Apr 30, 2013

National Poetry Month: day 30/poem 30

This last poem that I'm posting on the last day of National Poetry Month was written about a year after moving to LA in 1999.

Aerial View

Poetry is the one true word
The air is cool and soft
atypical of
a summer's day
in Southern California
A light mist
falls from
the blanket of clouds
shutting out the sun
I am sitting on my porch
I am soaking in the coolness
A breeze softly caresses
my browning aloe plant
and gently swings
the bird feeder
hanging over my head
but does not disturb
my guest
a rugged looking bird
whose kind I know not
but who's been with me
all day
while my cats
closed in by the screen
cannot take their
little slanty eyes off
my new friend
Yesterday's paper
lays in ruins
on the white plastic
Rite Aid chair
across from me
with a half finished
My feet rest
on an ugly green
Sears cooler
that acts
as a makeshift table
and holds cigarettes,
matches, the cordless phone,
and perspiring iced jasmine tea
To my left is a half
filled Marlboro ashtray
sitting on the stucco wall
of the little porch
I can hear the
building's children
playing in the courtyard
but my view
is only of alleys,
other buildings' backs,
and our fenced-in pool
like some terrible tease
on hot days
The air brings
scents of far off
and my mouth salivates
for hot dogs
and burnt hamburgers
(vegetarian, of course)
my mind drifts
back to my childhood
and 4th of July
cookouts at Grandma's
in Worcester, Mass
with games of badmitten
then trekking through the woods
to view the fireworks
at Worcester airport
A helicopter
searching the LA area
brings me back
the soothing sounds of Handel
switches to the fast paced
beats of the Dave Brubeck Quartet
I take a drag
on my American Spirit
I see a car zooming
down the road to my left
destination unknown
a flock of pigeons
escape their rain shelter
when the mist
suddenly lets up
But my bird friend remains
seemingly bobbing
to the now cool beats
and ice cream sax
I wonder at the time
My days
home alone
tick by
into nights
metered by
my husband's tired snores
from long days on set
I contemplate my book
finished but still needs
more editing
I ponder my short story
not finished but needs
to be sent in by the end
of next week
for a writing contest
I spy cautiously
on my neighbor
across the way
who steps out onto
her porch briefly
eating rice with chopsticks
out of a colorful bowl
Life in LA is not
what I expected
but nothing
ever is
Life is what you make
of it
and that is why
I'm taking it slow
instead of jumping
into the fast paced
game of fame
and fortune
I stare long into
the bright
of the sky
and I see
moving pools
of nothingness
like electricity
I stretch my legs
and feel the muscles
in my calves
and the joints
in my ankles
and I marvel
on the beauty
the gift of life
and flesh and bone
and how so many women
don't see this beauty
in the mirror
only fat and disgust
all beautiful
all wonderful
No matter what
we look like
(Or think we look like)
And I feel
a vague sadness
stirring in my soul
when my mind
conjures up
hazy memories
of the Colorado
school shootings
and I don't want
to dwell too long
but I wonder at
what really went wrong
I recall
feeling alone
isolated and alienated
back in younger days
of school
and teasing boys
and hateful girls
and I remember
how I hated them
how I hated myself
and if it weren't
for him...
for them...
I'm older now
older, but still young
And the world has
so much
hidden beauty
I must seek
and I want
to tell
the world
to slow down
to listen
to music
soft and slow
and cool sweet jazz
and I want
to tell the world
to read
to ponder
to recite
to believe
And I want
to tell the world
to make art
and love
to smell
the sweet scents
of wild flowers
to feel
soft wet grass
between bare toes
or hot grains of sand
between sunscreened
to taste
salt water
and orange cream
to hug
to love
their parents
and children
to relish
laughter and tears
to make every
moment matter
to live
to love
to be honest
and free
to harm no one
not even yourself
to remember the past
and heed the future
but live in the now
the time
to revel
precious moments
that combined
is a life
that is not
too short
if cherished
to love
all others
we are all
the same
to relinquish control
to your heart
to feel the oneness
of all things
to find the poetry
on your own
back porch
and write the words
of your heart
for they are true
they are right
no matter
what anyone else
and to teach others
young and old
to do
the same
When you eat a peach
feel the fuzzy soft
taste the juicy sweet
smell the fresh scent
and let the sticky
run down your chin
and over your fingers
with no worries
this is life
savor each moment
savor the earth
savor your life
before it's gone
before you eat
all of your peach
A plane
flies low
and slow
presumably to land
at LAX
I think about the view
toy cars and broccoli trees
like a huge
train set
An aerial view
to watch
and protect
Let it be
trust and believe

Apr 29, 2013

National Poetry Month: day 29/poem 29

I wrote this next poem on 1/2/1993 but it could almost be written today.

