I usually flinch when someone has poetry on their website.  It's usually bad, not worth reading (uhm, no offense to any of you with poetic sites!) and yet I feel obligated to read it because I told that person I'd check out their site.  My poetry?  Well, some of it is very, very bad.  Some of it is also very, very old.  I don't write much poetry any more, but what I have written tracks a progression in my life.  You can see the roads I've walked through the poems I've written.  Maybe some time I'll feel more comfortable putting recent poetry up here - but right now those pieces are still raw with recent emotion.  Thus, everything here is at least three years old, some much older than that.

Upon Waking

Ripples of unconscious,
gentle ebb and flow, about me
swelling tides of thought, their
whisper thundering in my brain, the
elven flicker of gentleness,that
fairy's quiet touch, her
serene sun dapple insinuates itself
to kiss the windowpane.
a birds lulling aria.
I whimper;
hoping to prolong my peaceful sea of langor,
I stretch a hand to the sky
and turn my back on the dawn
(1990)

Americana

He threw his shirt
into the dust at his feet,
And he wiped his brow with his forearm...
tightly muscled
and bronzed to a golden sheen,
glistening with sweat.
With his hands on his hips,
he leaned back
sensuously stretching
in the movements
of a lithesome lion.
He gazed off into the sun,
blistering ball, blazing red above the afternoon haze
and leaned on the handle of his shovel.

He looked at me.

In the spark of sudden, starling
pale blue eyes
I read the years of his labor, and
his fathers. The
toil under the sun so a passing city girl can have bread on her table.
The hard creases around his eyes
caught the sweat that rolled from his brow,
and he smiled.
(1991)

Suburban Summer

A gentle yellow melancholia
drips serenely
from the moist air of August.
A child's cry
upsets the stifled air,
as a green tricycle lies upturned
on the hot concrete.
Faint bars of music,
from the kid in the marching band
drift aimlessly
across jungle lawns
that it's too hot to mow.
And the air conditioner's broken,
again.
Dad's in his polyester shorts,
huffing and puffing
about lazy repairmen.
The smell of chlorine
from the community pool
(more yellow than blue in that water I fear)
is on the breeze.
Nobody's cat slithers by;
I thought of petting him
but then he was gone.
The sun starts to lose it's glow,
orange...
then it purples into dusk.
A firefly lands on the porch rail.
I remember catching them in a jar....
watching them flicker me to sleep at night.
Somewhere a baby cries out
and a couple begins to shout.
the screech of the swingset next door
is an abrupt harmony
to the Simon and Garfunkel tape
that spills music from a stereo.
a pinch...
I slap at the mosquito,
watch the blood trickle down my thigh
and wonder about his family.
Will they expect him home tonight?
Stars spread themselves out above me
and I start to wish on one
but it moves
a plane, again,
no shooting stars for this girl.
The music stops.
I open the screen door to go inside,
wondering if Miss  American Pie
was anything like me.
(1991)
 

My love has two faces

My love has two faces.
when you are near
my pulse thunders, my heart
races with joy.
But you turn away, my love
and I wonder...
Are you true?  Does that
quick smile of yours
flash as bright for someone else?
Where are you now...
out of my sight? winning another?
Your beauty, your charm
Your gift of insight
must surely be
as cunning to others
as to me.
When you are near,
my heart knows you are true...
but my love has two faces,
and it fears, so have you.
(1992)
 

The Beach

I walked the beach at four a.m.
hoping to find some sense of you here.
For so long, this place sang of you.
There, on that bench, was where we first met.
We talked by that gentle curve
of land hugging shore.
On a night like this one,
clear and bright and cold
but filled with stars,
You held me by that boulder there,
and kissed me once... then twice.
It didn't seem so long ago
that my heart beat with magic here.
How did I never see
the overflowing garbage cans
spilling their bounty to the night air.
The single, scraggly, lonely tree
looking like a still-young man
who has started losing his hair.
I tried to find the magic here;
the sense of wonder, of hope and joy,
buy all I've found is sad remains
of the day, too soon passed,
like you and I.
(1992)
 

