So you will not bring me my praise
my light, my love, my will to live,
and I am sullen.

I can not rise to find
my refuge, my fortress
because I hear not
my encouragement
my praise

I fear I am nothing,
I am invisible

My courage disappears
because I am nothing

And it is an agony that
I talk to myself

I’ve heard this before.

The Loneliest Person on Earth

Read me like
I’m the smile behind the robber’s mask,
who steals sorrow, the Prince
at the masquerade ball who
yearns for the honest girl, Cinderella, and
who is the beast that is redeemed
to save the Beauty that

is an honest child of truth who can sing
as if the rose were the only flower of nature, and

the Great Horned Owl did not break
the spine of a fox with its talons and eat it.

I would stop cruel Nature and
find you who reaches out
to be a Princess from a Kingdom where

I will have sanctuary if
you can find me where I
live in space alone with deep cravings.

Baking Apples

Wind storms through orchards
mocking calm branches
left a bird frantic,
fruit on the ground

She hasn’t stopped singing
this mockingbird
who mocks the calm, my thoughts
seems searching for a perch
a mate, perhaps, like I
seek Cindy, yes

I will learn the mockingbird song
before the next storm, so birdie luck
will perch a finger, and

I will storm home
like the shocking bird,
my Cindy electric and flighty

Presuming the Transformation

   Start from a Prompt: Presume

The Sun presumes to speak for us
in sunny moods to warm the day, but
our fall from grace in lugubrious mud
inclines us not to kiss or forgive.
     Version 2

Il sole presume di parlare per noi
di buon umore per riscaldare la giornata, ma
la nostra caduta dalla grazia nel fango lugubre
ci spinge a non baciare o perdonare.
     Version 3

The sun presumes to speak for us
in a good mood to warm up the day, but
our fall from grace in the lugubrious mud
urges us not to kiss or forgive.
     Version 4

The sun is supposed to speak for us
in a good mood to warm up the day, but
our fall from grace in the lurid mud
presumes a kiss to forgive the rain.
     Version 5

De zon veronderstelt voor ons te spreken
in een goed humeur om de dag op te warmen, maar
onze val uit de gratie in de lugubere modder
dringt er bij ons op aan de regen niet te kussen of te vergeven.
     Version 6

The sun is supposed to speak for us
in a good mood to warm up the day, but
our fall from grace in the lurid mud
urges us not to kiss or forgive the rain.
     Version 7

Ο ήλιος πρέπει να μιλήσει για μας
σε μια καλή διάθεση για να ζεσταθεί η μέρα, αλλά
η πτώση μας από τη χάρη στη γεμάτη λάσπη
υποθέτει ένα φιλί για να συγχωρήσει τη βροχή.
The sun must speak for us
in a good mood to warm the day but
our fall from grace to full mud
assumes a kiss to forgive the rain.
     Version 8

If the sun must speak for us
in a good mood to warm the day
let our fall from grace in storms and
assume a kiss to forgive the rain.
     Version 9

Αν ο ήλιος πρέπει να μιλήσει για μας
σε καλή διάθεση να ζεσταθεί η μέρα
αφήστε την πτώση μας από τη χάρη στις καταιγίδες και
πάρτε ένα φιλί για να συγχωρήσετε τη βροχή.
If the sun should speak to us
in a good mood to warm the day
let us fall by the grace of the storms and
take a kiss to forgive the rain.


Because she knows
my arms are shorter than
the river is wide or is
longing in turmoil

she shipped me a selfie stick
across the Amazon divide

but I’d like to decide
we’d race with dueling sticks
at three paces, and run
a hush to photo finish

The Dress of Battle

The battle is lost and
I have not saved anyone.
She left with
nothing to wear
and nothing to say
when I sent her away.

Empty wars she said, and
she is not rescued nor am I.

How do you know if
the sun will shine
when the night is dark
and she has left forever

It is so cold alone
to be naked in the night
interrupted by bombs

Why dress for death
when lost blood is warm

How am I to bleed well
when she doesn’t love me anymore
and there is no rescue. Honor?

I don’t think the sun will rise
and I have no clothes
but her memory

Cat Wine

She’s wondering
if there’s been
nearly enough verse in a year
to fill a potion glass with cat wine

If then, perhaps, half a tale more
will be enough this year
to lick happiness
catch the tickle feather
teach puppies to meow and fly,
pussies to howl at the moon,
or play with a ball invitation
where the poetess has
the Cinderella glass
half full enough
to dance with the
Prince without portfolio
who owns a pumpkin farm
where a couple of stars can
twinkle in rhythms like
a rhyme wine glistens

Dark Goose

He still had his subway pass,
city shoes, expired employee badge,
invalid railway ticket to former places.

Too much iron in the field,
or cyanide from gold mines.

The city fool
with books and trinkets,
thought he’d escape explosions
through cows and pigs and many digs.

He dynamited the outcrops,
plowed the field,
yet weird corn
(twisted patterns)
plagued him. Met the locals.

Mischievous kids staring at the fire,
mother with the welcome pie,
medallion on the mantelpiece,
kids with designs.

Trampled stalks in ancient designs
seemed the work of little minds,
the minor demons some
rural parents breed,
dirt bored,
intractable plowed-out
fallow follies.

Maybe they thought he meddled
in buried treasure
neglecting tradition:
the earnest mettle to toil,
to seed, to plant, to struggle,
to honor nature, and ancient maize.

Never majoring in archeology,
he rode the stocks,
denied his destiny:
this farm his blunder retirement,
a vision quest, but now,

by corn, with
flocks of black cacophony
cawing his ears,
lightning strikes the scarecrow.

Below the char, a stone base,
a Mother Goose book,
an amulet of Merlin, he finds,
not child’s play.

Gem seizures dance him in steps,
explosive, driven by visions:
flying bloody arms,
dove feathers scattered,
dust debris done in doom.

He prays casual quakes in angst
not release the lava of ancient
curses cast below the cinders.

A frenzied man can, more than straw,
babble incantations
bubble coherence of foam, oozed
below the stone with char,
entrance to caves, grave marker,
not for mere farmers.

Into tall stalking corn, he took
coded words, spells,
mystical verses,
kicked an old soccerball
through poem-grown fields,
mocked an ancient wielded word
by plowing with a hockey stick,
looking for weapons,
supposed fiddle swords
reposed against planted wizards.

In rutty mud he grooved
inscriptions before more floods
to conjure the sorceress gone.

In faltering sun her arm lifted up,
silk to kernel, eternal mother.
Mother Goose stood in the corn field
a Statue of Liberty, commanding

“Little boy blue
come blow your oboe
the bleep’s in the meadow,
a Noah sings the blues.

“Flood the fields with whistles
my river-heart boy.

“Send the floating spirits’ keys,
the nursery stymied rhymes to me;
if you will come into my harbor,
I will lift my lamp
beside the golden time.”


I am so cold in August
trying to be a puff ball like a Dandelion,
wishing you’d look
at the seed ball as you blow:
each seed on little parachute
to carry onto
lawns of possibility.

Weeds wish to land,
embed and grow. But no,
no one will let the weed speak.

I am hot to plant an idea
even in winter.

Where is your greenhouse —
I am not merely fuzz: look closer
I am a soul on a parachute
hoping to land on a soulmate and
not to snag on a
telephone pole or power line.

Lawns are too pretty plain;
let me be a flower in the lapel of love
deserving a puff piece in the journal of fulfillment.