Archive | November 2013


We could wish it were so.
We could wish it were.
But there is no voice
to fill the void.
What care we used to take
with pen and paper —
when meaning something
meant something to us.

We no longer touch each other.
We no longer see each other.
We no longer hear each other.
And we no longer believe
what anyone says.

Our good guide
is lost or dead,
cutting short
our ramblings.
And we choose insensibility
over pain.

Lately I sense
you are breaking
your habits of independence,
and can’t help
but lament the loss —
but maybe’s it’s
just one of those things:
how we only desire
when desire can’t be fulfilled.

And I’ve been told
time and again,
that to find happy
you have to fake happy.
It’s never worked for me.

Today the smoke and sky
stretch thin and gray
across the meadow’s
expired grasses and goldenrod.
And the winter birds —
cardinals and jays,
chickadees and sparrows,
finches, redbellies and juncos,
and always the bluebirds —
are sleepy,
but watchful.

And with feet heavy
as our hearts,
we bring out the torch
and set fire
to this faded joy,
that something —
unexpected or familiar —
might find the light
and grow up in its place.



In its sharp angles,
November’s sun cuts deep
to starkly define
what is light,
what is shadow —
to fall upon
all these mistaken

And what of loyalty,
of affection,
of attention,
could we ever expect?
We, these accidental
likenesses stumbling
into and out of life.
We give in.

Imagination colors
each sense until
we are insensible —
seeing, feeling
more or less
than is there.

And sometimes
we sense intention
in the masterwork —
benevolent or banal.
But the cost is high —
it takes all we have.
And we are too much
in the habit
of fooling ourselves
to accept it
and walk away.

sweet (know)nothings

With so much to say,
we are silent,
mouths full of blood.
And it is hard
to know that we have never
known a thing.

we are classed
as witches —
nothing so easy,
and so easily

And we do not care
to interpret her guile —
toss it in the cauldron
with her Prince Charming painting.
Maybe his reach
can scratch her itch,
or teach her
those early lessons
in rebellion.

And a bottle of betrayal
makes such sweet poison.

We have these habits
of letting go —
an abhorrence of artifice —
an acceptance of alone.
And we reject
anything that bears
a resemblance
to ropes or rings.

Only these birds
keep us from the wild wind.
And though our own bodies
may be tethered,
there is nothing
to withhold or diminish
these flights of fancy.