Poetry May 2018


the terrorist

scrubbing her hands
red white
my mother stares
backwards into her head
where dementia rises
falls planting bombs
it will survive them
going off





four landay

dancing foolishly close to the edge
he fell into the wild sea his mad legs still dancing

a sparrow welcomes her from its tree
or so she believes in her final delirium

a season of nests and first feathers
the stony eyes of babies fallen and forgotten

white stones simply holding up the clouds
dust shows respect traveling somberly past the names


the peach orchard

Saturday nights
before the traffic
blocked our drive
we went to the orchard
where the old man
sat ruggedly prepared
to bundle thirteen
in your dozen
and let a child
bite a free peach
delirious juice
running free
down elbows
tuned to summer


She was afraid of the thorns
As much as she loved the red roses

She feared the honey bees
Although she knew the wonders of honey

And the willow weeping spiders
Conjured legendary nightmares

She knew all this was silly.

I last saw her as a strip of flesh
In a door ajar

Closing slowly on the offered line
She was too afraid to take.



every morning a crow

I remember the fear
the old ladies in black

crossing themselves
praying in different tongues

what would they think of me
listening interpreting

a crow every morning

since then

the lilacs withered brown
before I caught their scent

the jonquils became wan stalks
blending in like they never were


a raindrop rolls down
the window pane

it’s alone
free falling out of

a cloudless sky

uniquely solitary
as i am on this side of the glass

the suffering of others

my hands are filled with cool
clear water

i’ve dipped them repeatedly
and watched the water

fall through
when my fingers separate

how can i help you
if i can’t help

with this cool clear water

i ruin with my tears

end of life

face pressed against a medicinal
pillow she wonders why
as if the life she’s led
hasn’t led her here to loneliness
measuring dwindling life
minutes hours days all
she stifled the love wafting
through the Sunday dinners
bottles of cheap child-bought
perfume small fires low in grates
till now faces are of strangers
and smells seep out of blank walls