More

February 27, 2014

More

My first words were More, more.

Fitting, since for a child, nothing is ever, ever enough.

And now, in the days when life has become a fight

against the body, against the cold, against the thought

that nothing, nothing is enough,

as a new morning throbs again in the sky, I again

stare into the sun, wishing the colors were more, more.

More than chemical. More than this.

October

September 16, 2012

October

Day

breaks, and suddenly

the sky erupts in blue, as if

it’s the first sky, as if

the earth died and was reborn

in its sleep.

I breathe in the dry, volcanic blue

and its embers ignite my lungs,

blazing through my bones, and my body

aches to feel the wind through its fingers,

the sunlight coursing through its veins.

My feet slap the hard ground, my

limbs stretch and lengthen,

muscles burning with this

young fire as I

run and run and run

and remember the world:

raw and new and alive.

March

August 27, 2012

March

Spring steps barefoot through the dark woods,

and a dusting of snow clings to her skirts.

She feels the slender bow on her back, barely

bouncing with each footstep, the frozen ground

firm and steady under her feet.

A bird cries out through the early air.

The winter moon,

the westward moon,

the wayward moon,

full and gleaming in its cold light,

leads Spring between the trees,

the snow glittering like diamonds before her.

She marches on. The sun rises slowly, and the world

is beautiful: white as china, paper thin. The trees stand dark

as ink. The sky is clear and forever blue.

And soon, in a clearing:

Winter, the sleeping bear.

Swiftly, Spring nocks an arrow, draws

back the bow, but pauses. A chill breeze

drifts through, carrying scents of wood smoke

and pine: the memory of a smoldering fire, far away,

the last embers drifting up to burn with the stars.

Spring looks down, taking aim again as Winter

snores softly, shivers in his sleep, and her shoulders rise,

and fall, silent as snow. She shifts her stance, preparing

for the bitter chase. And then Spring looses her arrow

and races away.

The Meridian

June 10, 2012

The Meridian

To me, we could be lost at sea, with only the illusion

of land in the distance. The shades of water meaning

nothing to me, I saw only dangerous colors

of unknown depths and darkening clouds. The light

above our sails began to fade away as wave after wave

rose up, close, close beside us; I thought of what a fool

I was, knowing nothing about a storm. But the sky could not fool

my father, who pulled taut the lines as though the clouds were an illusion,

the darkness nothing more than a trick of the mind, and the waves

just the water’s joke. Somehow he understood the meaning

of the seagulls flying above us, knew we had time before the light

disappeared, before the lake put on a foamy dress the color

of midnight, and of stars. My father’s eyes were the same color

as a clear sky in June, and as the sun shone on the water like fool’s

gold, I watched his gaze, navigating our way like a seabird. The last of the sunlight

sparkled on the spray and on the thick, wet ropes, creating illusions

of rainbows. But my father’s corded arms and tough hands knew the meaning

of a hard day’s work, and I knew that no matter how the waves

grew, we would be safe. And sure enough, a buoy rocked and waved

just within sight, a beacon pointing us home, its bright red color

a happy change from the never-ending seascape, a sign meaning

we were close. The dark storm behind our sails, however, would not be outfooled

by the likes of us – the gusts of wind grew strong and fast, sweeping away any illusion

of escape, making the sails billow and snap. As the light

faded into gray, we could just see, on the distant buoy, a seagull had alighted.

Then the storm struck, its heavy rain lashing at us, its wind tossing us about, its waves

crashing into the hull of our sailboat. But once again, the illusion

of the lake did not frighten my father. His face was the strong, solid color

of determination, his jaw set in the effort to evade the inevitable, to fool

fate. I yelled to him through the rain and wind, meaning

to help, if I could. But he looked back at me calmly, and I knew the meaning

of his gaze: the Meridian was my father’s boat, even in light

of this storm’s power. It was his, so he would protect it, no matter the wind or the waves

that faced him. The storm struggled on, but so did he, and soon the harbor was no illusion

to be chased away by a howling gust. I looked back at the water, and perhaps I’m a fool

for thinking so, but it seemed that this was the way my father saw it – its colors

all wild and alive, the meanings of the waves

clear and lovely. Way up through the storm clouds, the sky was the light color

of a gull’s wing; not even a fool could think that this beauty was an illusion.