The Scar

She traced her fingertip over
the scar.
Wishing she could erase as easily
the memory.
Pulling the skin taut, the angry mark vanishes
into flesh.
She closes her eyes, tries to recall
a self;
Before him, not yet vanished into
the scar.
(1993)
 

Going Out for Chinese

I stared at the red and gold dragon
on the tablecloth and sipped
my tea, ignoring the brutal way
it seared my tongue.
You were talking about a legal
brief, I think.  I didn't
want to be there, and
you knew.  But you
kept talking and I kept
sipping my tea.
(1994)
 

At the Station

They had a white mini-van
filled with laughter.
I watched them as I
pumped my gas, and wished
I were able to climb inside.
Ensconcing myself in
crystal giggles and floating smiles.
Melting into their
upholstery and into
their life.
(1994)
 
 

Seasons

When was it that the seasons changed?
Suddenly today, the leaves all
were gone, yet...
I don't recall having seen them turn.
Every day, I step outside.
I walk to the train.
I gaze out the windows as
the scenery rolls by;
The brick and concrete and steel
of this city.
I come up from beneath the earth,
walk to my office in tunnels
man-created slabs, as sure
as a ravine of rock
to block the sky.
I breathe exhaust,
drink industrial waste.
And suddenly I see
all the leaves are gone,
from every tree.
Another season, come and gone,
And I saw not one gold leaf
flutter down.
(1995)
 

Neighbors

I feel i know my neighbors' lives
as closely as my own.
Twelve feet away, their windows beckon.
So hard not to see, from the
corner of my eyes, their lives unfolding.
Last night, pot roast.  Tonight,
a rented film.  I try not
to see.  I draw the shades.
I wonder what they know, if
they are watching me.  If
they see me invite a date up for coffee
do they watch me and wonder? and worry?
Or the many nights of solitary meals,
a book, and bed alone...
so jealous of the happy pair,
folding laundry together.
Or do they notice me not at all?
Their full life must not have room
enough for one neighbor
alone.
(1995)
 

Legacy

I flinched today, when he raised his hand
to brush away my hair.  This gentle man
does not deserve this legacy from you.
His eyes were filled with crystal tears,
the silly argument forgotten as he swept me up
into strong arms to allay my foolish fears.
My heart still thundered, inside I screamed
"God, no!" and pushed away, but I fought
to stay; I closed my eyes, I banished thoughts of you.
I forced my breath to slow, and then brought
myself to firm control.  I will not, cannot let
you win this war of heart and soul.
He knows of you, but not of all the secrets
that I keep.  With love, he tries to heal me,
but deep inside I weep.  If only I could
bare myself to this kind and righteous man...
but bands of icy firm control still grip my heart:
your hand... it clutched me close in passion,
it could gently move with love, more often, though,
your touch meant pain and shame and wrath
like God's above.  And so, you see, I flinched today, for
your hand, it holds me still.  I cannot pry the fingers free,
I cannot change you, still.
(1996)
 
 
 

Lucky

I ran into an old friend today.
She looked so happy and full
of life.  Pushing a stroller, she
stopped to say hello.  I was
rushing-by-to-work,
my briefcase in hand, but
I stopped and
looked
down into the tiny face;
enormous brown eyes peering curiously
above a blanket of blue.
My friend said "how lucky you are."
and smiled.  And I said
"no," and walked away.
(1996)
 

there is a certain time of night...

there is a certain time of night
when the city seems, finally,
to rest.  and i
creep out to the ancient,
precariously clinging fire escape
to watch.
the sky is still black,
though it is nearly dawn,
and only for a moment does
quiet descend.
the soft swooshing of cars on the Drive
suddenly stilled.
the only sound the lapping of the lake,
this, the only time of day that
soft chorus can reach
so high.
(1997)
 

