Crimson lips, lovers awaken with a kiss
Creamy white skinned Goddesses resting
In a time where Socrates lusted after Sappho's
Poetry and art.
The Grecian people worshiped her with
her beauty and exquisite prose. On the wings
of her art she played enchanting music arranged
Golden chariots in fields of apples bold,
yet, solitary like one fallen from the tree,
Sappho wrote her memoirs and music
while exiled, her death unspoken.
My grandfather on my father’s side, was a pecker-toothed sidle who raped his
daughter when she was just ten. He threw down vodka from an eternal well and took my father out to buy prostitutes when he was just fifteen... It was here that my father first learned the true value of a woman. Mercifully, a permanent steel brace got loose at the Pennsylvania steel mill where he worked and crushed Grandfather into a pool of blood and urine.
My father was a dried seed rattling in an empty gourd… he had grown up
hardened with leather-stiff roots exposed too long in the sun. My mother knew
that he wanted to rape me, so I kept guard with knives and ran away whenever I could. I went to bed fantasizing how to sneak into his bedroom and kill him with
the kitchen carving knife.
My older brother hadn’t adjusted well to the chaos either, so he put all his expectations and dreams into a matchbook and burned down three houses in the neighborhood. He secretly, robbed his friends of their valuable coin collections. He grew weary and confessed and was taken to a local Mental Hospital for evaluation. At fourteen, I needed a good stiff drink! I was transferred to two different foster care homes and grew up like a weed.
My mother Dolly was an auburn haired porcelain bisque, matt finished doll from a
discriminating collections of dolls... her father's dolls. She was not a witty woman
but silent, afraid and alone. She gave birth to three children who grew up like
wild dogs while Dolly made Betty Crocker weekends and otherwise TV dinners
until she grew tired... very tired.
One day the brothers were playing with Dolly tossing her back and forth…
like a ball, one to another... until we dropped her. Fragile, she shattered into pieces
on the gray cement patio. My father came out determined to put the pieces back
together but clumsily, he repeatedly stepped on Dolly crushing the refined
fragments into powdered dust.
Constellations of values and ethics
like dancing stars in onyx nights.
Majestic fields of ideals stay grounded
in what only seems right. Keenly, I search
philosopher’s heels to grasp theoretical
notions, held together by gravity’s scales
as comets of light circle in tails
and teach me in a dream.
What is the uniqueness of your poetry?
Someone once said to me that “poetry can’t include abstract language.”
Well, that really got me going! As a lover of language and theory I just couldn’t let this one pass. The uniqueness of my poem is that I use abstract language with planetary imagery to lightly illustrate two mega-abstract ideas, ethics & philosophy. The end culminates that all knowledge is refutable (i.e. “and teach me in a dream”).
What you gave was the humility
lost now in the starry universe,
dark and gray about to rain.
A circle of stars shuttering in place,
shifting from season to space,
dancing in darkness.
What you gave were these arms to
reach out and hold the world close
in an ever changing way, buoyant
and feisty, or ready to give up.
What you gave will always be alive
breathing into the surfaces of
Lies glamour gossip and Earl Grey tea
turbulent tales boiling in China cups
elegant sacraments of blue-haired ladies
pinkies stuck up in the air, hiding their
anger or boredom or feeling their own
Crimson glass roses feathers and jewels
crowned with wide-brim hats, trimmed
gloves, lace fans and perhaps some pearls
are appealing to these extravagant, fast
and proper old girls
The guild does not approve of
tortilla chips or
piercings of the tongue.
Invitation is by Tea Bag only. merely
a device to project the status of a
proper and affluent wife.
Shaved legs polished nails and GiGi’s
Brazilian waxing will enliven you as a
part of the crowd, but may be a little
We are a jelly jar full of pencils new in town.
From Europe we came heads up, points down.
No fancy names, we shared the same woodshed
and thanked Welches jelly for this practical bed.
Lead was a number four and fatter than all.
Trim number twos, we all awaiting the call.
Writing and erasing, sometimes we paid
For frivolous writing the humans had made.
The sharpest point in the jar was funny ole Lead.
His weftage was smooth but his family all now dead.
Lead became smaller and smaller and in time
was nothing but a stub, when #2s were in their prime
It's unfair to be held back once you know our point of view
to trash cans we go for no reason with no expectation to sue.
