When I Am Done

When I am done, will you have known me?
Seen inside the empty spaces, overseen remembered embraces, known my fear’s personal faces?

When I am done, will you have heard me?
Bright joy over small things, know when my laughter rings, which songs I often quietly sing?

When I am done, will you have seen me?
The ‘me’ I see, the me I aim to be, the me that only others see?

When I am done, will you have felt me?
Shared finger touches on baby skin, trace my face where wrinkles set in, warmth of my body as the days begin?

When I am done, what will I be – to thee, and thee and thee?

Inspiration – the passing of a co-worker today, the loss of a quality person.



We peer as if behind delicate lace-work to soften
Need – weighted with a terrible tinge, puce maybe?
Whispering aches only heard by wall art
Behind cool darkened doors of solitude.

It appears in couched terms
Divulged in metaphor, spun in rhyme
Shrouded in lyrical prose; mirages no one sees but
All see, in this overcrowded desert of bodies.

Emperors all are we
Scribbling in our invisible clothes, startled
If spotted behind our woven illusion, when
A fellow wanderer drinks at our mirage to slake thirst

Relief echoes in vibrato, rapidly rushing
Shell of pretense cracked and shucked, into
The refuse bucket, delicate innards shimmer, anticipatory
And rush we, into shared weaknesses and frailty
-Need nestled against need.

Inspiration: The life of writing.

Famished for Fall

Click below for a reading of “Famished for Fall”

Starving for crisp mornings and
Lessened heat in a place
That neither really ever happens
Leaves me famished for Fall.

Falls there might be,
From pedestals someone set
Me upon without my consent
Or, even my knowledge

Falls there might be
As I trip over unfinished business
Here, there, and also over there
Which I ignore with unwavering consistency

Falls there might be
From favor, from friendship
Even from someone’s vision
Which too, is the mutable nature of things

But I am famished for that change
Those autumnal dialogues whispered only for me
As the intimation of winter glances off my skin
Beguiling me with hints of promise among sunshine,

-Leaves me hungering.


Inspiration: Too much heat and too long away from four seasons.

Under the Childish Moon


Awash in the light of innocence
Feet dangling in the fountain of youth
Back when monsters were truly imaginary

Lazing in the grass watching
Cloud animals on parade
The perspective of trees varied

Losing one’s heart
Just part of ‘Operation’
Not a game people played in real life.

Dreams were still spun out
Lightly, vividly, the colors
Of cotton-candy puffs at the once-a-year fair

Today, I want to stretch silly putty over
A comic relief of the face of one I love
Laugh until we cry

Back when monsters were truly imaginary
Feet dangling in the fountain of youth
Awash in the light of innocence



Inspiration: A walk under the full moon, thinking back to when things were simple.

She Doesn’t Mourn Well

Grace there used to be in the mourning
Banded arms, veil-shrouded tears
Private yet publicly seen scenes
Black cars with black windows
To hold the bleakness inside

So that it doesn’t leak out and get on passers-by

Why did it have to come the year she understood
there is no afterlife
This is life, get after it
One per customer, one size fits most
Unless you have the imagination for two

Which proves good, since she is one now.

Why did he write for forever preserved in words, her manna
His inked fingerprints staining the paper
“I hope this is your best year yet”
In the year that all colors turned to ash, heart turned into
Endless forms, mailings, courtrooms

The vagaries of dead life

Why did people say ‘he’s watching over you’ like
That is comforting – oh, to comfort them, that’s right
Because love can barely bear to watch the loved
Suffer, fall apart, spin out of control, lay staring at the ceiling
Mumbling like a mad person alone in the dark

Maybe they think he went to hell.

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