Many of my poems have appeared in various
poetry anthologies, some of which are highlighted below.
Forthcoming: "Johnsburg" will appear in Small Town Poetry Anthology. "The Roadrunner" has been accepted for the new Mutabilis Press anthology, Enchantment of the Ordinary. "I Bequeath Myself" will appear in the upcoming Whitman Project, edited by Raymond Luczak, as will "Hart Crane Cento" and "Ghazal: Agha Shahid Ali to a Lover." "To Beat the Banned" will appear in Science-Based Vulnerability: Scientists and Poets #RESIST. Locally, I have two poems accepted for a Beatlick Press anthology on dementia, "Missing Persons" and "Gravity".
Includes two other poems as well,
"Welcome to My New Age" and "Garden Cameos"
Skies Over the East Mountains
Those contrails overhead--as if a child
had swiped a brush of white across the sky,
no thought to pattern nor design, just wild
strokes, straight and squiggly, carefree, low and high.
Some right to left, some up and down, some lost
and other crossed in X's, thin or thick
or bold or faint, a naïve art embossed
into the blue above. Then just as quick
the show is over, maneuvers complete,
and military jets return to base.
This is no play, but training, prep for war
performance pieces, smoke. Will soot delete
those chemical streaks, blot out skies, replace
our canvas, nudge us through that Doomsday door?
I think of my last meal. Thin as dust,
on the edge of my home, this frail mesa
I am weary, wary of the roads
bull-dozed through my land, wide houses
surging where mesquite and juniper
once provided cover. The jackrabbits
dwindle, move west, but how far, how far?
My eyes have yellowed, developed a far-
away glaze, barely noticing jackrabbits
arcing down arroyos. Age-old juniper
chainsawed to make room for a house,
or a view for a house, or another road--
humans, those who now claim this mesa.
My heart, my bones, my land scraped to dust.
Includes two other poems as well,
"Love" and "Wintry Mix"
A quiet field of punctuation marks
becomes a murmuration: first, the lift,
despite a brutal wind, and then the shift
across the sky, from right to left in arcs
that sail in folds, a hundred wings as one,
apostrophes in sync, an aerial
display of feathers, beaks, and last, a pull
back down to earth, this sudden dance undone.
Our lungs inflate. Our breathing bellows cells
in movement: rising, falling. That's a fact.
My own heart murmurs, beats its wings the same
direction--over, over--casts its spells,
abandons them. And so . . . expand, contract:
it's how the world began, how we became.
Volume 5 of the "Poets Speak" Anthologies.
One of two golden shovels in the volume!
a golden shovel incorporating a Dickinson line (#1738)
A good day for tears, for shadows that
skim adobe walls and leave us devastated,
for skies that offer thin condolences, for childhood's
amputated crayons, and the entire trying realm
of adolescence. We are stronger now, or so
we tell ourselves, but nothing's easy
as platitudes. How many years to go, to
outlive the damages we cannot repair?
Volume 4 of the "Poets Speak" Anthologies.
Some of Them Were Dreamers
a golden shovel incorporating an Issa haiku
Hard rain knocks blossoms
to earth. I watch at
a window till night
overruns the day, and
still no end to the
torrent's playlist. Border faces
peek from other windows: the dread of
isolation, the need for people
through the deluge. I have not moved,
immersed in blossoms mashed by
indifference, bled of all music.
Edited by my husband and me!
Canyon at Kasha-Katuwe
Past bristling yuccas,
through the slot
where ponderosa subsist
on roots welded
to rock and
manzanita cleave to
crevices in cliffs,
millions of years
of geologic history
expose themselves in
pinks and grays,
russets and beiges,
striations that band
and curve like
desert snakes as
we squeeze through
narrow spaces between
walls of rock
and over shelves
that have shed
to the tapered
trail winding through
sun and shade--
despite grit in
our teeth, sand
in our shoes,
echoes in our
ears, our eyes
fixed to the
living shapes of
wind and heat
and water, never
a thought about us.
Written for the exhibit of the same name
for the Museum of the Big Bend.
inspired by a Jim Bones' photograph
Sunlight tiptoes in, and sands sweep across the kiva.
We hear tumbleweeds dance and leap upon the kiva.
The sky is squandered here, and spider webs, invisible.
We breathe in dust, for rain does not weep into the kiva.
These earthen walls soothe, smack of smoke and bones.
Could we find true north from deep within the kiva?
Grains of maize rooted in the chamber's floor.
Ancestors honored: offerings to reap within the kiva.
Long ago, spirits cropped up from this dense dirt.
Rung by rung, the journey: steep, steep, up the kiva.
Overhead, a world of witches, walkers, and powders.