Till one day we snap and die from being tossed
A point without a pencil, life is colder than frost
There is everything ugly about the little creepy snail
he delivers the slime scraping his foot. Maybe it’s his small,
pea size shrunken brain or those tiny eyes, or the way
he slinks on his flat foot that squirms underneath
his round tubular body with black eyes on the tips
of the long tentacles two, on his cold little head.
Two more short tentacles are upon the pointed head.
with the shorter pair for feeling around the park. The snail
has two long tentacles that hold his eyes on the tips.
At three years old they lay white eggs so white and small
which stick to them and are buried in the ground underneath.
Holes he digs to hide his body safely tucked away
from foes who know he’s tasty, so he goes on his way.
Piercing black eyes on top of his loathsome head,
s/he is a hermaphrodite with equipment underneath.
The shell reproduces itself, alone like other snails.
His radula is rough and grainy but still, a foot very small
with a row of tiny teeth which eats leaves on the tips.
If he falls over, struggling, his whole world tips.
Unfortunately he can’t get up having no legs anyway.
So what could be worse than to live life as a snail?
There are African snails who are 15 inches toe to head,
while the body is 2lbs of protein we boil and eat snails
who are harvested by hand in the ground underneath.
He flourishes as a pest in the dirty ground underneath.
The shell slimes along without instruction or tips.
What could be worse than to live life as a snail?
Destroying crops he eats root, stems and fruit on his way,
but if a dog eats the snail there’s death to his head.
A mythical figure and a symbol of deadly sin, so small
he has small dreams, but at church he generously tips,
with holy expectations, underneath he knows the way
to his heart and his head as a martyr enduring life as a snail.
It was my birthday and my partner wanted to take a trip to Mazatlan,
on the coast of Mexico. We decided to go deep-sea fishing so the next day.
We got up very early and headed to the beach. We were in a small
boat with two other men. We started out and the driver had hooked up
our lines with leuers as big as my forearm. Well within one hour we hooked
an eleven foot sail-fish, the beautiful beast took about 45 minutes to capture
after putting up an admirable fight we landed him and put him inside the boat.
As he died I remember his beautiful blue color turned to black. It wasn't
pleasant, I felt a tinge of guilt because they were not eatable but only stuffed
for show. I could just imagine how ridiculous this giant fish would look on my
small apartment wall,
We continued on our excursion and not even an hour later we hook another fish...
who ever thought it would be the fisherman's dream...a blue marlin. This required
some strength so the five of us took turns reeling her in. The marlin would jump
out of the water and the captain would speed up the boat in her direction allowing
us to reel the line in faster. Well we played this sordid game for five hours until the
marlin died of exhaustion. Now dead it floated to the top of the water, black instead
of blue from the loss of oxygen. We tied him to the side of the boat...he was over
eleven feet and weighed 750 lbs. The captain hung out the blue flag and we drove
back to shore to be welcomed by many from the small town. We were instant
celebrities but my guilt was getting the best of me. How or why did I just kill
these two beautiful animals, just for sport! ...barbaric.
Barbie’s precision, stiff, lounging in glamorous style,
Plastic pink body asleep in a brand new cardboard box.
Barbie, eyes still open, abused by many of Ken's wiles,
She was once truly human, her daughter opens the lock.
The key is that her daughter Tara, is now forty or more,
Barbie's truly brutal life has never been known before.
There is a real woman who modeled for Barbie, it’s true,
But the life of her daughter, no one ever really knew.
The real Barbie drank in dark tombs of sharp yellow scotch,
Daily she was drunk and passed out on the wooden floors,
Sleeping with numerous young men the names she forgot.
Bold and hansom men came in droves but never to adore.
While drunk, Tara was raped by one of Barbie’s drunken lovers.
Drafts of therapists came, yet, she never really recovered.
A mere child she was left with problems that shattered her dreams,
Mattel Toys and Barbie were not really what they seemed.
Mattel was owned and run by Barbie's real parents,
fashioning the doll after how the real Barbie would look and act.
Some said Barbie Doll was a fine model for young women, this made little sense,
But Barbie lost Tara's respect in reality and that continues as a fact.
Knowing this story I’d never buy that drunken toy, hoping
Tara grows strong and finds her life, after she's finished coping.
amidst the lime brush
onyx he stands
black shade betrays
soft stunning silence
yellow eyes stare
eyes yellow jewels
a secret hunter
hungry to feasts
alert purring deep
as he watches red tail hawk