Torn by Love

Meager is the cry
of the baby, but
I have tried
not to tear
your torn tissues,
must ask your permission.

Grandmother,
I search for an amulet
to bring you
to soothe you. My
being is torn.

A girl of charm
not of tradition
is in my life, but
I am torn
by love
by being

Grandmother,
I do not wish
to be a tear of the eye
to streak a bloody torn cloth.

I am torn
by love
by being

Though meager was my cry
when you lost your daughter,
I have tried to be a prayer
for you and
for your daughter

Born of your
cries and screams
I pray

Grandmother,
you are
my precious Mother.
What charm may I bring you?

May I pray
for your daughter?
I wish I
had known her,
not caused
her death
though meager was my cry

I am torn
by love
by being.

Meet me
as I am
with gifts
with meager charms.

Grandmother,
there is a girl
who wishes to be
a woman with me.

I am torn
by love
by meetings.

I pray in
many ways
we will all
grow together,
born into love
with your blessings.

Grandmother,
cry me into life
beyond tradition.

I am torn
by love
by meetings.

Meet me
and her, your
new born-in-law, for

Loud and thunderous
is the cry of happiness

Join us in the rain,
Grandmother

Loneliness

I passed a smile on the street that grew
like a bubble I wanted to save

She smiled in my direction
carelessly seducing a stranger

Yet she smiled into
a cell phone
her disembodied love

I hung up
on my pending flirt

Loneliness rings in my ears

My phone is death.

I postpone answering.

I’ve long passed, but
I hear her scream,
“Bastard! Who is she…
We’re done…”

I run back to help,
to commiserate

She smacks me in the face.
“Buzz off creep,” she cries.

Loneliness is good sometimes, but
I’d rather have a phone
if
connected.

Arrogant Malt

Arrogant Malt

Another
dismal poem

Antacids and beer
insults all the time

Brooding brew, I’ll
have none of her stew

Cheating poem woman
seen you down
the street
flaunting him
’cause he’s got the wine

Whine me brew
antacids and stew

Acid grief to stomach
antacids and beer, but

maybe a
good bleed out of
raging sorrow might

do me better
with hot pepper
and death.

I should go now
where fainting people
are unnoticed
unrescued.

Last money for some
Rye whiskey and
ginger ailing — I
like that more than
malted milk

I hope on the way
I’ll pass a lady
with baby carriage, carelessly
walking in front of a truck
who I can push out of the way
as martyr, but

more likely I will
be a sorrow of one
a humble snob
without rhyme.

Oh God
speak now

I am so sorry to be
acid and blood