Walking in December - A poem

Walking in December

fingers sliding down the skin
bare branch, the lungs
expelling oxygen, carbon
dioxide, and a desire
for lush, green leaves
on every, single tree.

footprints fall fresh
in the snow, a scampering
squirrel scared by the sound
of on-coming traffic,
loud talking, and the cracking
of ice beneath the surface.

looking up now, seeing so clearly
how the sun can stand tall
in a deep, blue sky, and yet
has completely abandoned us,
so that no amount of bark
could ever cover us,
keep us from the wind.

what good is the word love
when we fail to care
for even the most simplest
of things in life? like touching
down on earth, the heel
and toes in tandem,
until the last breath is taken.

The Lotus,This World - A Poem

The Lotus, This World

There is no one here tonight,
look, if you must
to the seed-filled heart,
which opens and closes
each day,
takes in the rays
of the midnight sun.

In Hopes of Preserving - A poem

In Hope of Preserving What We Love

So much want for happiness
and yet, also, denial of it.

We approach the lips of the fuchsia
and then bend away, blushing,

because it is too close,
too fragile, we think, to be held.

Instead, we build fences around it,
place tanks and armed guards

all along the perimeter, in hope
of preserving what we love

from others we fear may come
with hazardous hands and crush it.

We do this with care, to keep
the fuchsia purple, not knowing

that what we have done is akin
to placing it in the desert,

which is where we have been
living ourselves

Eighth Birthday - A poem

Eighth Birthday

in the photograph I am leaning over,
thrusting air from my lungs
as hard as an eight year old can

even then, my arms tightly
held against my chest,
ready just in case

eighth birthday; the last
number of candles
without the feeling of absence

or maybe this is how
it has become in memory,
a single point among many

as if I had become a Seurat landscape
and everything that had once been fluid
now stood, frozen

so that the naked eye,
desperate to capture the truth,
might take it all in

even if twenty plus years
have gone by, and everything,
including the skin

that covered my little body,
has either faded
or disappeared all together.

A Love of Dangerous Harvests - A poem

A Love of Dangerous Harvests


maybe Caravaggio found
the application of fleshtone
a perfect distraction
from the real thing,

a source of trouble
that always accompanied him,
as evident by the number
of falling, fallen angels

filling the walls, walkways,
and halls of the life
known as his, whether or not
it was all actually true,

it doesn’t matter
to the puritans of the world,
those luscious grapes;
the half-naked teenage boy

how his Judas betrays
a love for Christ
unbecoming of a man
in their eyes

maybe living requires
that we harvest
what is hated,
even if

when held close
to our naked breast,
it pierces the canvas
ruins forever our cherished heart.

The Annunciation Refigured - A poem

The Annunciation Refigured


“When she saw him, she was troubled at his saying, and cast in her mind what manner of salutation this should be.”
Luke 1:29


For a long time,
there was no trouble done
to the order of operations.
Gabriel would come,
land with a heavy thud,
then lift his index finger
to quiet the woman before him.

This time, however,
the calculations were upset
by addition.

As Gabriel cleared his throat
he looked down,
saw that a golden book
had been placed
under Mary’s hand.

How dare this painter
make her literate! He must
have thought, scanning
the scene for a sign,
his eyes landing
on the message
he was about to send.

Troubled,
he began to wonder
what awful birth
had tipped the balance
of the world,
the olive branch
in his hand suddenly
meaningless,
just another limb
cut off from its source.


*Inspired by the painting “The Annunciation” by Simone Martini and Lippo Memmi, 1333.

Through Hardened Clouds - A poem

Through Hardened Clouds

swallowing a single
leaf of lemon basil,
as the lifted newspaper
settles to the ground,
a moment joy
dashed by headlines.

a rabbit passes
through the radish patch stops,
stands still, surveys
the world ahead,
imagining escape routes.

those on the bus that exploded somewhere
across an ocean
earlier in the day
didn’t have such a luxury.

i bend over,
pick up a rock and throw it,
hear it hit a fence between
the scampering of feet
fading in the turning away.

one hand to the heart,
the other grasping
a pregnant bean stalk, tears
forcing their way with the sun
through hardened clouds.

they will all ripen at the same time,
i say to myself,
as skins slides over skin,
one species across another, a flowing
so simple and easy,
it’s rarely a match
in the minds that love a good storm.