Monthly Archives: November 2015

Something Resembling a Meal

Consumption is a methodical process,
a requirement for continued

He pauses on occasion,
finishes chewing
and looks across the table
as if about to speak, respond,
appears to change his mind,
resumes eating.

He drains the last of his water,
shakes the ice in the glass
before getting up for a refill.

Finishing, he stares across the table again,
searching for an appropriate comment.
The moon is bright through the kitchen window.

He pushes back from the table,
rinses his dish and fork,
precisely places each in the dishwasher
and turns off the light as he leaves
the kitchen.


Filed under Poetry


I believe her
when she
she loves me,
I am uncertain
she understands
the meaning


Filed under Poetry

Chasing Skies

We drove,
eventually escaping
cloud cover,
seeking the next
patch of clear sky.
We drove,
until the last leaf fell
and the world
turned brown,
never quite able
to outrun the storms.
We drove,
the sand was warm
beneath our feat.


Filed under Poetry

The Decency to be Angry

I am struggling to find sympathy,
anger and frustration lead
the emotional assault.
There is empathy, to be sure,
the proverbial trite heart
for the families of those who bled.

But, anger, yes,
it is anger which rules my thoughts.

Anger at men who insist
you believe as they, and submit,
or die for the sin of disagreement.

Anger at the apologists who refuse
to condemn these men,
or go so far as to justify their actions,
attempting to transfer blame,
or merely being silent.

Anger at leaders who are anything but,
who refuse to so much as name
the obvious enemy,
much less fight them,
or strive for their defeat.

Soon, there will be blood in more streets:
L.A, London, Tokyo, Atlanta, Stockholm…
your streets, my streets.

Sympathy and platitudes will not stop it,
a symbolic overlay of a picture
will not change it,
well wishes and “standing together”
will not alter fates.

Anger, perhaps, also may not provide
the needed answers,
but failing to act, failing to acknowledge
the enemy — or even that there is one —
is the surest path to more innocent


Filed under Poetry


She always said she
had her mother’s hands —
bony, good for backhands,
veins, easy for a nurse to find —

they have not moved in days,
except by others,
to wash,
to hold.

They are not old enough
for this bed.

I have to go now,
gotta take care of those kids.
It is time for you to rest,
and to let him rest.

The next night,
my sister called.


Written for Margo’s prompt


Filed under Poetry