Happy New Year........Long, Long Ago

Auld Lang Syne

Should old acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind ?
Should old acquaintance be forgot,
and auld lang syne ?

CHORUS:

For auld lang syne, my dear,

for auld lang syne,

we'll take a cup o’ kindness yet,

for auld lang syne.

And surely you’ll buy your pint cup !
And surely I’ll buy mine !
And we'll take a cup o’ kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.

CHORUS

We two have run about the slopes,
and picked the daisies fine ;
But we’ve wandered many a weary foot,
since auld lang syne.

CHORUS

We two have paddled in the stream,
from morning sun till dine^† ;
But seas between us broad have roared
since auld lang syne.

CHORUS

And there’s a hand my trusty friend !
And give us a hand o’ thine !
And we’ll take a right good-will draught,
for auld lang syne.

CHORUS

Poem

Gifts in a Dark Time

“The weight we lift with the finger of a dream…”
- from An Ordinary Evening in New Haven, Wallace Stevens

the velvet
parted lips
of the sculpted woman
cool one spot
beneath my chin
in the palm
of your palm.

the silken
brown shoulder-length hair
offers itself over
and over
to be combed, to be
tossed back
and about a black
velvet gown,
a string of pearls.

the burnt
sienna tongue
draws a line in the sand
of my desire, needs
to be crossed
as much as the ‘t’
in betrayal
or fidelity,
life and love lines
of your palm crossing
to make a point.

the silken
chestnut hair offers itself
over the shoulder
and in the palm
of the man to study in
adoration
and afterthought
for times of darkness,
for times of risk
and the creation
of our heart
and imagination.

Poem

Shelter

in the moss
on the backs of trees
I can always find
my way
home
and by memory
of Starry sunlight
in your sextant eyes:
North, South, West,
East. It is
a great comfort
to hear you,
your compass words,
if only in my head
where they always sound
sweet, intrinsic, full
of knowledge
of things I know
nothing of.

Happy Holidays to All!!!!!

Poem

my love II

my love walks with me like the lily
in her hair.
my love stays in my eyes
like the shadow of a hawk on the sand,
graceful and silent,
circling for prey.
my love dances eternally in my hands
like water or sand
as if nothing
could hold her.
my love whispers the meaning of her life
with each breath,
with each word.
my love carries my half of our heart
with her
when we are apart.

Mariscal Breeze

Along the ocean
edge and beach sand
a ghost crab races
a lone white triangle
on the horizon,
the breeze firm
as it kisses waves,
a spotted dog
chasing a ball thrown too far,
the yips
and barks
coming in
and out
with the smell of her
coconut-oiled skin
browning softly
as my loose hair,
beach umbrellas,
the wings
of a passing bi-plane,
distant moriche palm trees
and book pages
dance together
en masse
as she sleeps.

Poem

What Passes Between Us

What you take
for pleasure
I contemplate
in pain.
What you take
for pain
I demonstrate
disdain.
What lies between
us – pleasure,
pain – pales next to
our love, hate
in desire’s flame.

poem

Cold Rain

On the last beach
of the night
the rain collects
in my heart
without teeth
or steely bite
but in a beating
puddle, small ocean,
in the concaves
of this last muscle
to enter any conversation
on a dock
where the fishing boats
smack back
at the ocean,
as pessoas vivem em
casas caverna,
and your lips
meet me
in the cold rain.

To Fire a Clown

The sun is hot and low in the sky
like a spotlight or peephole in the circus tent.

The ringmaster tinkered with the earth’s
orbit to attract people through the front gate.

Spontaneous wells have dried. Tigers combust.
Skulls of ushers have horseflies for eyes.

A barker attempts to shout but can only cough,
hack. Caged turkey vultures cackle and laugh.

The report of a daredevil’s cannon is as silent
as a monkey tree’s faint in a deserted forest.

An elephant sheds its skin on a high-wire
and falls off into an oasis mirage. Trapeze

artists shrivel in the hammock of a safety net.
The Buffalo Bill impersonator sidesaddles a cactus.

The Chippewas have consulted their Sun God
and will not chant and dance to bring rain clouds.