Dust

cupped in my hands, your sweet, hearty scent
calls to me.  I let you trickle through my fingers,
wiping my palms on the seat of my jeans.
So lucky am I to tread here, this place
of tall corn, of broad skies, of ten
generations living and crying and
fighting and working to make this earth
this rich dust erupt with life.
How can I possibly express my joy
to walk these rows where one hundred
years past, another of my line once trod.
If they saw me here, my dirty jeans,
my face tilted to the sky, would they
laugh?  "Oh, silly city girl, you do not
own this land!  Another plants it for you,
walks the rows, rises at dawn to tend
the harvest.  Why do you come?"
The only answer I can find lies at my
feet, another handfull I loose to the winds,
watching it fly, feeling it's scent
with closed eyes.
(1997)
 

The Date

I knew he was too young for me
when I saw his purple truck.
And those suspicions were confirmed
at dinner, when his brow furrowed
over the wine list, and he ordered
chardonnay.  I smiled, though,
and sipped the wine, poking at my steak.
And we started talking music, though
he thought classic rock was Morrissey and
Bach was a sound a sick dog makes.
I tried discussing books and plays
and work, and weather when all else failed, but
by dessert I was counting the number
of times he said "like" and was vowing
no more young men.
Give me a man with salted hair,
who understands merlot, who can talk
about the Beatles and discuss with me
Van Gogh.  I have had enough of
sports bars, of football games and beer.
I need to find more content,
a book with binding thick and warm,
it's pages lined with joy and fear and loss
and love, and lessons learned;
watermarked with tears.
(1998)
 

The Visit

Yesterday you told me that your mom had been
to visit.
I smiled and said
how nice
that must have been for you to see
her again.
And then, I held your hand, feeling
the flesh
so loose from the bone, the veins so close to
the surface.
You asked me how my husband was, and
my child.
I blinked, then smiled and said "they're
doing fine,"
wondering what part of your mind
created them;
Wanting to correct you, but knowing it wouldn't
matter anyway.
I tried to tell you of my work, my friends,
my life,
And when I looked back, your eyes
had closed.
So I laid your hand back upon your chest, and
As I left, I heard the nurses say
how nice
For her granddaughter to come all this way
to visit
when she doesn't even know
her name.
But all I could hear was
she came too late.
(1998)
 

Apple Picking Time

It's apple picking time again.
How I wish you were still here
With your enormous floral aprons
For this girl to hide behind.
One sweet, bright yellow treasure
Secreted away in a pocket's folds.
That sweet burst across the tongue
As teeth pierce taut flesh,
Juices running down my chin,
You swipe with the apron's corner.
It's apple picking time again,
Time to sort through bushel-loads
Piled high with sunlight.
I will bring you one, a perfect round
specimin of the field's delight.
I offer it humbly to that cold stone.
How I wish you were here.
(1998)
 

Dicentra

she lurks in the shade
tiny flower of night,
thick green foliage obscuring her
delicate blossoms.
shyly, she waits.
watching bright golden and deep crimson blooms
waving in the sunlight of the garden,
capturing the eyes of passer-by.
she knows he will come,
her gardener....
he passes the other showy blooms
dismisses the exotic plumage.
he comes to her.... brushing aside her dense leaves
he exposes his reward...
the intricate shape and deep hue,
the proliferating blossoms, heavily hung,
drenching the sweet air,
caressing his hand as velvet.
(1999)
 

Morning

I rose this morning
from sheets still warm
and heady with the scent
of our lovemaking.
the sun was barely beginning
to blue the sky, not yet
peering over the horizon
to hide the stars.
In the half light I watched you;
Your tousled crown of flames
licking against the brilliant moon white sheets,
Your breath slow and strong,
steadily reassuring me of the
constancy of you.
Too tempted by the sweet scent
of dawn to linger too long by your bedside,
I crept away and down the quiet stairs.
Outside, I slipped across the lawn,
the dew-painted blades
teasing and flickering at my bare toes.
At the stoop, I sat,
the cool concrete grainy
against my skin, the gentle
ache between my thighs a sweet
reminder of your complete
possession
of me the night before.
I pressed my hand to my belly,
remembering the sweet gift
left there by your passion;
marking your territory,
making the woman in me whole.
In the growing light, I was
astounded by the simple
beauty of the nodding plants,
heavy under the kiss of the morning dampness,
heavy as the flower within me felt,
when kissed by the dew of your love.
Completed now, I sat and watched
as the sun rose only for me.
(1999)
 

