Category Archives: poem

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]

speedway for mist racing (thoughts on an airplane)

the small window
is a speedway for mist racing
past till my eyes grow tired of the closeness
and with refocus
and a press of the small lightbulb
the dark pours in with flashes of lightning
lining clouds beside us, i
break to swig ginger ale bubbles
and the man across
sleeps with an open mouth
pop another cracker snack salty
on my tongue
turn my head to the next small window
and catch the last glimpse
of the sunset flaming out past the wing.

love lost (never had)

love lost (and never had)
reappeared in a dream
the same car my driving hand
pounding nervous on the leather
of the steering wheel
while the other
twirled with your left in air
-the space between, unspoken-
fingers of each folding
over again and again
palms pressed and teased
together apart together

until you leave, step outside into
a space of darkness
and i double over myself
in the wrenching realization.

fall day at the Woods

smalll bony legs crook’d
over a driveway of shale
“here’s one!!!”
to a fossil, and our cousins
visiting…

“let’s go!!”
tossed aside, then
scampering off to that place
where rotting wood is our
breakfast – in our fort,
a few saplings
leaned to a trunk, first creep inside
“Snake!!!”
racing fast to the river,
there a high crossing keeps
out intruders and
Indian-style
we eat pockets of winesap
apples, ruddy green
red
like that one pesky leaf
floating downstream
throw a rock, watch it sink….

reading Sylvia Plath (on a Friday night)

not quite midnight yet the page
hustles me to suddenly note –
the catch of desperation in my throat
outside Earl’s temptous winds a beggar
on their wayward trek to Maine
clacking round my lonely legs bare lain
with echoes of a lonely man
whom outside speaks maniacal tone
“where am i going?” i couldn’t know
and the north winds of a sweet
counter-clockwise spin round, a round
saying lonely child, silence is yet a sound.