sweat-soaked
I exhausted countlessly
falling down the nights
throwing myself against
the hollow you left
maybe hurting badly enough
could make you mine again
but now the tide has drawn back
exposing my Sharpie on the sand
you were never something so frightening
as the love of my life
only an amalgamation
of my deepest fears
wearing the face of someone I loved
my foolhardy
but in this one instance
psychic psychosis
twitched my neck
you would be gone
by summer’s end
therefore I swore
enemies with the world
blind to how I was giving you
reason to do the same
I know it selfish now, the way I held on
though that truth sits poorly on my tongue
for I truly believed that every shadow I cast
was shelter for you
I was a child to his suckle
a pallid magro body
unable to bear its own reflection
until he made you his
A sprightly little squirrel named Drew
sat under a moon that was oddly blue,
and as its glow soaked through the night,
it dyed his furry body a dazzling hue.
He blinked, he twitched, he gave a chirp,
for blue is bold and far from meek~
but Drew, now bright as midnight skies,
felt rather dapper, quite unique.
He scampered up a maple tree,
declaring, “Look! Just look at me!”
The forest gasped, for never yet
had anyone seen such tint on a squirrel so free.
And now when moonlight turns to blue
and paints the nighttime’s silver view,
the squirrels all gather, hoping too
for a moonlit moment
to change their fur to blue.
Old Mrs. Gable stared from
her porch with cold, hollow
eyes.
Children avoided her rotting
mansion, fearing her sharp,
bitter tongue.
When she died inside, the
neighborhood breathed a
sigh of relief.
Yet the heavy velvet curtains
still twitched whenever
anyone walked by.
The rusted front gates would
screech open, inviting the
curious inside.
Those who dared enter
found her scowling portrait
watching their steps.
Her rocking chair swayed on
the hardwood with no wind
around.
A raspy, phantom voice
hissed from the dark,
demanding they leave.
Then the doors slammed
shut, locking the trespassers
in her trap.
She is still entity, and now
they belong to her house
forever.
I found it buried in Grandma’s drawer,
the blasted wooden spoon with the burn mark
and the hairline crack God knows what from.
She snatched it from my hand like it was alive.
“That thing’s seen more trouble than you,” she said,
and the air in the kitchen shifted,
as if the spoon remembered something
and was waiting to see if I did too.
It wasn’t for stirring beans.
It wasn’t for tasting stew.
that spoon was for pointing ... slow, deliberate
at any child that had forgotten their manners.
My father swore he could hear it hum
before it struck the table.
My mother said it twitched in the drawer
when someone lied in the next room.
By the time it came for my generation,
we didn’t need the smack,
just the lift of Grandma’s hand toward the drawer,
the shadow of the spoon rising like judgment.
And years later, when my own children tested me,
I reached for it not in a drawer, but in its own crock
felt its weight settle into my palm,
felt every ancestor nod in approval.
The spoon never touched them.
It didn’t have to.
Some objects carry their own history,
and this one still waits in the crock,
quiet as a predator stalking its prey.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The rabbit paused mid-hop—quite stunned~
(A most peculiar sight!)
for scattered ‘cross the dewy grass,
like misplaced stars at night,
were eggs of blue, pink, and yellow,
some striped, some with polka dots
all polished, round, and bright.
She twitched her nose. "Now who," she mused,
“Left dinner out all night?”
One nibble… then a crunch! (Oh dear.)
A rather crunchy bite.
With ears aflop, she sighed, "Well then~
These rocks are not done right."
And so she hopped away, slightly miffed,
to find only one dandelion.
(The moral? Life is strange.
Some breakfasts—purely plastic~
are best admired from far away…
A one way mirror it was,
Justice never served.
For that's the way of life,
Neither got what they deserved.
There was beauty in her voice,
Her handling, such poise.
One left, one stayed,
For now its turned,
And he longs for something,
That was once his.
Time after time,
The clock was locked.
His eyes never twitched,
Since the farewell bid.
He turned her, a stone,
Ever since
Light never shone.
Lying in bed with thoughts in my head, talking to Z, the girl only I can see.
She laughs at the moon and whispers to shadows, flickers at the edge of dreams.
“Quiet down down there!” someone shouts from above, either from the ceiling or the sky, I can’t tell which.
But the noise is all in here, boiling behind my eyes.
Stayed up late talking to the voices, at first a gentle hum, then a flood.
They wore no names, just wind-tattered echoes until Z said, “That one was your great grandfather .”
I stilled.
And suddenly, the noise felt older than me.
Carried on the breath of the dead. A lineage of longings passed down like lullabies no one finished singing.
They asked for things: closure, remembrance, a place to rest.
One voice tried to take me. Moved my tongue. Twitched my hand.
Like slipping into an old coat that no longer fits but still remembers your shape.
Z held my hand, her grip unreal and real enough.
“They just don’t want to be forgotten,” she said.
“You’re the first who’s listened.”
The room stayed dark. The ceiling didn’t shout again.
