A flower should bloom
A beautiful woman
should never sit demure
arms crossed, hunched and hidden.
This world is in desperate need
of beauty.
Play the words with your hands
and color the sky with sultry smiles
the nights are dark enough
and tomorrow is already lonely.
How Dire the Moonlight Shining
Originally published in "The Best Poems and Poets of 2003" (Page 1). Howard Ely, Editor. MD: Watermark Press, © 2004 The International Library of Poetry
How Dire the Moonlight Shining
How dire the moonlight shining
on windowpanes and rooftop shingles
the plain things overlooked
in day to daylight brightness.
How pale and weak this
thing that hangs and stains
the night in loneliness,
sad blue night
clouds drifting,
stars obscured
but hoping,
holding breath
pining to catch your eye.
How dire the hunter's moon
full of wasted allure
the folk all shun the cold
and ignore your brilliance
and the significance
of the winter's
isolation.
Insufficient
Originally published in "Clouds Across the Stars, Letters from the Soul Series" (Page 109). Noah Bevins, Editor. MD: Watermark Press, © 2002 The International Library of Poetry
Insufficient
I suppose it would not have been much to simply sit there and listen.
But it began again, that same argument that we've been having
for the past ten years.
"Listening never hurt anybody," my Mother would say to me
as I'd ball my fists and cover my eyes.
All the same, I had neither the patience nor the time to learn about
how wrong I was again.
So I left.
And in doing so, lost another opportunity.
When they found you the next morning,
it had happened sometime in the night.
"A look of calm," Mother said.
They called me at work, some hours later, and a meeting I left
went on without me. When the tears finally came, weeks had gone by.
Days of confusion, moments of realization, and hours of memories
that all had to be sorted and properly disposed of,
like the surgical gloves I wore when I last took your hand.
It's a good thing to be drunk on Sundays
Originally published in "The Sound of Poetry" CD Poetry Collection & Hardbound Edition, © 2005 International Library of Poetry, Howard Ely, Editor. Editor's Choice Award.
It's a good thing to be drunk on Sundays
because the cat is out of the house
and the car is fixed
for once the cold has missed this city
this month
the lamplights breathe, sigh
a gentle exhale
to the summer swells
smog and emissions
pool and swirl in the oilmist
on the maroon asphalt
grass that grows in the dark
cooling
and the neighbor's light is broken and silent
my rest is calm in my easy chair
the woes have flown
out the window with the cat
and
I know you will be home later.
Sparta Wife
At night you come
a midnight breeze
with the moonlight
we dance
joyless
and dutiful
our marriage begins
my hair
cut short
I wear your cloak
your feet bare
our hands entwined
our bodies join
awkward strangers
dutiful and obedient
we join tonight
for tomorrow you die
Rapunzel
Climb into my dreams at night,
I'll leave open the window
in the rear of my mind
Make no noise, and we'll tell no one
a secret smirk later between us
and a smile to greet the day with.
Climb into the trees above,
let us find the fruit
and the sweet breeze that falls like leaves.
Climb with me into the furrowed hole,
foxes, we'll make our young
and wonder what color their eyes might be.
Stay with me on hot summer night
to rest upon parachute silk,
that falls cool in the evening air
