college – Press Send Poetry

the moon hung precarious
on the ledge of the night,
forlorn and feeling worthless
as if the tiniest breath of air
could send it tumbling into midnight

i’m looking up so scared
every frozen winter breath ascending
in staccato
trepidation – don’t worry
don’t jump

don’t give up.

from creative writing class circa 2001 slightly modified (in fact so is “on the pool deck”):

i tell you my story
hands flying excited
and we share a laugh
dripping with water, below
laced by lane ropes and
striped like a tiger is
now- silent, calm
we don’t notice the
chills or chlorine,
like restless touches

and i think about
moving through water
graceful but fast
ripples from fingertips
like casting a spell
so that air becomes charged
with unspoken words –
tense muscles
ready to burst off the block.

country song 3- jack (in e major)

i see it when his eyes change shape
across smoke swung lingering in bars the same
across hands cold holding sweating drinks
through endless meetings with simple names

burdens of the stonewall sleeping dead
ones who tease tickling dreaming eyes
those stupid faces and stupid chances while
far away from him and her, sometimes i

deal a hand of solitaire
he loves me most when he leaves me there

i see it when his eyes change shape
across smoke swung lingering in bars the same
me, i’ll find a line of whiskey shots
then burn a memory of his fragile face

tomorrow if he wakes in time to see
i’m lacing up my running shoes
pack a sack with Jack Kerouac
find again him nothing good to lose

he says baby it’ll be like before
he says baby just make your way back through the door…

deal a hand of solitaire
you know he loves me most when he leaves me there

i’m through these tongue tastes of empty air
can’t have a memory of what was never there.

Ripples (i dreamt i saw you drown)

she shook him hard in his blankets
“i was dreaming –
i saw you drown”
she breathed hard, continued,

“the haze blurred
our overgrown backyard
the humidity oppressing
the few purple wildflowers and
the strange cat beneath the willow
we walked to the river.
you yelled for a swim but i couldn’t–
leaving fast for the fire
burning our old family photographs
our memories, our life,
so i blew out the flames and
i … i couldn’t see you
the sky was thundering dark
the waves devoured the shore
it was then i saw your eyes
you didn’t smile as you sank –
i was trapped on the shore – then i woke.
i… i had to tell you.”

she took a deep breath, waiting
but he had rolled over
snoring waves beneath ripples of
a blue-green quilt.

[circa 2002, maybe]

hanging in Calvert Hall (a ghost story from St. Mary’s College of MD)

when leaves die
undignified on the lawn,
winds howl laments
that curl the building
in a straightjacket
when the halls empty
of sound, those kids
off in costume to party
in blissful ignorance
when the moon shrouds
itself with funeral gauze and lace
she paces the halls
without footsteps
she moans
the eternal attire of a noose
its comforting burn
and the swing swing
of mortal troubles living with
damning persistence.

pious

across the way
the children come from church.

she is naked
from the shower,
hair drips falling from shoulders
across belly and down each leg
steaming the window, warm.

he closes the blinds.
when he asks her to kneel
she takes and eats.
from her, he drinks. all is dark as
in the beginning.

[circa creative writing class 2002]

unattainable

“i wish i had met you first”
words that tumble
head over heels
backwards
in a tragic accident
that lands with a thud,
a sloppy mess…

and a hand reaching
two far inches from
the soft skin of my cheek.

she is a child with sticky fingers

She ran away from home
off from the one brown bench and making friends
with the blue heron with silver wings.

Her sticky fingers
ran skipping through raw and naked waves
during hurricane Floyd’s slip and slide.
Sliced air in spirals swirling
while smoking opium in a
red wig and rainbow Mardi Gras dress
with her new friends,
and the Allman brothers.

Again and again, she licked and
returned for seconds,
loving that manic dancing frantic excitement

almost as much as
the crushing low.