The sky breaks into mauve moths,
fluttering against the unlighted bathroom window.
Three minutes ago, it was a solid, stern day,
now the trees rustle and tap with purple rain,
and the sun has been hidden
by a secret mountain that wasn’t there before.
The insect of thought retracts its claws,
wilting in the lavender hour.
Perfume of light hangs heavy in the hallway,
while the tap listens for footsteps that never come.
The horizon bleeds red,
a slow, velvet hemorrhage,
and shadows blend into a silent, watery, inverted sky.
It is all over:
The horses have forgotten how to run,
and the moon is busy hanging glass stars on the pines.
It weaves a new net for the waking dream.
Suddenly, something grew inside my heart
Holding back the hemorrhage.
Ignoring all those years,
all those layers,
the weight that eroded me.
I couldn't look in the mirror,
recognize myself anymore.
I had changed.
It spread easily and steadily—
Asking no permission—just
silently rushing within my limits.
Found a force that tore me apart,
it needed to be released.
Never meant to harm you or myself.
It was the strongest,
I couldn't allow it to flourish.
For some, even love isn't enough.
I was dead anyway.
And I question myself,
Was it in vain? Was it a lesson?
Never wanted to break my word,
However, I could never become this one.
Never could I excuse that.
Your boundaries weren’t questioned or pressured.
But surely you always knew why
we ended up apart.
You know well that
I hold this bruise until death.
I keep quietly walking,
towards a cynical future.
Somehow your presence,
would make me drop the trigger.
Breathing, seeking ways
to stay away.
And if I could, I would paint the skies
pitch black, chaotic as tempests.
I hadn't shown you the storms.
Yet, wherever you were, surely
you would recognize my art.
The Sun shines bright on our planet in despair
Wrapped in rags called turmoil, worn beyond repair
A battle tearing the soul from great Mother Earth
It’s inhabitants at odds to prove status and worth
Hemorrhage must stop and wounds to heal
Scabbing over again then scratched to reveal
That mankind is not worthy to manage such place
Only capable of abusing and leaving much trace
Of a thoughtless generation lining pockets with greed
A legacy for those younger to analyse and heed
A new set of rules that must not repeat
Past history written with a story of defeat
The World is still bleeding and how will it stop?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
maple leaves hemorrhage onto the pavement
hurried commuters wear wool coats
squirrels dash about, burying acorns
metallic tang of dying light
decay clotting the sky’s vein.
I pocket pecans, hard and cold.
frost fingerprints the morning grass
geese stitch southward through the clouds
gold leaves turn to gangrene
Hershey’s kisses wrappers blow against gravestones
October's blusteriness arrives:
a handwritten sky smudged gray.
earth exhales: damp soil, crushed leaves.
October dying beautifully.
We call it freedom,
but what is freedom without form?
A flame without a lantern,
a voice without a conscience,
a march that tramples the morning peace
just to echo its own rage.
We say we speak freely,
but truth is not noise.
Truth is not venom dressed as valor,
not rumor parading as revolution.
Speech is sacred,
when it builds, not breaks.
When it heals, not harms.
When it dares to be honest
even when honesty is inconvenient.
We say we protest,
but protest is not chaos.
It is choreography of conscience,
a civil dance of dissent.
It is the heartbeat of democracy,
not its hemorrhage.
It is a hand raised, not a fist clenched.
A sit-in, not a smash-out.
A song sung in the streets,
not a scream that silences others.
A civilized society is not just paved roads and tall buildings.
It is paved hearts and tall ethics.
It is liberty with love,
rights with responsibility,
freedom with form.
So speak,
but speak with truth.
Protest,
but protest with purpose.
Live free,
but live with grace.
Because civility is not weakness.
It is strength,
restrained.
It is fire,
refined.
It is freedom,
fulfilled.
JCC/OMP
Congealing his anger
clotting his will
Attacking your weakness
— to hemorrhage until
(Dreamsleep: October, 2025)
Ten million people
killed by machete
The Congo a hemorrhage
of human despair
Ten million people
whose carcasses rotting
In jungles of torment
— and life’s disrepair
(The New Room: September, 2025)
For twelve years, she suffered from incurable bloodletting.
All her wealth, like water, before physicians she had poured
She went near Jesus the incarnate out of fear, sweating.
To touch his garment, the convulsing crowed; she had ignored
Jesus knew her heart. He felt her feelings. He heard her hum.
Her pain-filled existence touched the inner core of his soul.
When grace from his psyche like streams flew, he couldn't be dumb.
Who touched me? He asked. They thought that he'd lost his self-control.