News Blues

I open my door
Step onto my trash covered floor
Run to my unmade bed
To rest my hung over head
I turn on the TV’s muted news
While the radio plays the blues
I didn't need to hear the newscasters
Only needed to see the pictures
Of a twelve year old’s rape
All on home video tape
As I step into the shower
I feel I have no power
Over what I hear and say
The pain never goes away
Bryant Gumble says with a smile
Don’t you dare touch that dial
More death and violence
God, can we ever have silence?

Apr 28, 2013

National Poetry Month: day 28/poem 28

Another college age possibly never-before-seen poem.


The warm blood
of unrequited love
flows through the dry veins
of my melancholy lover

Apr 27, 2013

National Poetry Month: day 27/poem 27

This next poem was originally untitled but was then chosen for publication so I think I let the editor title it Hatred but I've since re-titled it to Passion because it's more fitting. (The Outer Fringe, Issue #6 Shrovetide, 1992, Editor: Thomas Pagano)

Passion (A Burning Ember)

In the night
Through the sky
Stars: the only light
The soft grass
And comforting breeze
There is no pain
But a fire burns within

Apr 26, 2013

National Poetry Month: day 26/poem 26

Another college era never-before-seen poem, possibly inspired by Ramen.


Sauce in time to devour
In the deepest hour
Sunny circles christening child
Makes time flow and flower die
Run beyond the wall
Kiss the glistening stone
Fly in the grass
Fill your mind
Butterflies in your hair
Believe in beauty
Though one cannot compare
or judge, or crown
art or love, or music
Sing me spring water
Pull the string
Break the screen

Apr 25, 2013

National Poetry Month: day 25/poem 25

There was a brief period in my life when I flirted with converting poems to lyrics. This one was written in late summer 2006.


everything everything everything everything
you are
everyone everyone
and none of that you are
darkness filled with light
lightness filled with air
airness filled with poison
poisonous flag you wave
wave goodbye
goodbye hello
hello hello adieu farewell
farwell to love
and all that dies
farewell to hate
and all that lies
I am not the me that I once was
but I am the me that I forgot
And the mess we are what we all be
the here and now
searching for security
like me like me
I crack my neck
puff down my cigarette
try to think
to not forget
try to write
to capture this
but all that is written cannot create what the mind perceives in early daybreak
and so on
on and so
back to you
to everything
and all that ever was
I love you

Apr 24, 2013

National Poetry Month: day 24/poem 24

This next poem is undated but from the style and content, I'm thinking it's either senior year high school or freshman year college. I think I submitted this one to be published but I don't think it made the cut.

Stained Glass

Stained glass girl
When I look into your eye
I see the pain of being locked inside
Break the glass, let yourself fly free
But aesthetic beauty doesn't allow me
To do what I must do

Stained glass mistress
When the light hits your glass
Let a reflective path
Show me where I should not go
Because I can not bear to follow
The straight and narrow

Stained glass princess
Tell me why do all my castles fall
You know, I've never looked straight
At the snow in the morning
Because of the dangerous,
Burning glare, but

Stained glass woman
I look straight into his eyes
Without caring who sees me stare
My heart reveals the truth
Ignoring the risk of my pursuit
Because I want him

Stained glass mother
Frozen in time
You've seen where I've gone
And know where I’ll go
As you've seen the lives of all women before me
Each decade a step towards equality

Stained glass feminist
You know what will become of us
Through our mistakes and experience
Ruling over our realm like an immortal queen
I need your wise instruction
To avoid my inevitable destruction

Stained glass queen
When I look at you
I see a mirror of my eye
A gentle stare without care
And a cold, deceptive glare
I see myself in you

Stained glass lady
You still haven’t told me what to do
So I’ll shatter your world
Set you free to be mortal
So you can die like me
Never having a chance to relive your past

Stained glass bitch
Make the most of each mistake
Fully relish in any success you make
With this break I’ll enhance my freedom
Like my feet freed from these shackles
You can no longer judge me

Stained glass pieces
Lying on the floor
It’s time I swept you up
Opened my door and be on my own way
To make my own choices
Even if I fail

Apr 23, 2013

National Poetry Month: day 23/poem 23

Here's another poem from high school in the same form as Clockwork (last word of each line is first word of following line, etc.).