The bearded lady dreams of a waterfall’s roar,
of the squeal of children allowed to bathe

in a smattering of raindrops pocked in the dust,
and of the eternal sucking of air from the straws

of lovers drinking from the same empty glass.
Clouds of cotton candy float past like tumbleweeds.

The moon is a visible stainless steel canteen
and all stars are giant pulsing sponges of light.

A rubber nose and giant tear are my trademarks
but now sweat streaks my mascara and whiteface.

The sweet nonsense of my patented somersault and flop
used to depend upon the darkness of the big-top.

Poem

Sordid Cabana Boy

Not knowing the difference between men
and women has confused my life.

As a child the stars and moon made vulgar
motions at the earth causing quakes and

eruptions. The crosswalks of my city
were drawbridges; pavement like moats.

I shivered when the sun glared in July
and perspired in the blizzards of my mind.

The mailman kept secrets from me; garbage
men kept my nails, breath and soul.

The sinews and tendons of my appendages
pulsed to the pull of the moon and each womb.

My hair grew from my head and armpits
in braids, bows supplied by a fairy godparent.

I pledged allegiance to no country; I swore
allegiance and vehemence to you. Rain

seeped into my skin, skin flowers blooming
in the sun, and I wept from the fragrance.

I spat on paper money and fed coins to pigeons.
I lived on books, eating each page by page.

Later, my skull became as pliable as a thin shell
of aluminum; my heart pounding hard as a diamond.

Now, I dream the same dream all of the time:
I am a child and contract scarlet and rheumatic fever

and layer upon layer of skin sloughs away
and I lose my identity completely.

As an adult all of my writing and poetry
becomes untranslatable from a new language

that I know but like rain do not understand
the difference or the perception of men and women.

Bend in the Road - Paul Cézanne

Paul Cézanne. (French, 1839-1906). Melting Snow, Fontainebleau

Poem

Snow Moon

Under the full, white
moon reflected in the lake
I dream of your brown eyes
swimming towards me
like two animals
of seminal desire
that I reach out
to pull you into my dream
with empty arms.

Under the full, white
star-laden sky
I dreamed of you
on a hill in a flowing
white gown, your profile
carnivorous
against the Hunter’s moon,
some prey stalked
in the vale of my sleep,
unknown and circled.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Happy Thanksgiving!

To all those who believe in family, friends, community and religious freedom

Poem

The Wading Pool

My fingertips glide
down the spine
of her back,
a breeze over
a mountain range,
to the small
of her lower back
where my hand
can rest in silence
and contentment:
a wading pool,
toes in the slight
lapping of water,
then ankles
as the coolness
travels through
my salient being
and my bony knees
tremble, deep
in the softness
to my involved waist
that invites my desire
to succumb
to her larger body
of artwork.

Poem

First Kiss

1. It is the distance to

It is the total distance
between you and her lips
that moves you now,
an abyss of doubt
and fear and the desire
that it will bottom out,
and the hope
she will move
toward your magnetic core,
as if aliens do exist
and will enter
your atmosphere
to be explored,
accepted, touched.

2. It is important

You move without
moving with this importance:
as if veins of coal
were suddenly rivers
of diamonds, as if puppets
were suddenly children,
as if her eyes
were suddenly near.
And the weight
and extent of your feelings
validate the attempt
and the salvation
of your lips.

Poem

Near

The young woman in the near green
dress contemplates
the music of Blackcaps
that she cannot see.
The young woman with the almost smile
cries into her hands
as her happiness
fills her lungs
like noisy laughter
at some small, satisfactory
word choice in a poem.
The young woman with the just cut hair
leaps across the room
to see the shadows
of her just cut, jet black hair
fly across the room.
The young woman with above average shoes
kicks them up
and off her feet
to see off-pink painted nails
sparkle as she jumps
into ravenous rain puddles.
The young woman in a near fatal collision
between her joy and sorrow
grabs hold of her self
and won’t let go
as her joy and sorrow
hover like a constant
rainbow or raven.

Poem

A Goodness

There once was a goodness of morning air
and then no more.
I saw her smile: a November snowflake
and then no more.
The sun smiled too upon the earth
and then I stared
at her coming through the shadows,
kept her figure
to the corner of my eye, periphery
of my desire
and she glistened in the light and she was
then no more.

