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LOOKING UP
I have discovereda small advantageof slowly losingmy sight. Each daythe imagein the mirroris less clear, wrinklesdisappearand I don’tlook quite as old as I knowthat I am, andyou’re lookingbetter as well.
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ASKING
Asking saints to intercedeis something quite new to me,having never considered that saintswere people whom I might seek out. I’ve started carefully, onlyseeking saints who hangon my family tree, Margaret,Itta, Begga, Adela, Arnulf, and I’ve vowed to ask nothingfor myself, for karma willsee to me one way or another,so I ask only for those in…
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AUBADE
The sun peers throughthe skylight, sneakscatlike up the comforter.He strokes her cheek,they are drawn together,lips touch,toes twine,hips press,fingers trace,the mattress a worldof infinite gravity.Downstairsthe cat paces angrily,the coffeemakerthirsts for beans. First Published in the 2005 Scars Publications Poetry Wall Calendar
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LISA, ONCE
A phone call, a lawyer’s clerk:Can you tell me about Lisa Landesman?I pause for that is a name I havenot heard in forty years, savein a poem I once wrote,now long forgotten. She was my sister for twoor three weeks, adopted like I was,and then Mike, my then fatherdropped dead of a massiveheart attack and…
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CASSANDRA IN FLORIDA
She is large, and largely immobileand occupies the bench by the roadthat encircles the property like a noose. She does this each day, a crustor more of stale bread tucked awayin a pocket of her always floral housedress that envelopes herand the bench she occupiesas a monarch on her throne. The ibis see her coming…
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I WAS, BACK THEN
Fifteen years ago, I tell them,I was invincible, nothing bothered me,nothing held me back and eventhe few surgeries were shortrest stops on a runner’s highway. I knew it would last forever, Iknew I was kidding myself. Now, aging, I am held togetherby titanium and injections,trying to fall apart withas much grace as possible. My little…
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WE ARE SORRY, BUT
I will take it,the aging poet saidto the ever more sparsecrowd at the weeklyopen mic,as a recognitionis the growthin the qualityof my writingthat I continuebeing rejectedbut now by amuch higherquality ofliterary journals.
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EMPTY PLATES
The old gods have takenup residence is small casitason the edge of SaguaroNational Park outside Tucson. It isn’t Olympus, but theproperty taxes had becomeunsustainable with so fewbothering to offer tributes. They have gotten overtheir jealousy of the newgods living in the valley,with their European villas, yachts and getaways,for the old gods know wellhow it will…
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SOPHIE
She maintained an aura of what sheimagined was elegance, a carefullyconstructed persona carried outin the most careful details. Her furniture had slipcovers, lestsomeone spill and mar the fabric,a tea cart always at the readyalthough I never saw her serve tea. She spoke with carefully chosenwords, certainly not the vernacularof the city, perhaps of Londonwhere she…
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STOIC
He will do it again tomorrow as he did yesterday and each day before that for as long as he can remember. He would like not to have to do it, but he knows he must, just as he knows the outcome will be almost the same, just the slightest of changes imperceptible from day…
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an old writer and his words 