In the earth's belly, safe from their creep into the kiva.
Dreams are palpable here, silent and ancient as pelts.
How long have we been asleep inside the kiva?
The anthology of the Haiku Society of America.
thin ice on the pond
how close I am
The anthology of Haiku North America 2017,
which I co-edited with Michael Dylan Welch!
the difference walking
Just two of the sections of mesostics
from this poem, similar to an acrostic.
based on Malala Yousafzui's 2009 BBC blog
wAs not reopening
one neAr my house
todAy someone killed
a golden shovel including a Dickinson last line (#799)
From some dark cavity, an affliction,
long-brooding, surfaces across America. It feels
like a brass-knuckled fist. What was impalpable
and buried has flared up and spread until
the ache of anguish is unbearable--ourselves,
our loved oves, in shrink-wrapped panic. How are
we to rise from chaos once unleased and struck?
Annual volume of the best English-language
haiku in the world!
First printed in Modern Haiku
where you stopped
Based on Eliza Schmid's painting of the same name.
The Cautious Eye
Leaves are monocles
on the branches of this tree,
each monocle occupied
with a different eye:
some green olives,
others blue planets,
some with blood-red streaks
like leaky pimientos,
one closed beneath a lemon lid,
an ocular bark with lashes.
This is the leaf that intrigues:
plants and animals hidden within
its microcosm of smells and sounds--
the ozone of a forest,
cautious steps of ladybugs,
soft whispers of anoles,
the prodigious leaps of ivy.
A patter of moisture on their backs,
everything wears raincoats
the bright yellow of crossing guards.
I see I am a child again.
Reprinted from Chrysanthemum
yellow with caution
we cross the border
Easter in Texas
There's little cool these mornings, July temps
in April all too common. High and dry,
this rainless spring, no moisture, no dew-damp
chrysanthemums or lawns. Some sigh and say
the wildflowers are the worst in years,
but what they mean is that there are no fields
of bonnets, no spectacle that allures
photographers like blue. The golden folds
on prickly pears have never shone so bright.
Despite the drought, the prairie's filled with spits
of red and yellow flair: Mexican hat,
Plains daisies, dogweed, Indian blankets.
They may be sparse and patchy, but no less
lovely--and without rain, miraculous.
This is the way I wrote the poem,
as a shape poem!
After the Wedding
Husband sounds so medieval,
but then it is a combination
of two Old Norse words:
hús and bóndi, householder.
For sixteen years
I called him partner
for lack of a better word,
though early on
he referred to me as roommate
when his son’s schoolmates
were around or when he
was on the phone to Daddy.
His sister’s euphemism
became legend: little friend.
Still, it beat his father’s
dismissive him, pronounced
like bastard German, hmppff.
I never called him fiancé,
much less my betrothed,
but enjoyed calling him groom.
Already hubbie has slipped in,
as has the trendier hubster.
I doubt I could ever use
my better half
without sounding sarcastic,
like ball and chain
or master of the house.
Our nicknames continue—
I christen him Poodle,
he dubs me Daddy Bear.
Husband, husband . . .
it will grow on us,
as it might with the world.
Even those who hate
would rather hear a man
call another man husband
Before the Pill
You, with a mixing bowl and apron
in your kitchen of teal and linoleum;
you, in heels, cranking the hand beater
as if an electronic mixer had never existed.
I have slammed the screen door again.
My sneakers squeak as I rush to the counter.
You, looking over your cat-eyed glasses
as my fingers reach for the bowl,
"Wash your hands first, dear,
and then you can lick the bowl."
You, with your bouffant bangs
and Elizabeth Arden lips and nails.
But this is all a dream, isn't it?
You, yellow, in an undulating aura
of cigarette smoke and cocktails.
John Lennon figured it out:
Mother, you had me,
but I never had you.
another ekphrastic poem
"Dance of the Dead"!
Epistemology of Loss
The hands, heart-shaped,
hold four-petaled primroses
which will wither with the day
The feet are brown and bare,
grounded in the earth
to which they will return.
The eyes are marbled,
the lips silent as metal,
the cheeks gray as moths.
A foreigner resides
in the aorta, red
as a Valentine balloon,
three thin swords
wedged in the heart,
a trinity of stents
that keeps this pomegranate
pushing rubied seeds
to the hands, the feet, the head.
Trees have lost their leaves,
chlorophyll gone ochre.
The heart can only take so much.
three other poems
This awful name
for something so gorgeous:
the soft mint-green
fluff of the spires,
like rabbit feet
begging to be petted;
leaves that peak
like crisp rows
of rosemary needles;
ready for winter,
apparently stored with fat.
of wood ducks on the lake
Poems on the Nature
Houston in the Cruelest Month
starting with a Dickinson line (#168)
If the foolish call them flowers, need the wiser tell?