This heart must beat, must beat, must beat
and then no more.
The goodness of air at night: breathe of stars
and then daybreak.
The light touch of care weighs and wears my body
and then no more.
The goodness of air hangs on the muted night
and in her eyes
the clear moonlight knows my meaning and being
and then no more.
I am not goodness of man until less than man
and then no more.

Poem

Heart-quake

black and blue blood
in my veins ripple
into the aortas
collapsing the walls
of my heart

a merry-go-round
of hope and desire
spins my world
like a gyroscope

shelves of thought
thrust away from each
other, disconcerted earth,
and the crust of my face
undulates with lust

music plays somewhere
amid the desolation,
what is the song? I know
that song? It is right on
the tip of my tongue:
an aftershock.

Poem

Largesse

You cannot love me more than your eyes tell.
You cannot believe the largeness of your heart.
You cannot feel the words on your swollen tongue
or recall the word forgotten
in the silence
of the air between our
lips to measure the weight
of my intent as a plain fact.

You cannot love me more than your eyes hold.
You cannot believe more in the appetite of your soul.
You cannot hear your eyes speak,
a plain fact of beauty
and the weight of your skin
in my mouth.

Your eyes cannot love me more than your reflection
in mine.
You cannot believe in the largeness of my heart
without proof.
You cannot smile
wider than your heart
will allow, your smile a pump
in the well of my heart, a plain fact:
you in my eyes; my heart pounding forever.

Haiku

Spring kisses,
tongues catch concentric rain drops;
lily floats

Poem

Trust

Turn the dog-eared page,
put aside
the well-worn book,
the time and the next
thought;
put aside
the cup of oolong tea,
the warmth of the fire place,
throw off the shawl from
your body, turn
off the radio;
put aside
the pen, turn the light
switch and thermostat down,
put aside
your glasses and see
that you can grasp
her heart, the blood
as it pumps out
to the last veins in the outer
regions of her universe,
her adrenalin and desire
coupling as a vessel
in your hands,
uplifted and forgiving.

Thank her
for this gift.
Thank her for
how different you are
in her presence, in
her eyes, in the back
of her mind
where you are
human
in the feel
of her heart.

Poem

Hold On

The edge
of her lips:

the edge
of her world
to hold on to
for dear life
and the rim
of uncertainty
that leads upward
to a smile
or to flesh
of tongue
and language
of feral love
and the border
of uncertainty
beyond the tropic
of Capricorn
where margin
for existence
in manna and
desire turns
ripe with certainty
upon sultry
touch and the taste
of the radiant
dew of her lips.

Poem

woman love poet (part 2)

kiss
the white sunrise
with the kiss
of the moonlight

kiss
the white beach
with the kiss
of the fresh, forgiving air
beneath the wing
of the saffron finch
or the leaves
of the eucalyptus
begging me not to cry
in jealousy
or despair

kiss
the red sunset
with the fever
of the red lilyfish

kiss
me, us
with the words
of sumptuous poems,
images kissing
the imagination
of color of our desire
to read our truth
of ourselves, myself
and you

Poem

woman love poet

This thing
that you are

lasts
for-
ever.
Word.
Space. Time. Memory.
Imagination. Yes.
Blackened flowers,
burnt moments.

Distance
from this thing
that you are,
desire does not relinquish.
Scrunched eyelids
in bright October sunlight –
bright flashes, stars
in the darkness – slowed
moments always come
back to me and others
who find you flowing
in and out of these
moments of desperation
on a deserted beach,
holding onto, dancing into
the imagination
of others, turning
on this thing
we want to detect,
we want to conceive
again and again
in this thing
that you are
to rise up
from the ashes
of blackened flowers, burnt
moments, lost love.

Poem

The Color

The color of your lips:
a carnival
of my desires,
palette of skinned
truths of my being
and glossy red
like the blood
of my heart, my love
pounding in the veins
and vessels of my senses –
a fallen mourning
dove’s feather, a bubble
from your lilac-scented
bath, the hard-crusted
confection of crème brulee;
a kaleidoscope
of my desires
in the translucence
of her mirrored skin,
prism of connection,
sweet transfer to the light
of my essence,
a rainbow touched
at last.