And I lay awake, mind on fire, heart echoing back a hundred years of unheard names.
I loved on Saturdays in March, at dawn
(back then, each day was Saturday) to root
in pond and hedgerow. Light was pale, dilute,
and buds clung tight and hard around the thorn.
This season, with the world so freshly born,
enchanted me. Each flicking, wedge-faced newt,
sedge on his face, unconscionably cute,
each ink-black eye from thousands in the spawn,
each clear cold pool, each acid-green young shoot,
each minnow which acknowledged my pursuit
and twitched my hand-held line (no hope of rod!),
each copse, so self-contained and absolute,
with nascent blossom dusted, bluebell-shod,
appeared to me a pledge of life from God.
Cursing in squirrel...
He's claimed the tulip tree for his own.
I've named him Putin.
He blames me when the petals fall.
When the weather turns foul. When the seeds are lean.
When sustenance heads deep underground.
He even blames me for his twitching tail and poor posture.
My roof is his autobahn.
It craps on my porch daily.
Chewed a hole in my gilded eave.
I once set out a live trap. And caught a skinny red robin instead...
From his tree, Putin twitched his hammer-and-sickle tail and laughed.
It's passed along the game to its progeny
They profit handsomely off my misery.
I patch the eaves...occasionally.
I think I'll bring in the steel teeth, put away the live traps.
And snap comrade Putin's little furry neck.
A lonely, cold gecko unstuck itself, unsteady,
from the cliff-face, bedroom wall.
A certain, short leap onto my pillow, then to calmly
move up over my sleeping form to my open face,
and there to kiss my closed
eyelids with rasping lips and sticky tongue.
"Lickety Split !"
"Spittle & Slick !"
It clicked and twitched this little tune as it did its rough work
on my quiet eyes. A slow massage,
moving orbits in their boney optical universe,
rolling, rotating, revolving behind the blue-veined lids
of my galaxy.
You didn't spot the camouflage,
didn't see the gecko,
just thought I was dreaming
with my eyes open
MOUSE HOUSE*
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In my shoe, I found quite a sight,
a small mouse, with fur soft and light.
He twitched and he squeaked,
as I gasped and I freaked,
Then we both took off running in fright!
*This poem is written in memoriam and dedicated to the field mouse who mistakenly decided our garage would be a cool place to wait out summer's heat.
BREAKFAST AT TIFFANY'S*
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
While nibbling on French croissant so fine,
Audrey sipped coffee, feeling divine.
She struck a pose, twitched her chin,
The staff oohed, awed, gave a grin,
At bunny who dined with glamor and shine!
“Oh, daaaarlings,” she said with a flair,
“I’ll nibble on pink pearls, I swear!”
“I’m Holly Golightly,”
She said most contritely.
This dazzling bunny made Tiffany's rare!”
*"Breakfast at Tiffany's" is a 1961 romantic comedy film directed by Blake Edwards, starring Audrey Hepburn as Holly Golightly, a quirky socialite in New York City. The film is based on Truman Capote's novella and explores themes of love and identity. (Source: Wikipedia)
I said I knew him—
like the sea knows the moon,
drawn, pulled, dancing tides to his rhythm.
I traced constellations in the freckles on his back,
wrote sonnets on the way he stirred his coffee,
knew his heartbeat like a song I was born with.
I could name the sound his silence made,
the way his right eye twitched when he lied,
how he always looked left when he didn’t want to cry.
I memorized his favorite shade of regret.
And still loved him.
I said I knew him—
like the roots know rain,
the thunder before the downpour.
I forgave storms that shattered me
because he smiled like sunlight
and I was always cold.
I built an altar from our laughter.
Burnt my pride as sacrifice.
Called him my home.
My poem.
My person.
But—
He was not mine.
He was never real.
Just a ghost I drew on a canvas of longing.
A man made of metaphors and needs.
I was the only one in the room.
Talking. Loving. Remembering.
He was a story I told myself
just to feel
less alone.
As my nose twitched,
before the coming sneeze,
time froze, anticipation heightened,
awaiting its inevitable release.
I surfed the bardo,
my thoughtless attention animated,
wherein fulcrum of tremors,
could not be located.
The tumbler did fall,
when I least expected;
I covered my face,
that others be protected.
As for the act,
expelling saliva and air,
it’s a learnt art,
I perform with flair.
Silently, he stood on the edge of a mirrored pool
For breakfast, he'd have to do a bit of wading
The egret's feathered image I wanted to capture
among wild cattails at this early morning hour.
He seemed to sense that I was watching him.
Stilted legs twitched, poised to take flight
but I was still as overhead, clouds hovered...
whiter yet, than this egret of the morning.
His regal head suddenly turned my way
but I dared not move, not to frighten him away.
His long, graceful neck turned from side to side,
as he tried to figure out if I was something to fear.
He took a stride towards me and then stopped.
A ripple on the pool caused him to change direction.
Breakfast was being served and so, he ate his fill.
I quickly sketched what I knew I'd have to paint.
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