Walk through the Trees
Trees blowing in the Breeze
Breeze like cool Water
Water running down your Face
Face of a Stranger
Stranger in a stranger Land
Land of desperate Days
Days drift by Quickly
Quickly through the trees I walk

Apr 22, 2013

National Poetry Month: day 22/poem 22

Another mid-college poem dated 7/17/93 from the never-before-seen archives.


There’s a spider on the windowsill
I said I’d never write a will
But I can’t be still
Your love’s a bitter pill

There’s a pang in my heart
Because with this world I don’t want to part
I don’t know where to start
I’m lost in my art

I’m afraid your love’s a deadly bite
But this fire-love’s blinding my sight
I need you tonight
I don’t want to fight

But I love you just the same
And I know I’ll perish in your flame
Because you know how to play the game
And I can’t remember who’s to blame

Apr 21, 2013

National Poetry Month: day 21/poem 21

This next never-before-seen poem was written in 1998 or 1999 post-LA.


Moods wash over me--
Not always
A sea of tranquility--
But sometimes.
Blood pours forth from me--
Not always--
But sometimes,
Every month in days of three.
Isn't contradiction an absolute?
Not always,
But sometimes.
Rage overwhelms me--
Not always
In forms of productivity,
But sometimes.
Love saves me--
Not always,
But sometimes--
In the form of you.

Apr 20, 2013

National Poetry Month: day 20/poem 20

I wrote this next poem in high school during my Anne Rice obsessed years well before vampires were sparkly. A variation of it was published in The Outer Fringe, I think.

Blood of the Vampire

I feel my cold dead blood ache from starvation.
I see the crucifix hanging on the wall.
I can feel my arms stretched beyond their limits;
my wrists nailed down tight, my puppet strings cut, but
I’m still not free.  I try to kick, but these nails
through my feet don’t allow me.  My back aches from
the burden and hard, damp wood rubbing splinters
into my skin.  My skin white from the draining
of my blood.  Burgundy pools forming on the
shadow cross on the ground; wind blowing specks of
dirt in the blood, in my face, in my eyes.  Tears
formed to fight the infection roll down my cheeks,
leaving sticky, itching tracks that I can’t scratch.
I scream out of annoyance, frustration, but
I can’t scream. The wind has dried my throat; my lips
crack and bleed.  I feel my life flowing from my
open wounds, open veins.  I’m drowning in these
waves of death, trying to stay afloat, but find
it’s so much easier to sink.  In my haze
I see an ax; hear a chopping crack whack of
wood splitting, breaking.  I’m falling.  My eyes close
before I fall, I feel nothing; I awake
from a dream of drinking blood, rise and hit my
head on the board above.  A coffin; am I
dead?  My neck aches.  I am thirsty.  I am weak.
I move the cover, let candle light shine in,
reflect on my smooth, white skin, but I don’t feel
like myself anymore.  I know I’ll never
be the same.  Everything’s changed.  I feel hatred,
bitter love.  I am not dreaming anymore.
*     *      *
I know I know I know I know I know
I hear their words echoing in my head;
if I just hang on I’ll be myself soon.
I’ll be happy again if I just try.
I’ll have my own place, I’ll have my own life.
I know I know I know I know I know
But I don’t want to hear their words, no words.
I cover my ears, close my eyes, my mind,
my mouth.  Feel my eyeteeth puncture my lip;
Scream, “I don’t want this fearing mortal life!”
Life to end
End my pain
Pain for sale
Make me immortal
My soul eternal
No morality
Life with no meaning
Meaning with no time
Time for change I need
All I need
All I want
All I dare
is to ask for a never-ending gift,
is to walk this sacred Earth forever,
is to travel the naked Universe,
is to learn infinity’s true essence.
I want to witness the termination
of time, experience life beyond all
limits and obstacles of death, because
there are just so many things, so much stuff
I care about that I don’t want to lose,
that I don’t want lost in an uncaring
mortal time.
I can’t let go,
I can’t close my eyes.
Tears of pain
tearing my face.
All colors blend to
Surrender to the fear.
In the dark twisted forest layered in fog
I see myself, but when I look into the
mirror, I see nothing.  Burn my wick until
I melt away; I can’t give it all away.
Fade into the closed night, mingle with the stars,
marry the moon, but I can’t let go of it.
Rip the precious child from the mother’s arms then
hear her scream.  Now listen to my heart crying.
I can’t sleep tonight.  So alone, I feel like
a pool of water in the Arabian
for no one to feed, no one to nourish, bleed.
The evil sun may explode, the sister moon
may crash to the Earth, but no I can’t let go.
The last unicorn, last of the Mohicans,
the last whale, last tree; I can never let go.
I can’t celebrate what I have without what
I want because I know I will find what I’m
looking for not through the sun drenched path but through
all the milky shadows of a blood stained night.
I hear them call for me; they can’t let go, but
I wont look back, can never go back, never.
I feel the essence of my being ripped, torn
into two distinct sides of opposition,
but my desire follows the fear until
it is gone and you arrive to say good-bye.
Don’t you even dare leave through my broken door
until you pick my pieces up from the floor.
I can’t sleep; I don’t care what happened before
and I can not even go home anymore.
So please sing to me now,
sing to me;
sing me my life.
Give me words like breath,
rhythm of
beat of truth, not true.
Sing my soul,
sing me my self,
for I have no tune.
Sing to me;
I can not bear
this unlit silence.
I need you,
I need your voice.
Sing to me, kiss me.
Give me the kiss of death
then wake me with your blood