Poem

Se Um Lírio Está Em Seu Coração

O mundo não começa
A cair e girar até
As ondas do seu cabelo castanho
Tocar seus lábios e bochecha
Com a suavidade do ar.
O ritmo das suas linhas
Canto de poesia e trazem
Uma imagem à sua mente
Dos campos da valúpia
De lírios que ondulam
E conduzem o vento
Com o balanço elegante
Dos quadris de uma mulher
Como ela caminha no passado dele
Através do jardim tropical
De seu coração, o solo rico de palavras
De amor e paixão
Do seu lírio, Carine.

(edited by Cah Morandi)

Poem

The Want

Twilight

and I begin to miss you.

I have dreamed of you
in the palms of my hands;
I have dreamed of you
lashes to lashes, lips
to lips.

A small gull floats beyond
over white beach, in Zeppelin clouds
and fuchsia sky, they melt
into your eyes, your cheeks,
my fingertips. Evening and

I dream of you when we touch
the stars and planets, the stars
and planets are points
of view. Is your moon, my moon?
Calm and

the same breath and speech,
the hollow, loose mumbling.
I wake, my love collapsed
in my eyes and throat

and the ocean’s breeze lifts
my hair, another gull.

I stand

and walk the boardwalk home.
Memory serves: I dreamed your hand
in mine, the want
of my palm, the want
of my desire, the want

of my dream.

Poem

The Dead Still Air

The dead still air holds up the clouds, birds, kites
and descending orbital satellites.
The dead still air holds up
the leaves that used to sizzle in the breeze.
The earth is waiting for the sun
to click on and the moon to slide
behind Venus
then it will release the jet stream
down the Allegheny Mountains.
The earth is waiting for a sign: clap
of thunder or silent lovers. The dead
dry soil cakes around the roots of trees
by the dry riverbed. Gulls swoop and veer
to catch a few drops of rain. The boy
snaps a twig and sparks a fire. The boy
picks a snapdragon bud, swallows
it and breathes fire. The girl
jumps along hopscotch squares drawn
on the concrete sidewalk and melts
her shoes. The boy picks a lady’s-slipper
and gives the flower to his mother
to drink champagne with the Gypsies.
The young woman drinks Oktoberfest beer
and speaks into a cell phone
that has no memory. The girl
jumps rope and starts a tornado
that carries her to Oz. The young woman
lives as a butterfly and dreams of nothing
but not being alone in a house where nothing
happens. The boy somersaults
into winter. The girl somersaults
into a handstand and into a pool
of lemonade. The young woman somersaults
into a cartwheel and later that night
dreams of silent lovers.

my niece and her horse

Then

in one motion –
my arm and cupped hand in the stream
scoop water like a copper ladle
through a school of minnows,
catches one, others cascade between
my thumb and forefinger
or over the edge of my hand
back into their salvation.
Tadpoles scatter and dart
through the rippled image
of my head and eyes;
my shins itch from wet, cuffed jeans
and clinging grass;
green shallots on the opposite bank
tingle my nasal membrane; the emptiness
of my stomach aches.
A monarch butterfly
jitters past, slow motion, like a leaf
sent speeding by a gust of wind
but caught now, caught now, caught now
as the lone minnow circles
the sea of my open palm.

Poem

The Big Sleep

Before closure:
on the slope of the hill,
soft, clumps of mowed grass
pillow my head with meshed cuttings
and the fresh smell

my eyes read the dusk sky
for first winks of stars and the cusps
of the smiling crescent moon, the one who lays
snug against me, shoulder to shoulder,
does not disturb the gathering cricket song
or my mind – a night latch without a key –
a slap at a mosquito curbs the cricket chirp stream

her chest heaves steady, deep,
I know she dreams of “esta um dia
tão bonito lá fora…”

two birds on a telephone line are
identical as the last sinews of day drag
across my sky’s ceiling of cover; a wild
Canadian goose, no, a flock in a ‘V’ honks heading
south, the sound far-off along some natural map
marker, the echoing hangs
on the slipping light
a tribute, taps. Sunset.
And a first kiss of star light:
I wish I may, I wish I might, live forever.