Is it a green thumb or a special fertilizer? Tell!
The hill leading down to the lake is sprinkled in primroses.
What somnambulant story does the tranquilizer tell?
Prairie coneflowers, sombreros thrusting up like sex.
O, tell how spring is the great naturalizer. Tell.
The park is awash in green abundance, high and low.
Good dirt runs out like good words, to hear the miser tell.
Yellow daisies sprouting up like jealousy, but whose?
The peach and plum daubed in pink--spring's appetizer--tell.
Indigo spires, bluebonnets, and a phlox: a blue season.
How can a year alone be such a great reviser? Tell.
Someone planned this: the trees, the lakes, the fields of flowers.
Nature is not always natural. Tell, disguiser, tell.
from Silver Birch Press
on the 90th anniversary
of Fitzgerald's masterpiece!
Across the sound, my Daisy waits, although
she does not know. A blinking light, the green
of money, beckons from her pier, aglow
like every night--I watch, though never seen.
I fill this mansion, light it up with booze
and parties, strangers shouting "more"--and come
they do, like lust to flesh, a nonstop ooze
of drunken wealth, the garish flames of Sodom.
But Daisy does not take the bait, and she's
the only one I want. I planned this all
for her. Oh, fickle love, eternal tease!
My eyes are fixed on the somber seawall,
her pallid light, only. A fortune makes
unfortunate this man, his heart, his aches.
edited by Jonas Zdanys
Her white thighs
with nimble fingers
to slip something
before the deal
with a wet tongue
in a pale coffin.
of sex and death,
never to be redone,
only one chance
to do it right.
from Leaf and Beak: Sonnets
Out of One's Element
A leaping fish--not large--suspended in
the air for seconds like a skier off
a jump, before returning to its own
environment; an acrobat, as if
this shimmery flash in the sun were planned,
this gorgeous arc its last hurrah. You dove
into the water once, so deep the end
seemed near, but isn't that a buzz like love?
You surfaced in a panic, out of breath,
but happy to have lived, the air a gift
you've not forgot. The fish, back in its bath,
swims low, but sees that glow above, a theft
remembered in its bones, and you recall
the water's snare, its depths as dark as coal.
My contribution to the
Festschrift for Wendy Barker
A Wet Winter Night
Isn't it always too much or too little?
Last summer, clouds would not stir.
Sun squeezed the honey from our bones.
Flowers stayed small, stems drooped.
The chickens finally stopped laying.
I sit still at a kitchen table
that smells of cheap lemon polish,
rub a sore finger that will not heal
across its fine-grained wood.
A thin rain pearls down the windows,
drips from house to garden.
Earth's open throat tries to keep pace.
The farm-to-market is likely under water.
The veneer of the sill is damp.
Drops pool on the floor: one . . . two.
I study reflections in the panes:
a green-lined vase with cut daffodils,
a plate of over-easy eggs,
their pale yellow yolks congealing.
I watch a rain that looks to never stop.
I know I'm missing something.
Also includes four other haiku.
cliffs and spires
rise to Abiquiu blue
our white place
on the windowsill
Postcard from West Texas
Freckles on his shoulders,
a wolf tattoo that peeks out
from torn-off shirt sleeves,
his hair long and red.
I say nothing to this stranger,
just watch the setting sun
glow in the motel courtyard,
his nimble fingers unpeeling
one longneck label after another.
Those rough nails, that tough glue.
It must be hours.
The sun tucks behind
the mountains, and the moon
appears all lost and sappy.
We must be drunk.
He howls when he stands.
My grin shines like a prayer.
Also includes another sonnet,
"Sonnet for December"
A New Year
The leaves are gone, but black pecans still clutch
at limbs like children refusing to heed
a dinner call. While some pecans have fanned
their shells like tattered petals, darkened wings,
the great majority are tight as gangs,
their faces draped in hoods, though winter checks
such foolishness. A boulevard of oaks
is also empty, save a lone green leaf
that hangs on like a weekend birthday, deaf
to bitter winds. And yet I see hope here,
a tiny miracle, this green-veined door
to a new year. Let all those black nuts fall,
but keep this leaf—for faith could endure, full
of warmth and mystery. It might. Just watch.
Four other poems of mine
also appear in this anthology.
Into the Corners of the Evening
Prowling the restaurant
in a gray fur coat
and leather collar,
he arouses my curiosity.
He steps and stretches.
I hear cat paws,
soft pads on the hardwood floor.
A trail of paw-prints follows.
He rubs past my chair.