Apr 19, 2013

National Poetry Month: day 19/poem 19

Another never-before-seen college era poem.


Whichever way the wind blows
The wind only knows
Whichever way my life flows
The river only knows
I just hope that our currents
Will one day meet again
So we can dance and scream
And laugh and sing

Apr 18, 2013

National Poetry Month: day 18/poem 18

I think this never-before-seen poem from the archives was written post college, pre-LA.

Red Shooting Stars

I lay awake
and wonder
what death is...
An infinite light
point behind the eye
and above the moon.
I feel like I’m going to fall
I stare out at
a city skyline
within the confines
of my computer screen
yellow buildings
and red shooting star
thousands of little colored
pixels dance as pseudo-stars
in this post-modern
techno trance
so like a shaman
bringing health
through vision
but there is no tribe
and I am alone
So clear
my mind
yet so distant
like an imperfect point
lying on the horizon
past rivers and streams
paths roads
mountains and hills
I see it so clearly
so clear
I fear

Apr 17, 2013

National Poetry Month: day 17/poem 17

I'm not sure if this next poem was written during college or afterwards but I'm fairly certain it was inspired by Romeo & Juliet but set in modern day.


I thought I'd never love
I thought I'd never die
Now I know
Now I believe in the love and the light
and the death in the darkness
My love is dark
My death will lighten
the night sky
like a thousand stars exploding
in my chest

When I look into your eyes
of blue daylight
raining tears of violent happiness
driving too fast
weaving traffic
lighting a bowl
and blaring
Led Zeppelin
I see death approaching
masked by love
I believe in my narcissistic contradictions
I believe your lies
I have to
the artist sucks the lover dry
a thousand rebirths
in a thousand lonely nights
wrapped in your arms of security
for you to hurt me
shatter my shell
until I rain inky words
of love and death
like a stereotype
melancholy poet
You will fulfill my destiny

And you and I
we won't be happy
because we know reality
We lose ourselves in
drugs and alcohol
in sex and pain
And we won't be happy
until we prove our unworthiness of joy
And we won't be happy
together or alone
And we won't be happy
until reality bleeds our fantasies unto earth
from pink clouds and purple sky
dragon's breath and Frodo's ring
We won't be happy until we die
and kiss goodbye
painting love black in the sky

Apr 16, 2013

National Poetry Month: day 16/poem 16

One of my many college era, Kerouac inspired poems.

Life is a Movie

Life is a movie
that which we see
through eyes a camera lens
and earth a set
upon which characters

myself a character

the filmmaker
writing myself into
this mise en scen
my reality
my story

this is what’s real

Apr 15, 2013

National Poetry Month: day 15/poem 15

Today's poem actually had a date right on it: 11/16/95 (I really wish I had done that all along for every poem, oh well...Anyhoo...) Mid-college from the never-before-seen archives.