I am caught, the woman thought. What will happen to me now?
Her faith, she felt, was collapsing like a castle on sand.
Her physique and psyche, as though bent trees out of fear, bow.
She felt, amidst these feelings, the healing touch of his hand.
Jesus said this to Veronica: Your faith has healed you.
Like blossoms at the peak of the spring, her life bloomed anew.
Do you think Pharts are Phunny
Do you shake hands, hug or play bongos
If a fellow employee pukes in their cubicle
Do you…puke also
…run away
…gag until useless
…get a waste basket in case they go again
…summon the Janitor/custodian
…ask what they had for lunch
…measure the splatter radius
…Quit – because that stink will always be there
When you sneeze
Do you…sneeze into your hand
…wipe it on your pants
…restrain it and cause possible brain hemorrhage
Have you ever
…eaten an oyster
…in the wading pool of an Aquarium
Essay Question
…What do you do if you find half a worm in your apple
Blood upon the keyboards
harmonicas in flight
Chasing notes across the score
horns that greet the night
Eighty eight’s to hemorrhage
reeds that bend and break
Music dying then reborn
—trumpeting our fate
(Dreamsleep: August, 2022)
My poems are ghost-written.
I scarcely identify the visitants
Mingling with heedless shadows.
Poltergeists outfit my words.
Though we converse,
I hardly know them,
And seldom fathom
Their prophecies.
My poems hemorrhage
In convulsive madness
Like the speaker in tongues,
Unleashing foreboding fragments,
That I might discern some divination.
But my autonomous hands move on
Planchettes over enigmatic spirit boards
For which I act only as outlet.
My poems are ghost-written.
My stanzas are tent revivals arrayed
Down the page with ritual dance.
Faith healers shout and wail,
bending my lines
wending a trail of travail,
They conjure all specters to avail.
My poems are ghost-written.
My words breathe and writhe.
They live as cells squirming for life.
Yet, inflections within them always
Mutter from another,
A propulsion between impression and
Arousal.
Like a gift unoffered, you've snatched my sweetheart!
Lifeless, aimless, like her ghost I drag on here!
Body cold! Bleached as washer-man thump!
Hair still growing! Nails getting sharpened!
White burial shroud; No wedding gown!
Flower dumped; Ruby necklace covered up!
Unknown smile! Farewell? Joyous to part?
Or already gained a glimpse of paradise?
Your hands seem to resist the mud fall!
As though not ready to be buried!
Yes, dear Death! You’ve determined to take her away!
Here she is; at your command; submissive; Silent!
You had tried this many times! Saved by money and science?
What all names you gave! Cancer! Hemorrhage! Cardiac arrest!
I think at the time of your impulse of calling someone,
You do not listen to God, leave alone the heavenly angels!
I have been praying for your death, but you have none!
Today she might be; tomorrow me; then sons and daughters...!
Or all before me, leaving me double-dead and none to care!
Bon, voyage to you, dear Death, till we meet again soon!
26 October, 2021
Let's Mix It Up Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Disastrous free-fall
Into consuming ashes of heartbreak,
He landed with deafening thud.
Wounded, spirits deflated
Rivulets of tears, shed.
He soon rose like the Phoenix
To dizzying heights after
Misfortune mercilessly clipped
His mighty wings mid-air.
Down, down, down to earth
He plummeted, though
Spared Icarus' fate.
Then came his transformation,
For love worked its glorious magic.
Hemorrhage within him, stemmed.
Now he soars the open sky
With new wings sturdier
Than before; right as rain again.
Date written: 09/28/2021
Cinnamon- the scent of autumn
Candles drown- wax puddle bottom
Stormy clouds- shrouds of confinement
Tattered jeans- trendy consignment
Younger days- the color of green
Falling leaves- brush off what they mean
Windy skies- snapping of branches
Tourniquet- hemorrhage stanches
Crescent moon- gloaming afternoon
Letting go- lost grip on balloon
Shadows fade- each shade of grey blends
December- the calendar ends
2-23-2021
List With A Twist Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Charles Messina
a knee, a neck, a symbol, a tool
the segregationist would be proud
fighting to breathe is a fight where
Vegas is covering all odds
let's lay our money and him down
the spittle, the pool on the ground
does not need to be explained, cleaned or vilified
this is America dammit where change
is not always the objective
where the unwritten far outweighs
the written rule of law
families bleed albeit slowly
that merciful hemorrhage
some swear isn't normal
let's riot shall we
let's set ablaze the constitution
that Letter from a Birmingham Jail
our Holy Bible
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