Claws sink into the cushion
as he orders white milk
in a saucer.
He speaks with a purr,
a velvet echo between syllables,
the mildest mew,
a scratchy exclamation.
He tenderly tongues his milk,
proceeds to lick his hands.
Squinting, he casually
catches my eye and winks.
I spring back startled,
a trapped mouse,
as brash whiskers
brush my face.
A little bit raunchy,
this persona poem!
County Fair Secrets
With his permanent five o'clock
shadow and those bristly forearms,
Mr. Tolan, the Ag teacher,
sent me into a swoon like panic.
He'd speak, and I'd feel myself
going down, wobbly as though
tackled by a mob of classmates.
Smitten was the word I used,
but only to myself. If the man
asked, I would do anything.
When he approached at the Fair,
winked, grabbed my hand, and
told me "Put your finger out,"
I did, though the ointment he
oozed on it smelled worse than
the farm's old outhouse.
Obedient, I did as he said
before showing my sow: stuck
my finger up the pig's shithole.
Maybe he was playing me.
Maybe he got a good laugh.
But I think Smokey's haunches
did contract, look leaner.
The memory of his stiff grip
got me through many an empty-
handed night. Even now, I think
of Mr. Tolan when my finger
selfishly slides up your ass.
That girl whose father
walked away from his family,
not to be heard from again:
I never thought of
my 95-year-old grandmother
as that girl,
but here she is,
conversing with him daily
until he turns
and walks off--again.
Through tears she asks,
Why would he do this?
I wasn't done talking!
by his smooth skin,
his full head of hair--
It's like he doesn't age--
never mind that
eight decades have passed
since he became a ghost.
Last night he was supposed
to meet her at the drug store;
another day, the park.
but one thing is constant:
the turning away.
Rumor was he went west
and now that she's
in a home in Arizona,
she thinks she might find him.
She may be closer
than any of us
Proud to be among the many
fine poets whose poems appear
as samples in this new craft book!
Sonnenizio on a Willis Barnstone Line
The night is beautiful. I live alone
and listen to a lonesome howl beneath
a million lights. How could I be alone
when I'm alive, tuned to a Lone Star state
of mind? Some feel a loneliness out here,
my distant neighbor Malone, for instance,
who sits out front, a Lone Star in hand,
always alone, his fragile wife inside.
So he can leave his wife alone, nearby
a standalone refrigerator sits,
an exile on the porch, which I alone
witness. Malone does not appreciate
the night. A lone figure across the way--
is that how he sees me, alone and gray?
Also includes two other poems,
"Advocate" and "Teaching Tolerance"
Day of Silence
for the Gay-Straight Alliances
You think you know them, these students
who can't remember to bring a pencil to class
but somehow manage to find pink duct tape.
You told them their silence would be enough,
but they insisted on covering their mouths
with bright rectangles of sticky shocking pink.
The words of taped mouths can't be suppressed.
With eyes on fire, these gay and straight students
blaze down the halls, their message incinerating:
What are you going to do to end the silence?
The Writing Life
starting with a Dickinson line (#581)
I found the words to every thought I ever had--but one.
A simple philosophy: for each door I open, I must shut one.
Oh author, this time you'll have to earn your capital A.
Will you knock one out of the park, or will you putt one?
Wishes and lies: the soul is green, the spirit stings.
Give me two false statements, but I will only rebut one.
Feed the starving body before you feed the ravenous soul.
You can't know what the catfish eats until you gut one.
Lines ran through my head throughout the restless night.
I mouthed the words for memory, yet by morning, what? One?
You think you're so original, a demi-god of literature.
I, too, have slept with a dictionary, the great uncut one.
Who knows what depths lie inside the curds of gray matter?
Size is overrated: Gulliver, zero. Lilliput, one.
The elm has lost its syllables. I gather what I can.
Through fallen piles of sounds, I rake from the glut, one.
"Snow" previously appeared in another
fairy tale anthology, Fairest of Them All
I lived in the coffin
known as Sonny White
for almost twenty years.
Long before wearing them,
I dreamed of sequined gowns,
thick mascara, debutante upsweeps.
When Mother caught me in her camisole,
she booted me from home,
like she had Father years earlier:
she couldn't abide prettier men.
To make ends meet, I took to drag.
As Snow, I was a natural:
paper-white skin accentuated
by hair black as olives
and cheeks bright as blood.
Hormones came later,
and--not unlike Cher--
finally, the surgery.
When I glance at a mirror,
I often catch you, Mother--
Ginsberg had his Whitman poem;
I Bequeath Myself
for Bruce Noll
I was touched by Walt Whitman today.