Beautiful evilness
that shines within
Eyes ablaze
through dusty haze
And I do believe
in our chambers of thought
that so eloquently echo
adrift between our
minds entwined
And the blood of the
hurricane burns my hand
so deep red
dripping candle wax
of pain
pleasure and pain
paradoxical love affair
And did we all die that night
of red
and ecstasy dreams
dancing circles
upon silver balloons
in the center of the universe
of which we orbit
prophets of the west
shooting stars
to return home
kiss the ground
flying low
falling landing
like birds shot down
carpeting the floor
a bloody mess
And when I woke up
And when I woke up
And when I woke up
When will I wake up
When I woke up

Apr 14, 2013

National Poetry Month: day 14/poem 14

Another college era never-before-seen poem. (At least I don't think this one was ever published.)

Were It Not You

Were it not you
who held my hand
touched my face
It would not be me
longing for your return
in my lonely bed

Apr 13, 2013

National Poetry Month: day 13/poem 13

When I was a kid I was obsessed with a series of books called Serendipity about miscellaneous animals and mystical creatures. Years later in 1999 I stumbled across some of my old books cleaning out my grandmother's house and wrote the following never-before-seen poem.

The Land of Serendipity

She walks to the crystal stream
And drinks the sweet, blue water.
One blink and it's a dream.
This is the land of Serendipity.

Of misty, light green forests,
White unicorns with golden horns,
Yellow winged Pegasus,
And colorful, sparkling jewels.

This is the land of Serendipity.
With flop-eared rabbits,
Butterflies and flying dragons;
Creatures of the night,
Creatures of the day:
All live in peaceful harmony.

In this land
Lessons are learned
And morals made clear
Friends are made
And enemies not feared.

This is the land of a child's fantasy.
Princes courting princesses
At glamorous ballroom dances in magnificent castles.
This is the land of a child's dream.
A beautiful, young girl walking down a mystical path,
Leading to the labyrinth
Of wonder and delight.
This is the land of Serendipity.

Apr 12, 2013

National Poetry Month: day 12/poem 12

Today's never-before-seen poem was written post-college, pre-LA during one of my many bouts of insomnia.

Nocturnal Madness

mind intoxicating
melt melt meld
into dry beats
like heaven
notes high
remember sadness
grief loss
through space
mind at ease
beauty peace

and I know
I remember
all that I wanted
all that I ever had
traveling backward
through time
like all
this is life
traveling backward
through time
falling towards death
landing on platforms
of memory

I know love

Apr 11, 2013

National Poetry Month: day 11/poem 11

This next poem was written to be published but I don't think it ever made the cut (if it did, I've since lost that particular periodical).

grandma O (Organs and Orchards and Opium)

Laying on the floor of grandma’s church
I feel the cold wood hard against my bones
Smell the baptized varnish
Taste the lukewarm holy water
Thinking of church organs enveloping my soul
Organs and Orchards and Opium

Flying through the trees on grandma’s old swing
I feel the salty breeze penetrate my pores
Smell the sticky sweet honeysuckle
Taste her cinnamon apple pie
Thinking of apple orchards encircling my body
Organs and Orchards and Opium

Hiding with Alice in grandma’s attic
I feel the effects of a strong drug in my blood
Smell the dust of ancient artifacts
Taste the bitter pill of life fading into the past
Thinking of caterpillar opium enticing my mind
Organs and Orchards and Opium

Apr 10, 2013

National Poetry Month: day 10/poem 10

This next poem is based on a true story.

The Passing of a Matriarch

I passed her on the street.
She came towards me in a heavy coat with a walking stick.
Like some ancient soothsayer come to tell me my fortune.
I was dressed in a tank top and shorts.
She asked me if I was really that hot.
I smiled and said, “Yes!”
“I wish I was that young, again,”
she replied through wrinkled eyes
and carried off
slowly down the blazing sidewalk
towards death.
Into the open arms of death.

