.

David,  married to his fourth wife now,

teaches Comp Lit in Queens

and occasionally writes a song.

The attic’s full of bric-a-brac,

the children grown and gone,

the Sixties and Seventies

only pleasant sounds

coming from the computer.

(originally published in Verse-Virtual)

A Good Death

A good death,

the hospice people had told us,

was the best we could hope for,

which meant at home,

in her own bed,

her legs drawn up

like a sleeping child,

no hospital staff rushing in

to resuscitate,

the morphine administered

by my own hand

to ease her passing.

By morning’s light

her breath had stopped.

It was a good death, I suppose,

but I waited for more:

a sigh of regret

at not meeting her grandson,

a final absolution for my failings,

one last whispered “I love you.”

Maybe that only happens in movies

but how I yearned for it.

(originally published in Touch: Magazine of Healing)

Robbie’s Red Ink

I should write this in red ink

like the losses in the quarterly statements

we blithely ignored

what were you thinking, Robbie,

when you whisked us away

on a two-year Carnival cruise

in treacherous seas

of wild speculation,

the china sliding across the table

at every meal?

that the price of precious metals

would soar into the stratosphere

while currencies crumbled

and banks hovered on the brink?

that you could buy high sell low

and still magically turn a profit?

that the ship would right itself

and we’d be sailing on

the sea of prosperity

that Coolidge foresaw in 29?

when we finally bailed out

we told ourselves

at least it wasn’t cancer was it

only paper losses

raining like tossed confetti

in our dreams

next time we got the urge

to seek our fortune in the market

we’d tell Billy at the Stop n Go

to print a string of lottery tix

as long as the line you fed us

(originally published in Still Crazy)

Wedding Day

instead of burying

ma vie de garçon

your father nearly buried me

bringing bottle after bottle

up from his cave

until I got so drunk

they had to air me out

next to le monument aux morts

the next day they dragged me

from  the frigid shower

and marched me down to the mairie

I couldn’t see straight enough

to put the ring on the right finger

you took it from my hand

and placed it there yourself

the notaire tugged at his

walrus mustache

buried his face in his

tri-colored sash

and solemnly pronounced us

foreigner and wife

at the banquet they served

quail with tiny bones

that nearly choked me

and poire belle Hélène

which mixing with the wine

made my stomach sick

I drank nothing not even

the champagne for the toast.

in the  morning

over coffee and croissants

your father asked me

in true gallic fashion

how many times?

where I come from I said

it’s not quantity that counts

but quality

et la qualité

you cried out from the bedroom

elle y était it was there

(unpublished)

lovebites

doing the dirty

on a mountaintop in Maine

we didn’t expect no-see-ums

attracted by the scent

to bite us where we ain’t

never been bit before

for days we walked around

stiff-limbed from the climb

resisting with all our earthly powers

the temptation to scratch

another time,

right here in Buena Vista

I had her up against a rock

with my pants around my feet

when a rattler approached

I reached in slo-mo for my gun

and he became  a gourmet breakfast

of snake and eggs

crackling in a rusty skillet

on an open fire

now there’s just the two of us

no kids black flies or snakes

and we only do it in the bedroom

on the rare occasions

when the old urge bites

(originally published in the Dead Mule School of Southern Literature)

To a Friend

If I were a leaf-cutter ant,

I’d gnaw at your illness

and with my helpers

carry it piece by piece

across the road.

If I were a giant whale shark

I’d let you cling like a remora

to my great white belly

and glide away to verdant lands

where death remains unknown.

If I were a hummingbird

I’d hover by your side

drawing sweet words from your lips

and planting them in apothecary gardens

to make you well again.

But I am none of these

and can only sit and wait,

marveling at your courage

admiring your quiet strength

as your head droops like

a thirsty peony

and your arms hang down

like willows in the rain.

(originally published in Poetry Quarterly)