His hands, cool as spring rain, cupped
the back of my neck, drew me
toward his chest, salt-and-pepper hairs
sputtering like live wires through the vee
of a spacious muslin shirt, aromatic
with the scent of workingman, sailor,
criminal, friend of the calamus.
I was touched by the shiny musket balls
of his eyes, their cocky come-on,
the confidence that bore down, invited
me to abandon convention, assured me that
the world was there for the tasting.
The plump lips emerged from a nest
of beard, forming words I'd heard
and read a hundred times before, but these
were hooks, baiting with promise,
luring me, creating a hunger for the blades
of grass lounging on his tongue,
clumped inside the pockets of his pants,
sprouting through the buttonholes of his fly
like wild green pubic hairs. I was touched
by Walt Whitman, his earthy desire--
slugs and worms and life teeming through
the soil between his toes, and I liked it.
An Intoxicating Couple
The invisible kiss
of kumquat martinis
near the buzzy rosemary
at the deck's edge.
The insatiable gift
of sandy sandals
cannot scuttle the kick
of jalapeño margaritas
or the smoky roast
of love's hot hiss.
The lake and sky
cluster in a perfect
as the staccato tick
of erotic midnight
clocks excited progress.
Includes five other poems
"Plays Like a Girl," "Hate Crime,"
"Skin Trade," "Moonstruck,"
"Watching the Coots"
It Was Never about Romeo and Juliet
Randy was a high school rarity,
a boy with everything, loved by everyone:
jocks with whom he swung bats,
brains with whom he shared chemistry,
even the greasers he tutored in geometry.
I loved him for other reasons:
golden skin with a Scandinavian glow,
eyes as blue as clear June skies,
a jaw chiseled by Michelangelo.
Mostly because he was nice to me.
So when he asked if I wanted to go
to the school play with him that night,
I swooned as if this were a Dream Date.
When he pulled into the driveway
looking like a Ken doll in his convertible,
I raced to the car and told him to step on it,
though I had just told my dad that I was only
stepping out to let Randy know I'd been grounded.
I fully expected my father to arrive,
make a scene, drag me home,
and banish me to my room for life--
he wasn't used to being defied.
But I knew I might never have another chance
to share an armrest with Randy's wheat-haired arms--
my dad's wrath a poison I was willing to take.
A paternal history
of my Chicago roots!
The Facts as I Know Them
Somewhere between Germany and Chicago,
Joseph Wiggermann lost an "n" at the end of his name.
But along the way he found a wife, Caroline Spauer,
and by 1884 they married, their traveling
thereafter confined to the edges of DuPage County.
Joseph was a blacksmith, a wheelwright,
a career well suited to an immigrant with limited English,
decent enough to provide for Caroline and the seven children,
six when Dominick succumbed in infancy to flu.
Caroline herself died eleven days short of forty-eight,
washing, cleaning, cooking, a workhorse to the end.
Ferdinand, the baby of the family, called Fred,
would become my father's father in 1934.
The Great Famine's shadow still lurked over Ireland
in the 1890s when Thomas McShea courted Catherine Ring.
Leaving the rocky glens of County Cork,
the McSheas sailed for what was still called the New Land
in a turn-of-the-century wave of Irish immigration.
They made their way, like the Wiggermanns before them,
to the city of Chicago, as good a place as any to be Irish.
Like many of his countrymen, Thomas joined the police,
but short of forty was shot in the line of duty,
the year before Capone moved to town,
ushering in a whole new era of gangster violence.
Thomas left behind his wife and three children,
Thomas, Jr., Vern, and little emerald-eyed Catherine,
who would become my father's mother in 1934.
For if I don't write it down, even less will remain.
An updated & revised
edition of a classic!
I'm extremely proud to have
five poems in it: "Calm" (a cutaway),
"Cheap Oven Story" (a rabbet),
"Ghazal for the Leaf" (a ghazal),
"Laundry Room" (a fib), and
"Road Hazards" (a tritina).
The two-lane highway is streaked with road kill
north of Lampasas, smeared with 'dillos and deer,
possums and rabbits, vultures that took too long
to relinquish a meal. Rain ushers in a long
afternoon of forsaken towns with nothing to kill
but time, their boarded-up storefronts and deer
processing shops sunk into ruin. Later, a deer
leaps from the darkness, its shiny eyes and long
legs challenging our cautious vehicle, a near kill.
To kill or be killed by deer, we long to make it home.
The Words I Carry
They have traveled notebook to notebook,
emblazoned from far-flung destinations
like stickers on a portmanteau: bracken,
hunger, iguana, totter, reverie.
Some have come from dreams: wingbeat, undersong.
Others seem a witch's incantation:
fizzle, stipple, indigo, hiss.
