Sunday, May 01, 2016


(National Poetry Month HitRECord challenge)

Tug you close
in the morning
news murmuring on the radio
me murmuring in your hair.

Wrap those arms around me,
hold me in the early sunlight
just pushing aside the curtains
in our warm little lover's room.

Skin to skin, but baby, I gotta go,
when the daily bread calls.
Still, joined at every joint, every pore,
every cell, we are, together.

Saturday, April 30, 2016

This is My Heart

(National Poetry Month HitRECord challenge)

This is my heart:
it is made of clay
and bits of leaves
and the seeds of bitter melons.

Hold it cupped,
Like an offering,
Because it is.

Breathe upon it,
and it will beat,
for you, one-two,

Friday, April 29, 2016


(National Poetry Month HitRECord challenge)

Does not reside
in the heart
like a box
that only opens

Oh, no, it is in
the marrow of my
leg bones,
the hinge of my knees,
the way both tremble
and shudder
when you exhale.

It is in the sinew,
the soft belly under my navel,
my fingertips and calluses,
in each strand of muscle
that stretches,
and pulls
Us together.

Thursday, April 28, 2016

Hear Me

(National Poetry Month HitRECord challenge)

I am that wicked creature
that is not man,
but Lilith's daughter;
I come now to say unto you:

I am the knife in your night,
the dragging step on your dark stair,
the bell, the book and the candle,
the midnight striking in your clockless room.

I am the low-flying bomber you don't hear coming,
I am the human mislabeled as man's rib,
I am the disregarded, deep inside your defenses.

I am the banked fire and the luminous fury,
Every catcall is fuel for my flames.
You have never seen me coming,
Because you never thought to look.

Wednesday, April 27, 2016

Late Blossom

(04/27/2016 National Poetry Month HitRECord challenge)

The cherry blossoms
Have fallen all but one: Late,
nestled, at the heart.

Tuesday, April 26, 2016

Oh Girl

(04/26/2016 National Poetry Month HitRECord challenge)

Oh, girl

I got the gun,
still warm in my hand,
and powder residue
gonna send me to the chair.

Oh, girl,
Oh, girl,
Oh, girl, she dead on the floor
And me dead with her.

I thought:
She betrayed me,
Broke her promise
To be true,
And what promised me,
She let loose in the sheets
of some other man.

Oh, girl,
Oh, girl,
Oh, girl, she dead on the floor
And me dead with her.

I could blame Iago
But it's me what done it:
Took to doubt like liquor,
And pulled that trigger.

Oh, girl.

Monday, April 25, 2016

When It's All Gone

(04/25/2016 National Poetry Month HitRECord challenge)

When it's all gone:
the warm divot of the pillow,
the scent on the shirt,

When it's all gone,
when there's nothing left
but your pain, your loss,
the tears in the back of your throat,

How can you let that pain go,
when it is the last piece of your love,
so still and so precious,
left cupped in your hands?

Sunday, April 24, 2016


(04/24/2016 National Poetry Month HitRECord challenge)

There is a muddy patch at Gettysburg
That has eaten the names and lives
of countless boys in uniform.

The earth beneath the rows of cannons
is drunk on blood and valiant speeches.

None can tell the color of their clothes any more.
Soldier and foe look the same when they're dead,
Spoiled together across green farmland that now only dreams in red.

Saturday, April 23, 2016


(04/23/2016 for National Poetry Month HitRECord challenge)

If you are quiet enough,
you can hear the books
conversing amongst themselves,

They rustle sentences
to each other made of paper and cloth,
trade witticisms,
and drop verse on the heads
of the shelving librarians
who don't duck quickly enough.

Friday, April 22, 2016

People think writer's block is a metaphor, but it's not

(04/22/2016 National Poetry Month HitRECord challenge)

It's a big wooden block,
perched on the floor
between me and the page.

You can see the grain,
patterned in loops and swirls,
that you can follow with your thumb.
Beautiful, really, but still a block.

You have to come at it with a sharp knife,
sharper than the one used to gut poetry
from the belly of the carp that lurks in the pool of your mind,
gulping verse.

Whittle it along the edges,
Distract it by humming,
Round it with your hands and blade until the corners smooth,
and your palms know the feel of it, inside and out, and it knows you
Better than your mother ever did.
Then: push.

Thursday, April 21, 2016


(04/21/2016 National Poetry Month HitRECord challenge)

winding silk,
snug against
mercerized cotton.

When I use it to pull
our mouths to one another,
I can feel the
lift, the tug,
every moment
building toward
our mingling breath,
and the way your lips open before me,
so sweet
and so tender.

Wednesday, April 20, 2016

Government Center, Boston

(04/20/2016 National Poetry Month HitRECord challenge)

Clustered in a pack of six
around the seventh,
stood down in the hole
twisting that damn pipe thing

The road crew, for one moment,
look so solemn in their day-glo vests,
as if, at any second,
the chief amongst them
will lift his head
and proclaim,

Brethren, let us pray.
Here rests Down-In-The-Hole Jerry
Gone on to his penance,
Fer not bringin' the donuts
Like he was supposed ta'.
Help him, O Lord.


Tuesday, April 19, 2016

The Photograph

(04/19/2016 for National Poetry Month HitRECord challenge)

The photograph is of a man
baring those teeth still in his head.

It is the picture of a man permanently hunched,
Crippled by the weight
of existing in a place
where he be no man at all
but a Jew, a deviant, a gypsy,
a category for eradication.

The photograph is of a skinny man who will die soon, no doubt.

In the photograph, he is bent,
Holding up the stripped-down body
That journeyed ahead of him into nothingness.

His dreams have reduced to the muted yearning
For someone to remember him when he is gone.
To say his name fondly.
To say, Jakob, he told that funny story,
You know, about the piano tuner and the rabbi's daughter?
He was a humorous man,
Who was kind to animals.

Surely, the blue number on his arm
visible in flashes as he tosses
another body into the pit,
to be buried in lime and forgetfulness,
is the least of his burdens.

The photograph is old.
But, when you hold it in your hand,
Remember him: Jakob,
Who told funny stories,
And was kind to animals.

Monday, April 18, 2016


(04/18/2016 for National Poetry Month HitRECord challenge)

Never presume
to know the thoughts
behind the painted smile,
the coy tilt of one shoulder,
the bare back with its elongated spine,
and lines inviting the viewer's touch.

Even the Mona Lisa,
Though she gaze straight at you,
Keeps her secrets.

Sunday, April 17, 2016


(04/17/2016 National Poetry Month HitRECord Challenge)

The apple that lured man from the Garden
Was not a Fuji, full and juicy,
Sending rivulets down Eve's naked throat,
Bursting with knowledge and flavor,

But an idea,
Made dense flesh:
Of horizons to reach beyond,
And limits surpassed.
The harbinger of epiphany can take any shape.