The Becoming

You were never
truly mine, I know.
Your heart was won
long before one quiet girl
with red curls tumbled in.
Perhaps for a moment,
I thought I could overcome
the serene and silvery vision
you longed for.
My tempestuous nature betrayed me.
So I buried myself,
quelled the words that leapt up,
desperate to become your
every desire, and yet
in the becoming,
you slipped away.
(1999)
 

Passing Through Twilight

Yellow-purple dusk settles, painting the sky with
gentle brush strokes, and hazy watercolor hues.
The paper wrinkled, catching the colors,
bleeding them, letting them run.
One day ended, it's essence lost to us now;
the fine, the strong, the good, the bad of it
only held to heart in memory.
a first star noses out, peeking, blinking,
but the night still not wakening.
Closed eyes, curled tight, she awaits its cool relief,
hearkening through the inky coal dark
to the new dawn.
Reaching out one hand,
she finds another in the half-light
She grasps it, her eyes fluttering wide
to face the new day.
(1999)
 

The Daisy Chain

The morning light, shifting then,
brought lush warmth to my shoulders.
Raising my face to the golden shaft,
I closed my eyes and let
the sun dance through the
gossamer of my eyelids.
Still I stood, and silent,
letting it wash through me,
the cleansing, purging
of my soul.
And I knew then, time had come,
to make a daisy chain for my hair
and dance, again.
(1999)
 

Wings

hollow-eyed girl,
her heart in her hand
silently waits.
Finding she had wings,
one spring day, she
gazed up at the sky and
decided to test them in flight.
For a moment she soared.
The air considered her, dubiously,
watching her strange path,
sniffing at her odd, awkward span of wing.
Then, quickly,
it threw her back.
(2000)
 

Broken

Shadows in her eyes,
she has lost track of the days;
their passing having no
meaning to her.
she hides from the sun,
venturing outside only when
the cool, welcoming, grave-like black
of the night has come.
she shuns the company of others, their
happy voices
seeming to her like so many
clanging cymbals in her ears.
she seeks out the corners of rooms,
preferring the security of a wall at her back,
and she waits for the day
she will simply fade away.
she has no more rage against
the dying of the light,
and knows no neighbor
to borrow a cupful of courage from.
(2000)
 

Little Girl

There is a time when, inexplicably,
there is too much attention, and
that little girl who always shied away,
who stayed in the back of the room,
the edges, the shadows, the safety of anonymity
can't take any more.
At first, when she learned to play the game,
she relished the lustful glances, the
clamoring, burgeoning attention.
She was charmed by the rush
of being adored.
Now, though, she seeks the quiet corners,
finding only emptiness
in the flirtatious friendship of a crowd.
(2000)
 

To Satisfy

He was a complicated man,
others told her,
but this she already knew.
Still, she thought, if
she gave all she had to give,
stripped bare her soul,
hid nothing, kept nothing
for herself, then,
surely then, it would be enough.
she thought it was.
she waited.
she was happy,
(or so she told herself
and so she tried to be.)
But He was a complicated man,
and all one woman had to give
would never, could never
be enough to satisfy, for
even an ocean cannot fill
a bucket with a hole.
(2000)
 

Wings II

The moment was a waterfall,
rushing over her with the coolness of clarity,
the refreshment of spring in it's liquid embrace.
She was enough, she knew.
Imperfect body, imperfect soul.
Even her heart, with it's many flaws,
was perfect in it's humanity.
Perfection surrounded her,
she was perfectly her.
The scars she thought were burdens,
had blossomed into wings more true,
silver feathered with mites of sky blue,
perfect in asymmetrical wonder.
Now, she thought, i can test them again,
i can see if i can fly.
Looking down one last time for purchase at the earth,
she realized she was already soaring high.
(2001)