Some are short and sharp--scuff, blunt, shard--
while others are the soft wisps of whispers.
I'm a sucker for sibilants,
a lover of laterals,
and when the two come together--
luminous, elicit, delicacy--
I add them to my itinerary.
I'm drawn to islands of i's--precipice, frivolity--
and wide-mouthed coves of o's--billow, froth, frisson.
I know my proclivities.
If I had only moments to save a handful of words,
mine are packed and ready to survive.
I would repeat the words I've collected,
speak their syllables gingerly,
track their incandescent magic
to any port of call.
La Señorita Margarita
I have savored you,
a perfect blend
of provocative tastes:
sweet with triple sec,
sour as fresh-cut lime,
bitter as its ghostly pith,
salty like the glass's rim.
I have swallowed
the froth of pleasure,
licked the iciness
away from your lips.
Daring like the curl of worm
at the bottom of a bottle,
intoxicating as you are,
I have learned to stop
when I've had enough.
Dreams of Fire and Ice
You look so masculine with your hands
in flames, eager to destroy or enlighten,
veins and motives hidden in the blaze.
I lie fractured and distressed, a block
of ice paralyzed with the anxiety
that my cold exterior is not an act.
You approach, red-hot energy flickering
up your spine, a leaf of fire blazing over
your head as though touched by spirit.
I withdraw, withhold, a frigid cube
of shame and desire, afraid that I
won't melt, just as afraid I will.
Winner of the 2010
Christina Sergeyevna Award!
Bluebonnets in December
No height, no spikes, no fruit, no blue--not yet.
The flowers have all spring to shine; but now
the leaves themselves emerge in sad quintets
of tiny fingers, rimmed in salty bows
like maragarita rims. They hug the earth
in search of warmth and ride the winter's chill.
They hunker down, though dreams rev up, spring forth
in colors of the sky: audacious smiles
and vistas wide, from dim to drunken blue.
Applause and accolades will greet them in
three months with fields of photo-ops, a coup
of aspirations. First, the bitter green
must season, wait with patience through the cold--
as all things must, before rewards unfold.
After Hearing Elie Wiesel
I descend into colorless silence,
step by step into incandescence.
My body glows white-hot.
My mouth strains to open,
but no words will come.
My lips are stitched together.
I burn like an ashen husk
of something long abandoned,
no feature left discernable.
My head crackles
with the whimpers of the dead.
I must rip the stitches,
give voice to the bones
burning inside me.
For I am one of the fortunate.
You do not know, and I can't bear to speak
the words: but this is it, the end, over.
So plunge your last, my husband, dear. My cheek
is red from years of tears; your paltry anchor,
though hard and heavy, ceased to stir my seas.
I spread my legs and felt nothing, a dead
and gutted fish, while you flopped about pleased,
enthralled by ego, unconcerned. You read
no signs, no cries for help--and still you don't.
Tomorrow, find an empty bed, a house
bereft of me, though I will bear the brunt,
for I will weep while your will wonder, browse
the halls for clues. Stumped, what will you do?
I'll leave no note. It's always been beneath you.
An ekphrastic poem
based on Linda Michel-Cassidy's
fiber piece, "Residue"
Gaia: A Lesson
Our world was green then,
a lush and lively bounty of dreams,
an endless festival of fields and leaves--
but that was when rain still fell,
before roots diminished to husks
and trees toiled their last gasp,
before the drunken bellies
of seas recoiled
into unthinkable depressions,
before the planetary party
fizzled into a dry, flat earth,
as some had warned it would.
Our world is brown now,
a netherworld stripped to loam,
ashen and pockmarked
by caverns' hollowed chambers,
mouths frozen in hopeless appeal,
sockets where eyes once shone,
a tearless residue
on the face of a planet
that has left us
no longer knowing
if we are the living,
no longer caring.
Back then , you could see roses
only if you went around
to the other side of the wood fence,
where canes like herons' legs
held up a smattering of blooms.
Even then you thought them beautiful.
A decade later, a sea of roses
laps over the fence, spills
in cascades of yellow, rising
a foot or more over pickets--
all this effusive exuberance
crowding in arcs from beyond!
You know it won't be long
before they crumble to brown,
fade like every fleeting season.
The Interview Date
Where are you from?
What I wanted
was to watch you speak,
see the pink raft of tongue
lap at your lips,
the beacon of Adam's apple
beckon up and down.
How long have you lived here?
What I wanted
was to watch you lean in,
observe the swells of hair
eddying from your shirt,
the surge of nipples,
hard as a rocky coast.
Where did you go to school?
What I wanted
was to watch you stand,
gauge the strain of your anchor,
note the cove of buttocks,
lean as the Strait of Gibraltar,
a tight figure-eight.