Death pulling me under like great waves in the ocean.
Dangerous undertow.
Safe sand.
Bring me sweet death in misty waters.
The break of a cold wave against my skin like the tearing of flesh.  Succulent juices of life
bleeding into sticky bitterness
like bees’ honey in grandma’s tears.
Old age scares me.
The pain.
The change.
The loss.
When gone are the days of youth.
And memory slowly fades away
like old photographs of children playing
on some old forgotten beach
building sand castles of time
for sleeping beauty to lie in
under waves of torment.
Yes, old age scares me.

Apr 9, 2013

National Poetry Month: day 9/poem 9

Another college era poem.

Dead Count 8

Down the stairs and into the hall,
The blood poured like a waterfall,
Staining the carpet eerie brown;
Never gonna knock this demon down.

Along the path his footsteps fell,
Almost tripping in Satan’s well;
He ran from an Oedipus fate
That never could he try escape.

He thought for sure that he had won,
Having just bought the fatal gun;
Yet after the disturbing shot,
Police sirens roared on the spot.

Freedom lasted a brief moment,
Forever following (in) torment;
What demons had taken a-hold
This once secure and stable mold?

If ever there was a chance to sin,
God would be drunk on the finest gin,
And to the Devil he would sing,
And forget all mortals living.
Define the terror
Of his black error
And know within your struggle and strife,
The ever present meaning of life.

Apr 8, 2013

National Poetry Month: day 8/poem 8

I wrote this next poem after a horrific tragedy shook my small Massachusetts town (and those nearby) to the core.  (Published in The Outer Fringe, Issue #6 Shrovetide, 1992, Editor: Thomas Pagano.)


 City lights
Shine over evil streets:
Far from the country fields:

Escape from the city
To the tranquil yellow corn
So far from fear

The misleading escape from fear

Escape to the country
With its own cryptic fear
Hidden in the hearts and minds of those
Who love
And who are loved

Forceful, violent fear;
It creeps into the minds of:
    Your mother, your friends,
    Even yours.
It challenges those who accept
And beats those who are weak.
Open your heart to them
For they need support,
Before it's too late.
Because death
And deception
Are not so far away.

Apr 7, 2013

National Poetry Month: day 7/poem 7

I wrote this next little poem in the early to mid-2000s for a now defunct project.

The Lost Legacy League

We're drifters on a mighty wind
Blowing in the din
Finding our way into the light
Fighting thru the night
To save the lives
Of those we lost
At any cost

Apr 6, 2013

National Poetry Month: day 6/poem 6

Another one from the never-before-seen archives. I honestly have absolutely zero memory of writing this poem, oddly enough. However, I'm fairly certain it was written during the college years or soon after as it reflects the sort of rave/techno/club theme of the era.

No Followers

Feel the groove
Feel the beat
Feel the presence
of power
in words
the sound
oozing into the air
like smoke in my lungs
holding in
absorbing the message
in my soul
every cell
“I’m still alive!”
I can think
I can feel
I can interpret
I can create
and I will
I will do it all
Just watch me
Follow me
til there are no

Apr 5, 2013

National Poetry Month: extra poem written shortly after Kurt died in 1994

I wrote this lengthy poem shortly after the world discovered that Kurt Cobain committed suicide. I also gave a copy to Eddie Vedder after a long, drunken discussion on life, death, and the music industry one late night at a hotel in Cambridge, Mass. as the sounds of a nearby jazz concert filled the lobby.

Nullified Youth

What is your message?
Where is your voice?
Who do we turn to?
Who is our choice?
I don’t know the answers.
I don’t know the truth.
But I know I’ll keep living,
At least through my youth.

On Friday
April 8th
I learned that
Kurt Cobain
killed himself
with a shotgun.
Wound to the head.
Cobain was the leader
in what they call
the grunge movement-
but that mainstream alternative
caught him in the contradiction
of anti-self.

Why, man, why?
You left us here
to pick up the pieces
of your brief,
broken life.
You gave us a voice-
a voice for the
voiceless generation.
Do we still need that voice?
Will we still seek the truth?
And how do we interpret this act?
-this lonely, selfish act.
Is this your final
victory or your first defeat?

I know how it is
to lose meaning,
to be left dangling
hoping the mental string of life
won't break,
hoping you wont actually give up,
won't do it,
won't pull the trigger.
I know,
I’ve been there, too,
but (I hope) I won't
give up
like you.

Even Eddie said
he would have
committed suicide
long ago
had it not been
for music.
He found the will to live
in his voice,
his mode of expression.
Did you discover
that the voice we heard
wasn't your voice, anymore?
Wasn't you? Never was?

