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Current News:
My poem "On
Fire" was published recently in Downgo
Sun
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LOTUS
(Nelumbo
nucifera)
Certain
wounds
bloom in the consciousness forever
white petals floating in a dark sea
nourished by decades of dreams
darkness layered with darkness
and still
at the bottom clearly seen --
bright coins of transgressions
In
my dream he came
younger than I am now
he knelt at my feet, told me
he wanted to give me something -
a ribbon, a jewel, a loaf of bread -
I knew he looked for a way
to apologize
I wanted him to know I knew
in that prescient way dreams have
of shaping us with truth
I
am older than consciousness itself
risen to my surface
full of days and nights-
full of thousands of moons
floating into my life since he first
came—full of darkening seeds
and inescapable wounds
Bowing
to this lifetime’s
wounded weight
I take his hand
invite him to travel again
my body’s terrain
break open the seeds
of offered grace
we have waited long enough
for sorrow’s flowering embrace
for the wafer of regret
to reconstitute itself
as blessing
for this time to forget
what need no longer be
remembered
Published
in DMQ Review
Inner
City Assignation
She’s
back. Can’t
kill her or keep her underground
or
freeze her out. She struts forth smiling like the corner
whores,
offering a hit of pure pleasure in the neon purple
of a crocus nestled next to the rotting fence, in the
raw
whistle
of bluejays harassing the squirrels, in the pink
whirl of tulip trees gauzy with wind. Spring, you old
mother,
you did it again. You lifted your lush green
skirts and made my heart lift in absurd hope.
I want
to
roll right into your blossomy breasts and suckle
the promise of your pearly air. Later, you’ll wash me
in
white sun, dress me in your finest forsythia.
We’ll go
for
a quiet stroll before you disappear into hot summer
nights.
Published
in Potpourri Magazine & Dancing with
Elvis
______________________________________________________________________________
.Landing
in Miami
This time
my butterflies surprise me.
You won’t be meeting me
wearing the shirt I bought you,
leaning against the airport wall,
a tall stork with one sandaled foot
wedged behind,
your face waiting to smile
when you see me,
insisting I drop my bags
so you can circle me
with butterfly kisses
This time
my butterflies will stay
in their ribbed cage,
flutter against a heart
empty of expectation.
I’m left with this uneasy lust
that finds no human form
for a home.
It must be the arching palm trees
I ache for, a longing for salt air
and sultry sunsets,
the pink curves of condos
that slide through shadows as real
as recollections of our love
Published in New Works Review
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