Had a very nice dinner in a railway car....

at the Glenlo Abbey, which is just outside of Galway.

My new friend on Inisheer, Aran Islands, Ireland

Nothing is better than an apple in the morning!

Poem

In the Garden

In the garden of my heart
I care for all the flowers
I tend evenly.
Grace of sun
and rain feeds the tulip
seed in the same way as
the lady slipper, lily,
yellow rose. Most
flourish in my coarse hands
but one grows
toward me not
the sun inexplicably.
In the garden
of my heart insects
pollinate iris and
orchid equally.
Color, pattern, taste,
scent, shape attract me
to each plant,
yet one pleases
me more favorably.
Daisy petals in
my hand fly away
with the wind
but one flower clings
to me in the garden
of my heart.
In the garden of my heart
one flower grows
into the filament.

Woodstock Estate - Inistioge, Ireland

Poem

Autumn

The ‘where to’
is your last stop. A night’s
drive and home before sunrise.
All the road unknowns
soon will ease away into sleep,
your mind tracing white and yellow
lines through all of your thoughts.
What guides you easier
than the North Star, compass,
parents, friends? Engine
tuned, gas tank full, wheels straight;
it is the geometry of travel.
“All worry,” you say out loud, “is removed
out here on the road.” With no moon
or streetlights, your vision is limited
even with high beam headlamps: you
can only see 40 to 50 feet ahead of you
in an ellipse
that hides all angles
of vulnerability. You open
a window to stop the slip,
the nod, the drowse. The cool air
fills your nostrils and lungs,
tears your eyes and parts
your hair. You smell autumn,
fall: an old sweater
you wear once a year, kept in a cedar chest,
the fading perfume of a her sex
from a full night lying
in an apple orchard. Cores
of your appetite brown
in the dark, scattered with dried leaves
and the backs of your heads damp
and pillowed on roots and clumps
of meadow. The air is musky and prickly
with yarn, sweet
and tart as warm cider and cinnamon
and cold as a brook’s stone plucked
from coursing black water. It is the air
of cyclical death on your face,
everything seems to fall
into place within the commingling
of white and yellow lines,
have reason.

Poem

' Above Vitebsk,' Marc Chagall

Illumination

My breath
cannot expand my exterior
so you attach the hose of your Think-Tank
to my mouth, block all exit holes,
smooth loose skin and turn on
the illuminating gas.
You fill me completely – fingernails
pop off – and you free my ties to the Earth.
Light-headed and giddy
I inch away from the experimental
platform and begin to see things in ways
that you do. Tops of trees are eye-level. Baby birds
smile, are fed in nests of twigs, grass, hair.
The ends of oak branches are caught in the web
of caterpillar silk and a lone Peregrine hawk clings to one
branch blinking some teary-eyed message in the wind
to me. I look down, a small pond tattoos
an open field near a dairy farm, the twin blue
silos like a pair of child’s eyes. Chimneys
of a mill town exhale soot into storm
clouds, hanging over the brick homes
and tarred roads that connect in blocks
and ovals like a massive fishing net,
ripped and frayed, restrung
and stitched. Nothing can hold
me, I drift higher
and float along a map
of rivers and lakes. Everything
is microscopic and demands my attention;
objects miles away appear to rest in my hands
when I hold them out before me. Lightning pricks
the ground like injections. Satellites glide and orbit in homage
to the stars. I trust the Man on the Moon when he winks
to me. Clouds shadow my flight, try to learn the way
to the ocean which suddenly lies before me
like a blue Easter egg
in my palms.

Poem

my love

my love has two eyes to see my smile
and my eyes reflect unconditional love.
my love has one heart to record
and exhibit the truth of my being.
my love has one soul to know
the depth and trials of my soul.
my love has two lips to kiss
me to feel the passion of my blood.
my love has one body to cry
from in pleasure or pain.
my love has two ears to hear
my pledges of fidelity and eternity.
my love has one sense of mystery
to torture me with her sensuality.
my love has one mind to create
the world in which I exist.