Did you laugh?
Did you cry?
Or did you sit silently
with a face of contemplation
dimly lit
by a light in the distance,
a blue hue
catching a glimmer in your
dead eyes
as you slowly lifted
the shotgun,
like liquid nitrogen,
and shot.
A shot
like a thousand tormented youths
screaming in unison.
A shot
that ripped out your soul
and spewed it all over
numerous airwaves,
and the cover of Newsweek
leaving us the mess
to clean away.

Wipe away
your tears,
and don’t let her grow up
cold and bitter, too.

Will your suicide
give me the power
to live on
Or the justification
to escape?
I don’t know.
I don’t care.
Oh, well, whatever, nevermind.

National Poetry Month: day 5/poem 5

Today's poem hails from my high school days. I wrote and read it at St. John's Writer's Conference. Author Robert Cormier (The Chocolate War) was in attendance. I spoke to him briefly prior to the reading as I just so happened to be seated at his table. He asked me what I was going to read and I told him, "a poem with a twist." He asked what the twist was and I explained how the last word of each line was also the first word of the following line and the last word of the entire poem was also the first word of the poem. He stared at me a long moment and said that he honestly didn't think it could work. After my reading I nervously returned to the table and  he turned to me conspiratorially saying he was wrong, it did work. Phew! Also, the poem was published in The Outer Fringe, Issue #6 Shrovetide, 1992 (Editor: Thomas Pagano).


Time moves On
On the face of the Clock
Clock like Work
Work for Love
Love's a Ritual
Ritual of Life
Life must Change
Change your Minds
Minds are Mysterious
Mysterious Clock
Clock of Time

Apr 4, 2013

National Poetry Month: day 4/poem 4

Another one from the college archives. There seem to be quite a bit of those... I don't think this one was ever published, but if it was it would have been in The Laughing Medusa circa 1992-1996.


I just don’t know
I just can’t say
What I’ve done
On any day
I’ve lost my mind
I’ve lost my way
Down a tangled past
To my dismay

Apr 3, 2013

National Poetry Month: day 3/poem 3

Another poem from the archives written during my college years.


I just want to slip inside
some old Billie Holiday tune
alone out on a rickety back porch
as the sun rises deep in the South
sipping black coffee
and smoking Camels
contemplating lost loves
and poetry
as willows
slumped in morning dew
sway slightly in the breeze
that rattles the bones
and brings memories of a warm bed
and lover's arms

Apr 2, 2013

National Poetry Month: day 2/poem 2

Today's poem is one from the never-before-seen archives. I'm fairly certain I wrote it during winter circa 1992-1998.

home (deep inside space)

i just want to disappear deep inside space
lingering listlessly in weightlessness
blinking with stars of the heavens
far beyond man’s grasp
and understanding
to be one with the universe
an infinite point
on an infinite grid
expanding over time
wrapping solar systems
around linear time
i want to be unstuck
just being here, now
but everywhere, always
not cold and alone
beneath a moonless, starless sky
deep inside
eastern city snow
but burning bright
shooting across
all space and time
forever always changing mutating existing
how did i get here
fall here
become trapped
i’m not meant for this
i’m not of this earth
but a fallen star
that somehow survived
the earth’s atmosphere
i want to go home
where is home
(deep inside space)

Apr 1, 2013

National Poetry Month: day 1/poem 1

So, apparently it's National Poetry Month and I thought a fun challenge to myself would be to see if I have enough poems (that I feel comfortable sharing with the world) to blog one per day every day for the whole month from my published and never-before-seen archives because why not? (My reason for doing most things.)

I thought I might dig up the first poem I ever had published to start. Thus, without further ado, I give you poem #1, "Watery Words," published in Shards, Tenth Anniversary Edition 1992, Editors: The Quabbin Poetry Club & The Outer Fringe, Issue #6, Editor: Thomas Pagano.

Watery Words

Splash at my feet
Trickles in my ears
The music flows over my body
    Like strong Atlantic waves
    Beating on the rocky shore

I need this
I need you
Your heavy breaths of smoky language
 Like dewy fog

    You lead me through dark seaweed
    As a lighthouse shines
     On the blinding way

I am floating on your melody
    And drowning in your dirge
    Save me with your watery words