Garland Girl

June 7, 2012

published in on the cusp's magazine "cycle" Summer 2012

Garland Girl

My sister, she sits on her summer swing, dressed in red,

the wind making her skirts billow, and all the cotton

seeds drift and scatter.  it seems like something more

should be happening, as she clutches a handful

of faded white daisies, flowers from her youth.

she stares off at the coming autumn, as I stare at this photograph

of her.  Years ago, she used to photograph

everything, especially the valerians in their dying reds,

the ancient daisies as they lost what youth

they had.  She’d sit by the foot of the poplars in a cotton

dress, watching summer disappear just like the handful

of dusty petals she held.  She would say, no more

are the days of sun and daisies.  And no more

were her days of sundresses and songs.  The photographs

she’d taken she burned until all that remained was a handful

of ashes and aged coals, the embers left burning red

only in her eyes as she watched the snow come down like cotton

quilts over the earth, like down plucked from goslings in their youth.

She longed for something golden or green, for the youth

of saplings as they stretch up to the sun, needing more and more

every day.  She wanted once again to dance through the cotton

fields as they spread their seeds.  Like a postcard photograph

the poppies would all bloom, gold and violet and red,

and their pollen would cling to her hair and her dress, a handful

of summer fairy dust.  In the long winter nights she had her hands full

of old daisy chains and pressed petals, stripped of youth

by january’s chill.  One by one, she pasted them all onto little red

valentines, her fingers shaking and tired, until she had more

hearts and dead flowers than she could count.  No photograph

could keep them alive, as no enchantment of the sun could keep the cotton

from blowing away in the wind.  While the world was draped in a cold cotton-

white she sat resigned, but in march was she ever a handful!

when the first green appeared in the snow, slowly showing through like a photograph

developing, her body remembered all the wildness and youth

it had lost when the leaves fell and the flowers wilted.  She needed more

of the life she saw growing, digging through snow and earth until her hands bled red.

Growing with the cotton, changing with the seasons of youth,

living and dying as inevitably as a handful of daisies; it’s hard to tell anymore,

but in this photograph, as we sit on her summer swing, our lips are stained red, red, red. 

Adirondack

June 6, 2012

Adirondack

I clamber over rooftops,

perch on lighthouses, to watch

the dawn as it breaks, overlooking

the rocking masts in the harbor,

a few early boats with their sails up and full

of the morning breeze that swells

along the lake’s glassy surface.

I lie in the ferns at night with the does

and fawns, white-tailed and calm

as their felt-furred bodies settle into sleep.

I sing to the birds as they dream,

as I slowly number the trees

and the stars. The breathing

of the forest is hushed

and soft.

I gallop through the ravines,

the glacier-torn canyons,

a hand along the worn-away, pock-marked

granite or sandstone sides. I

touch all the splintered trees, war-wounded

and crutched, where lightning struck or fire
raged or floods ravaged.

I chat up the waitresses in cafés

and bagel shops, sitting out on the patio

at a black metal table, talking about the weather or

how lovely the water looks today. At the bar, I lean
against the solid, polished oak, tracing

its knots with my nails as the bartender

and I stay late, discussing the meanings of things,

and the sun drowns its sorrows in the dark lake

behind us.

I walk along village streets, gazing into

cheery little shop windows, all bright and lit

with color. I’m counting the thousands

of cracks in the concrete, visiting the soup

kitchens with their old and cobbled stone,

pounding the stakes of foreclosure signs

into the soft earth.