What to you do for fun?
What I wanted
was to leave the coffeeshop,
shuck you like an oyster,
raise your mast,
unfurl your sails,
fide you into the night--
but that would wait
till the second date.
A bilingual anthology
from the Virtual Artists
Collective with all poems
in English and Chinese!
Also includes my poems
"In Celebration of Gray,"
"West of Fort Worth."
October Revival in Texas
Swaying Like a gospel choir,
their robes outstretched,
leaves swish overhead,
lifting spirits unseen for months
with sounds of celebration.
All that heat and humidity
swept away in soulful swoops,
long fanfares of gusts.
The dizzying roar of a norther
gives wings to gulps of pure joy.
The whoosh of the canopy--
like listening to a waterfall
from a grotto tucked behind it--
a sound so baptismal
you want to dive into the sky.
The only poem
in this year's edition!
We open up veins
and spill guts,
blood-letting as an art.
We whittle words
to razor-sharp points--
and learn to use them
We make numerous stabs
at pounding out rhythms
and nailing metaphors
to the page.
When all goes well, we grab
or killer lines.
When it doesn't,
we smother meaning,
drown it in a sea of words,
or bury our intentions alive.
We usually massacre drafts,
butchering them in a carnage
of bloody pieces,
our fingers stained
Writing can be murder.
anthology of Texas poetry!
It is the month of bark,
the yard under the sycamore
a shipwreck of shavings
against the shore of the deck;
the month of exfoliation,
strips of skin sloughed
to the ground in dried-up curls,
when the great tree
becomes blinding white again;
the month when death,
strewn about so beautifully,
can no longer ignore life,
leafing its secrets among the jumble,
the flotsam of mottled browns
and mossy greens,
the former brilliance in shades of gray,
textured with gnarls and knots,
layered like contour maps,
the wild and woody rinds at my feet.
My first Welsh publication!
I removed the moon and stars today,
a couple of comets, a dozen
indeterminate celestial bodies.
I scraped the stubborn pieces of cosmos
under my nails, where they pricked
and splintered with an uncanny life-force.
I emptied the ceiling of heavenly hosts,
whitewashed space to one great void,
leaving only infinity above me.
Also includes my poem,
"The Interview Date"
She never told her husband,
but like a semiannual sale
the day would arrive,
and we'd get the call
for a ride to the clinic.
As a means of birth control,
it was extravagant.
We didn't question,
needed no reasons,
but wondered why she relied
on two gay men
to minister as her taxi.
We always assumed
the fetus wasn't Ed's,
and he never asked
why she was glagued again
with "female troubles."
Perhaps her husband wasn't
as foolish as we often believed.
When the silent women
and frightened girls
peeked at us from their furtive shells,
puzzled over which was the father,
we both winked back in unison.
We relished the role of co-conspirators.
She was our ringleader,
our fetish, our Wild Turkey,
bouncing back each time
as though she'd lost nothing more
than a mole.
How to Cook a Wolf
The opportunistic hunter who saved us
whisked away the pelt in no time,
leaving the bloody carcass for us to clean up.
For me, I should say, as Grandma was too sick to help,
the reason I was here in the first place.
I'd have thrown out all that gristle and bone,
but Grandma, frugal as a shaded garden,
claimed we couldn't let the wolf go to waste.
With a cleaver, I hacked off the head--
those eyes, those ears, those frightening teeth--
a tiny revenge for earlier being swallowed.
I told Grandma I was getting wood for the fire,
but I snuck the head out with the entrails
and buried them at the forest's edge.
Then I got down to work. I chopped off
the four legs, dropped them into a stock pot
simmering with most of the organs
(but the liver I fried up as a special treat for Grandma,
who clearly needed more iron in her diet).
The body I severed into three sections--
basically, shoulder, ribs, and rump--
more meat than I'd expected
from such a scrawny creature.
I placed each cut in a roasting pan,
and happily shoved the pans into the oven.
Before I cleaned up, I removed my red cap--
the very one Grandma had given me--
and placed in it the wolf's knotted heart,
wrapped the bundle in the bright red cloth,
and stuck it in the bottom of my basket.
I didn't know why, but it was mine now.
My own heart said I'd earned it.
She squats in the muck
at the water’s edge
as she has for a week,
fixed to the spot
like a lighthouse
Her weary eyes stare down
the cinnamon-colored sea,
as if willpower alone
could control its roil,
force it to return
the child she could not
cling to, cannot beacon—
or sweep the urge
from under her feet.
Also includes my poem,
She hears gargled whispers,
not the ahs of an open throat:
something’s caught there.
