Tuesday, May 12, 2015


dresses in the closet
I don’t know why I counted them 

seven survivors 
worthy  desirable
at least 
in so much
as can be revealed in public places
in a 
not denied entry 
kind of way.

: that would pass 
given enough time,
even the carefully edited collection loses its relevance

you are the compendium of all of our hopes and dreams
and also the what we have to put before we go outside. along with our faces and expectations

I taste the cloth between my fingers 
and categorize each by its texture
a memory imprinted on my fingertips
signaling for recall 
to unfurl and fill in the rest. 
like a fern frond

That one was bought in a shop on a corner of a street in Barcelona. 
And that one I wore to lunch of tapas in Oxford.

Never mind that I have never been to either place. I could have,
in that dress.

It was a good time.  

Friday, March 20, 2015

without this -last day of winter poem

the winter trees are brown with promise

tired snow lays listlessly on the ground

yielding patches of its former glorious

sun soaked chlorophyll drunk riotous color.

this is what we draw:
leaves, fences, faces, time travel, 
stacks of books,
clutches of pens,
promise of blank paper,
whisper of time.
this is what we fill with each stroke, each intention, 

each bow drawn across the strings,
straining to hear ancestral composer’s articulations

building bridges through generations, 

to the seeds of yestertime

without this we are still some form of us
we are still we and
without this we are hollow
soundless paper marionettes dancing 
dangling in the foul wind 

of fruitless winter

Saturday, February 14, 2015

personal ad from 20 years ago

Angry woman.
near forty. Broke. alcoholic. two time loser with four kids. Likes to take long walks off short piers. For a good time call .....

Valentines Day D├ętente

it is my heart talking
those words you cannot quite hear
the ones you strain to listen to 

lean in to catch

but the torrent continues
you think you get the gist of it
then it rains on
and you realize 
you did not hear what 
you thought you were listening to

when you heard what you 
thought my heart was saying

its all right
its just another kind of energy that connects us

we read between the lines-
as if that were possible -
to ever even understand what
someone else is feeling 

much less to be able to convey this
with an alphabet of mirrors and lost art

its all right. 
we assume so much 
in direct opposition to our own finity.

legacy! all hail!
the stones thud against us 
and fall,
mad meteors

we lean in

as we strain to hear the angel’s song

Monday, January 05, 2015

DNA~ january 5, 2014

Her DNA thrums 
like water under ground,
going places.

waiting for her to listen, 
to see, 
to be able 
to claim her place; 
make a left turn, resolve
to become the navigator of her own chemistry:

a treasure hunter – 
pirate of her own ocean -
drifting on the periphery of her 
softly folded in 

for what of this plunder? pillage? loot?
What lust 
is thus 
for it is not the treasure 
that seduces us
like sirens,
surges in us 
like sudden, 
unfathomable desire.  

It is not the plunder, 
but the hunt. 
Always the hunt

Friday, December 26, 2014

busy month! Happy New year!!

knitted ornaments

knitted ornaments

window shopping

luke calls it a cave

Bailey made cupcakes

swiftmas happened

luke and bailey
the office
pretty things
knitting happened

7 months!

Sunday, December 21, 2014

Some Things Remain the Same. published in the Long Island Quarterly in the early nineties

Some things remain the same 
I am carried in a rickshaw
Only conscious for the epiphany from one tableau to the next, bundled like a cocoon
strangers speaking in muted voices so as not to wake the sleeping child the patient the victim
The smells are different in each recollection
The wallpaper a cipher the clocks tick rocks bound
Each to its own rhythm a separate rendition, 
This torturer in banana curls this one on a bicycle - these a pair under the bathroom window squealing and squirming in gleeful whispers trying to espy the child naked and unsuspecting. 

Sometimes the language is not my own
The food smells overwhelmingly good
It makes me want to live again to inhale to taste 
To be a member of this table or that one 
To be a known member of this tribe
No secret customs or furtive glances no secret codes of conduct
out of my reach beyond my ken.

What remains the same is the need to stay
as still as death as silent
as twilight falling snow
til they have forgotten you are there and
you can join them with your shadow self
annihilating your own bulky needy presence 
to become a member at this table
no terrifying unknowns no treacherous unraveling edges
no children unprotected no un tendered questions. 

I awake in each new tableau as from
an interminable unconscious state.
I do not remember who I have been,
if I have made ketchup and eggs for my daughter this morning
or watched as they took my mothers furniture down the narrow staircase and loaded it onto a truck
destination undetermined.
Some things remain the same - there are the smells of the food cooking- there is the silent interrogation of a strangers eyes, the hollow reproach of ill spent youth
and always the accursed bounty of other peoples tables.    

Friday, December 12, 2014


sometimes poems get revised and become new poems or better ones. I do not know if I have put this here before but here is it revised. It is called


I raise my body from the couch and scrape the leftover oatmeal in my bowl
into the noisy aluminum waste bin
and notice the crumbs left on the shiny winter table
In a dream I was invisible and therefore had the power to glide unseen through infinite aisles of a heavenly supermarket
to take what nourishment or luxury I wanted, unheeded.
Unheeded, not like in the way when you complain about being starved by your mother and they respond,
‘Oh honey, some day she will be your best friend’
unheeded, as in you can have as much as you want and no one will stop you, 
nor shame you for your profane need
(when I married the first time it was because of 
the act of food as love,
it was as though I was full for the first time)
I did not have the vocabulary to tell
our story, then, 
or what portion of it was left for me to discern
to trace like finger prints upon a frosty window
or the breath caught in that place in your sternum,
just south of a full breath.
be perfect in this one moment
allow the present to swell in your breast 
the moment being perfect itself
That is the lesson I have learned, that  
there is no wrong or right way to breathe,
no moral to the story, just the listening, and discerning,
and we are all already connected more than can ever be told with fragile homilies,
or removed with insane malice.