This place,

I become its wildlife: its predators

and its prey, padding over entangled roots, drinking

from cold streams, diving down

the waterfalls. I cry from its canopied leaves

for more, more, more, because

nothing I have is ever, ever enough. 

april

February 23, 2011

april

there’s something to be said

for the first glimpse

of raw, wild green

after endless months

of sick, chalky white,

for warm crayon-box colors:

the dandelion sun, the robin’s egg sky,

for the first sharp, biting breath

of a spring rain

as the frozen rivers dissolve

into a magical confusion

and rush,

for the rainbows on soap bubbles,

for the graceful arc of a red swing,

and for the chaotic ballet

my heart performs

whenever you throw me a smile.

to us, it's seamless

February 16, 2011
published in Live Poets of NJ's anthology "Inside My World" Spring 2011

to us, it’s seamless

the dying sun makes me

into a shadow-puppet silhouette,

carves my outline into the carpet,

pale light shining through

in soft rhomboid shapes

between my icicle elbows,

stereotypical hips,

fishnet ribs. 

with my fingers splayed wide,

some strange diamond prisms

explode open, appear

as starburst fireworks,

ocean waves shattering,

satellites winking in orbit.

the thought draws me up into

outer space, among stars, supernova-new,

and their stained-glass galaxies.

there must be so many beautiful sounds—

endless planetary symphonies,

continuous telescopic overtures—

and no one at all to hear them.

and yet here I am,

back on solid ground,

dreaming only of weekends

and of someone to whisper

his thoughts in my ear.

beyond

January 22, 2011

beyond

our dirty black honda

makes its way down rockwell street

in alexandria bay,

searching.

which one of these

cookie-cutter houses

do they live in,

my dad’s friends? 

we find it,

an old, washed-out,

robin’s egg blue

with peeling paint,

just like the rest. 

on foot down market street,

the dog is yanking the leash,

snuffling this and that,

as we pass a million

gift shops hawking

the kinds of delicate

things you buy

and then leave on your dresser

for ages, just gathering dust,

even though for now

they’re all on display, safe

in tiny glass cases.

we turn onto fuller street.

the sun glints

off the metal garbage cans

along the side of the road,

and we hurry to the beach

before it sets.

with the same puppy-dog precision

as the gray schnauzer we’re walking,

we sniff out the best spot

on the coarse, littered sand

in order to watch

the conceptualized, euclidian

sun as it melts

into the saint lawrence river

behind the shabby sailboats

all trapped in the rotting harbor.

oh, but now,

for the briefest moment,

a pure, fugitive fire ignites

the autumn leaves

of each of the thousand islands. 

and even from our trite,

mainland shore,

you can catch just the smallest glimpse

of the castles.

pomegranate seeds

December 24, 2010

pomegranate seeds

there are days

that go by

like stepping stones,

when the sunsets

are all chemically engineered,

when we don’t know

our heartbeats

from the rest,

and we listen

to these tired thoughts.

but then comes the first snowfall.

we no longer need

these forced smiles,

the icicles

are seventh chords

hanging from rooftops,

we exhale

and our breaths echo back,

and our ghosts are all chased away

until the sky is dark and clear

with crystal constellations.

may love always be winter for you.

dandelion sun - a tribute to my bad memory

May 26, 2010

dandelion sun – a tribute to my bad memory

the halogen lights act like lightning

and shock me. 

I caught that tiger

by its tail,

but then someone forgot

that we're not to slam the doors

and I lost it. 

catch-as-catch-can, I suppose.

oh, and please don’t touch that,

yes,

that right

there,

the poem

next

to my

fingers.

but you go ahead,

and I’ll let you,

because I’m too content to lose

this papercut war. 

my innate sycophancy

manifests itself

in the shape of

sphinxes and

stained-glass and

other daydreams,

and maybe someday I’ll remember the way my

metaphors didn’t used to fall apart.

the blue that I saw today

was blinding, like a full moon,

and as deep as thunder,

and as far as I know,

we’ll hit the ground only running. 

I noticed something:

you look even skinnier without your smile.

skitters as if on snow

November 2009

skitters as if on snow

she can sometimes sense

her muscles tense,

and then, her bones, disjointed, realign.

she reaches up

and tries to touch,

but just can’t find the strength to feel the sun.

frost-bitten lips

under fingertips;

she can’t distinguish these from fragile face.

sympathy, antipathy,

empathy and apathy:

what is this strange disease beneath her skin?