decision

The boiling water,
fresh from the whistle,
splashes onto
the black, glass
stove-top,
and I wonder
if I need to slow down,
possibly read a book,
or just stare
into the cool evening
waiting for dusk
to whisper into my ear.

lost ideas

I’ve had
more attempts of
poems
than poems.

I have sat,
pen in hand;
(actually,
open laptop,
white screen,
blinking cursor,
fingertips pressed lightly
on the keys,
almost feeling each letter)
to be more accurate.)

I almost hate
when an idea hits me,
square on the back
of my head,
like a hot slap,
after a sarcastic remark
to my father.
If I do not have
pen and paper,
computer and outlet,
the idea is lost.

So, I run
frantically
looking for
napkins,
tablecloths,
scraps of paper,
a pencil, pen, marker.
I would use a knife
and write in my own
blood,
if the idea was
that good.

Most of the time,
I wait,
looking over my shoulder,
for a periodic
slap,
that is a poem.

dance is grandeur

Where the nocturnal
man goes
in
and
out
of his
endless, moon-drenched beach;
where violet-blue hues
crease the majestic sky,
this is where I
stand
and
believe that
dance is grandeur.

poetry pains

Yesterday,
we pierced those laughs
with warm throbs of worry
looking for something,
anything
to say.

Your poetry growls:
a wild belly hungry for words,
yet when the window opens,
they float out
to the night sky
in translucent smoke.

delicious was the language

Delicious
was the language
floating above
the cafe
amidst sights and sounds and smells.

Silences were unwanted
here
as the
words kissed my face,
my mouth,
my tongue.

It is beautiful.

Inspired by ee cummings

I will carry you with me
as I move through life.
Whatever is done by me,
is your doing.
You have inspired me,
believed in me,
helped me
grow
in this profession:
my life.
I will carry you with me,
and I thank you.

startled

A leftover camera
spooks the dead silhouette.

Slowly, I turn away,
ignoring the moment,
and follow the brightness
out of the room.

A panicked murmur
echos behind me.

September

I was born
to be a teacher;
literally,
born in September,
my Autumn birth
(signifying to some---
beginning of cold
death
winter)
is my familiar
to learning:
fresh students
minds
pencils, paper, notebooks,
classroom.
September has always
cradled me:
even-tempered in spirit,
fair in tone
and complexion.

reading under water

My students must think
I'm reading such a sad poem;
As my eyes cloud,
the words blur,
and a warm drop
slides down
the side of my nose
collecting at my
nostril,
one last time,
before I wipe it away.

The truth is,
this is the very reason,
why I didn't
read
in school.
My body would relax
so much,
I could feel myself
enter the text.
The words blur,
and I would put down the book,
confusing it all for
boredom.

Fifteen years later,
I sit with my fourth-graders
reading together,
and it happens again.
I know this time,
whether prose or poetry,
satire or cynicism,
reading
controls my body,
keeps me afloat.

Gives me the calm
of sitting at the bottom
of a swimming pool,
letting one, two, three. . .
four, five, six. . .
seven, eight, nine
bubbles rise to the surface
as I sink slowly.
It is quiet
at the bottom,
and somehow,
safe.

lunar phases

It looked like Mars
as I began by drive home
this evening:
orange and violent,
gawking at me
with blood and petulance.

It changed as I
neared home:
full and ripe,
it smelled of harvest
and work that lies ahead.

As dark approached,
it changed still:
warming to a soft,
100-watt glow.
I looked up to locate some stars,
but its light washed the sky
clean.

Cold drew closer,
as the night crawled inside me.
This is no werewolf moon;
no curs,
no mongrels
will howl tonight.
It is bright and friendly,
lighting Zoe's chocolate fur,
as she smells the air
under a star-speckled sky.

in her face

The echoing kiss,
The lover's restless summer,
The awakened song,
The night-bird's hour,
are all whispered
in her
face.

in the darkness

Yesterday, I wished
through my subconscious
finding a dream
forgotten,
destined
in the darkness.

therapy

After a few years,
everything becomes
routine:
we enter the
marine-green room,
and take our self-assigned seats
on the well-worn,
soft, beige sofa.
I usually adjust the
beige pillows
because I like hiding
behind something
(in case things get too intense).

We each hold our cups of tea;
mine, traditional green or some sort of red;
her, peppermint, always peppermint.
We each hold our warm cups,
face forward,
and begin.

There is usually
a fair amount of "catching-up"
depending on how much time has passed.
For some reason,
we, unknowingly,
avoid
discussing "us."

We never come
with a plan in mind.
The only time we had
a plan
was the first time:
the reason why we began.
We never come
with a plan, yet
we never want
to begin, and
once we do
finally start,
we always find
something
to talk about.

Once we start
talking,
we don't stop;
we delve deeper and deeper
into the uncomfortable:
anger,
sadness,
confusion,
helplessness.

We sit,
facing forward,
facing these
uncomforts,
allowing them
to be present,
cognizant, and
slowly,
very slowly
begin shifting them into the realm of
"normal."
We hold onto these emotions,
push them through
our bodies,
and let them out,
to sit with us in the
marine-green room.

Our goal?
We have small goals,
"homework assignments"
designed to help us practice.
At times, our
BIG goal
becomes unclear, but
we still know it
exists.

People often ask,
Why do you go to therapy?
I tell them
every person
should be in therapy.
You don't need to be
broken.
It's like going to the
mind mechanic
for a routine oil change.
You go (every 3,000 miles)
to keep healthy and
running smoothly.
It always amazes me
how we can drive
3,000 miles
or more
in a week
or two.

a question on men

Yesterday, a woman
asked me a question
on men.
When that porcelain voice
seeped into me,
I became a prisoner.

Yes, I said.
What? she asked.
No.
Are you listening to me?

I love you, I said
as she walked away.

Yesterday, a woman
asked me a question
on men.
I think I answered
correctly.

a taste of lonliness

I remember
that voice.
I miss
how we
would smile
mornings
after sex.
Yesterday,
I sat at our window,
wet with rain and fog and winter,
and tasted salt
on my cheek.

The summer's green hand

The summer's green hand
did open me to
the many cloudless
pleasures.
She touches me,
warmth on my shoulder,
leading me,
as a child,
through her trees
quietly and patiently.
I want to touch feel one,
but there is no time;
I may only look.
I see blue, yellow, and brown
colors.

they were young to the world

They were young
to the world.
Only she would compose
her vivid dreams.
Soon, he was like
her silhouette:
black,
suffering,
surreal.
They were young
to the world,
but old to each other.