Author Archives: presssendpoetry

Author and editor for Press Send Poetry. Marketing for Barcoding, Inc. #Baltimore #Poet

Brooklyn Seduction

Brooklyn
Began with Stella, and then
Led on

Belgian beers,
Colombian food
Scattered conversation
To an off-chance
“come home with me?”
Shrugged off

Brooklyn again
Seducing
To a game of secrets,
To a brownie,
Smooshed in between fingers
Licked clean.

Led
Alone
Surprising tree-lined streets,
Streets busy, dark, still,
To a stone bench
In front of strangers-
They watched intently.

He turned to me,
With a question
But I to a black sedan,
“To another!”
To a bottle of Proseco
Off-speed dancing,
Gossiping

My eyes shining
Like Brooklyn’s reputation,
The borough asking
Persistently
Again, again, Come home with me?

songs to remember

when i hear
blue eyes crying in the rain
i hear my father
say that was his father’s
favorite song.

when i hear
how great thou art
i hear my father’s tears fall
at that first funeral
of my life – his mother’s.

when in between the silence
of a long long night
i hear a heavy sigh, a rustle
drops of salty tears,
“knowing we’ll never meet again.”

family resemblance

sometimes i look at pictures
and i study the faces to see
who has what nose
and who has
what smile
and
sometimes i look
just to say hi all you
relatives who
line my face with genes
and past choices
and
sometimes i look at pictures
to witness
how much has changed –

and
sometimes how little…
as if my face
was made in stone.

[AND btw… on a different topic, way to go team USA world cup soccer!!]

the yarn spinner

taken from my great-grandmother’s book of poetry, Where Childern Live (1958).

The Yard Spinner

Intent on every word, the small boy hears
A story woven of an old man’s years
That, with the telling, finds a space to grow
In splendor for a boy who wants it so,
And, as the truly wonderous tale unravels,
Along an old world trail a small boy travels —
A boy who hangs upon each chosen word,
As with the spinning yarn the air is stirred,
Until the hero-worshipper is led,
His hand held fast in grandfather’s — to bed.

the art of waving goodbye

he looked at her like she was the most beautiful
woman, spotlighted inspiration,
but when she caught him
he looked away fast, averting,

it was then
she pressed her hand
forcefully through air
determined,
long fingers straining for
that fine art of
waving goodbye,
pressed her hand
and let it stain the air
strain the silence of an unspoken
conversation
that always ended so
abruptly… suddenly…
…