She hears it again,
a small bird lodged in her larynx:
She curls in a nest,
not a womb,
but a briar of fear.
Hidden within the sinew,
among the muscle’s twigs and branches,
in the bone’s gray shadows,
a snake closes about her,
its thick black rope
She rasps for release,
for the ah, ah, ah of life,
but gurgles the word amen.
Suppose Plato was right:
that we are only half a whole,
a left shoe useless without a right,
a negative stammering through life
in search of its elusive positive.
Suppose our search is innate,
a desire so strong, so primitive,
that without that other half
we ache from constant hunger.
No matter how satisfied our appetites,
we seem always to starve for more.
Suppose we find that other half
and slide hard into love’s spell,
our unfulfilled yearning as intense
as our need to eat or breathe.
As mysterious as levitation,
our lives are bound together,
though we never know exactly why.
Suppose Plato was right,
that love is the pursuit of the whole,
the fulfillment of an ancient need,
two halves becoming one soul,
melding one into the other,
the end of endless questioning,
the beginning of true union.
Also includes my poems
"Asparagus," "Size Queen,"
and "Coming Out"
You just called
to say happy birthday
and to remind me
that you're not
speaking to me.
prickles up my stomach
for no one
doesn't speak to me
like you do.
When I hold you,
it's not to make
a political statement.
When my hand rests
warmly in yours,
it's not to prove
a point to the world.
The world fades
far in the background,
fizzles to white noise
when I'm with you.
My kisses have
no hidden agenda.
I am just
a man in love
to be a man.
Also includes my poem,
"A Week in the Life"
The Weather Inside
Clouds amassed for weeks
where old ones failed to leave,
till gray skies glutted
and light was crushed in their blotter.
With air too black to breathe
and rumbles echoing down streets,
the storm ached deep in his bones.
It felt like a coming heartbreak.
Also includes my poems
"Presence" and "Archaeology"
Her index finger shadows
the coarse hair of his forearms,
connects the dots, freckle by freckle.
Her hair smells of moon and mist,
untroubled by combs or discipline.
Her eyes are kaleidoscopes,
laughing one minute, crying the next,
daring him to discover her secrets.
Her tiny smile hints at confusion.
Pink fragility pouts on her lips.
She will stand in a downpour
with no thought of umbrellas,
rain giving shape to curves
as pretty and useless as tulips.
Like an abandoned puppy whimpers
for someone to take her home,
in her thinnest voice she solicits a hug,
nestles to his chest, and waits.
You waste no time. I’ll give you that.
While grandmother’s hull folds in on itself,
shrivels with tumors and chemicals,
I await the call to fly off to her funeral.
But you couldn’t wait for another victim.
You crawled in bed with my youngest brother,
unfurled yourself while he lay dreaming,
and spread your shadow over his esophagus.
They say the way to a man is through his stomach,
but you’ve perfected every technique;
no organ is exempt from your dark embrace.
When your fingers clasped my mother’s throat,
her voice immediately dropped several registers.
Teams of doctors loosened your grasp.
She didn’t end up with an artificial voice box,
but I hear your echo when she speaks.
I was the next to escape your clutches,
and you let me off rather painlessly,
a bite on the leg, black as a horsefly.
Not that I haven’t taken your visit seriously.
I check my skin with the diligence of a curator;
like you, I’m forced to stay in the shade.
With my father, you attacked the prostate,
spread your scaly fingers up his dark cavity
and pushed down like a rusty piston.
A buckshot of radioactive pellets chased you off;
yet you lurk in the air like a scavenger.
Circling my family in a restless gyration,
you’ll be gorging again too soon.
(for Matthew Shepard, 1976-1998)
To pull the trigger would have been too kind.
They broke your nose, crushed your brain stem,
battered your flesh till it grafted to bone;
left you burned, lashed to Laramie split-pine,
spread-eagled, barefoot, a bloodied gay totem.
The night froze black around a scarecrow alone.
A day later your body was discovered,
limp as the straw of a weathered bale.
You never came out of the coma; I pray
you slipped into it early in the night, hovered
at heaven’s thin edge, unburdened and pale,
before hate spilled over to the light of day.
Anthologies I have edited for the Austin International
||Hotel Room with Six Vigas
You wake to sighs and groans,
the creaking of long spines.
You can't sleep,
so you stare at the timbers overhead.
They've had a tough life:
scars and fractures,
knots like ancient bruises;
splits you could fit fingers into;
cracks riven in crooked lines
like a river canyon
marked with imperfections.
And if you lie long enough,
they are bending to the wind,
releasing cries and whispers
as if they were yet trees.
from the 2006 di-verse-city
Comments greatly appreciated!