Posts Tagged ‘poem’

A Day Of Onions

With a jolt,
the smile in her blue eyes
awakens mine

An exclamation
that acknowledges more
than mere presence

In its abundance,
her happiness, a treasure-
trove shared

Momentarily alone,
we are passing ships in a
vast corridor

I’m the chance
recipient, touching a spark
not grounded

perhaps, but cherished

A day of onions,
tempered by her honey-
sweetened glance



A freight train
with a full head of steam, November
arrives without
a brake to slow its momentum.
Resigned to
impending fate, sluggish flies await
their demise.
In the stark absence of leaves we
are completely
exposed to a season’s prying eyes.
The weight
of a cloud-lowered sky has crushed
all resolve.
What’s not already dormant will soon
succumb unless
propelled with the help of wings to
another hemisphere.
Night steadily encroaches on day.
In drab monotone,
we have reluctantly begun to forget
green’s vivid hue
as our dreams are drained of color.
Like the sun,
we feel exhausted and irrelevant.
And yet, whether
it’s with a twinge of fear or a surge
of exhilaration,
bracing ourselves for the impact,
nobody budges.


Yesterday, the world
seemed to be fluid and transmutable.
Clouds splattering
buckets full of sludge, mittens shaping
flakes into sculptures,
puddles deepening, snowballs moist
enough to drink.

But a bitter wind
today has solidified a sky’s deep hue.
The only clouds are
from breath, vehicles, our daydreams;
and despite its
glittery promise, the sun cannot coax
an icicle’s drip.

When night arrives,
daylight departs without even a blush.
A blue-black ceiling
has crystallized instantaneously into
the cold sparkle
of far-flung constellations, no closer
to us than spring.


No doubt, Death has
the strength to take my life.
Is it asking too much
for him to have the gentle
hands of my father?
If he did, I could not resist
when lifted, legless
with fatigue, to be carried
safely inside on this
journey’s dark conclusion.
Why cannot Death’s
bed soothe like a father’s
sturdy shoulder?
Ensconced in such security,
I’d never wake
when tucked into earth’s
enduring bones.
If his embrace is everlasting,
may Death’s touch
convey paternal concern.
Lord, grant me this.

March Snow

How messy
last night’s laundered whites
now seem,
although pristine when first
draped on
wires and boughs for drying.

Today, that
laundry resembles a jersey
worn through
a rugby match, embossed
with stains
and the traffic of footprints.

For what was
immaculate and dazzling,
in sunshine
became tonight’s load of
muddy clothes
after meeting bare ground.

Dead Quiet

Dead quiet
on a winter’s night?
Not quite.
Ice sidles into
every crack,
rinds windows.
a python’s grip,
and encircling,
the cold
is almost alive.
Nails pop
as wood contracts
with a groan.
While beneath us,
veins of copper
a home’s heart
gusts of heat in
this contest
of sworn foes.
Dead asleep
on a winter’s night?
Not quite.
Curled together,
a question mark,
we dream,
restless in the din.


Friends with
busy lives advise:
Be wise,

chair-bound, I’m
content to

A poem
chiseled to its
life, magnified.