Poem

The Sky in Ireland
(climbing Croagh Patrick)

By the statue of St. Patrick
the old man sleeps, head back, mouth
open, swallowing the sky. Soundless.
Ewes graze or sleep in the open fields
in the beginnings of Croagh Patrick.
A crow rests in the last tree
to the summit. Soundless. You recognize
the shape of sanity against the pale
backdrop of your friend the sky:
the fullness of joy and agony
waiting for roadkill.

Do not open any letter
that will break your heart. Offer your blue
friend salt with her Blue Curaçao
margarita. A beautiful woman once said,
‘A drunk is a better lover than the poet’ –
it is why the sky drinks
and I exist.

Rivers and oceans always reflect the sky
but the sky reveals all color
in rainbows and the spiritual remains
of water in clouds. Expect nothing
from clouds, though, or crows
except to pick the remains of your existence
and your soul.

Croagh Patrick

Poem

The Gaol

In the chambers
of my heart
I imprison my desire
to take part in the execution
of the moon.
It’s only crime
relates to the passage
of time and the length
to heal and how I became
a guard to the prison
of my heart,
awaiting the pardon
and release delivered by
my new love.

Kilmainham Gaol - Dublin

Poem

The Cliffs of More

The ocean wind
unleashes a torrent of tears
from my eyes
that fall beyond the edge
of the cliff
and are caught up in the currents
of the air,
up into the currents of the sky
where the clouds
possess them for their own

and many days
from now as thunder and lightning
clouds collect,
you will run outside to spin and dance
beneath darkened
skies and catch my September tears
with your tongue.

Cliffs of Moher

Poem

Clifden

Right now is night
and a deep black night along Clifden,
beneath a full moon: a fortune in silver
clouds and linings within blackened water.

Small village doesn’t speak nor do I,
the air speaks:
a rustle of sycamore leaves,
clanging bells from sailboats
in the harbor, a hard gust
that warns of the coming silence.

Any word from me and the small village
would float away
as the horizon does as you fall away
from it on a hillside

onto your back and meet the moon
and a zillion stars with your eyes,
and thoughts of them meaning less than
those stars right now
if you were here with me.

The village of Clifden and harbor in Connemara

Poem

Loop Head

Edge of country: rock. Green
West meets Atlantic. Whoever
finds beauty here
loves dangerous beauty.

Moon pull
and tidal surges
over the edge
and onto our legs
and shoes. You
pull closer and pull
the moon’s white
blanket over us
as if we can hide
from the pull
of what brought
us here.

vacation is over

I will try and do a travelog when I catch up on my life and work.

Poem

In One Place

By the bridge of the seven arches
my reflection in the River Nore
showed many faces of myself
before I laid your picture
in the wake of ducks and geese and watched
your picture float away,
your eyes full of tears
for my delay in meeting
you in our secret place near the beach
where you live,
and dance in the veranda
that resembles a music box
where my heart is a key
and your lips a lock.

Vacation

I'll be away in Ireland on vacation until October 1st. Take care.

Poem

One Forms to Feel You

The clock tower watches me wander
around the center of the city
in the clinging heat of late September.
The tower glows in sunlight, leaves
shadows as black as the inside of an eyelid.
My breath collapses in the parched air,
dirt and dust settling on the cobbled street.
I stop to reset myself in a café. Red wine
crackles down my throat and for the first time
I smell the windless ocean, hear the murmur
of waves. The clock tower chimes
at the hour. In the waves of memory
and heat, I see you arrive and the tower
shimmer and lose all linear shape. You
wave to me as if you have known me
all of my life, “Se você é mais do que
minhas mãos podem sentir; Se você
é mais do que eu ousei ter só pra mim…”*
I sniff my wine, take a sip. The tiled roof
of the tower falls away like fluted scallop
shells, the plaster walls melts away
like cream cheese. The clock tower’s face
rolls back and forth as if in an earthquake,
leaps from the tower wall, zooms and soars
above the city like a flying carpet disc,
stopping only for me. I grab the hands,
my dark red lips kissing the wind
then the face of the clock until we rise
over the city. It is a fast ride, a slow spin.

*From ‘Mais’ by Cáh Morandi

Poem

Inside Out (pra Cah)

1.

Your hair tosses
in gusts of wind
with the white backs of leaves
and the hair of my limbs,
some storm must be rising.

Your hand tosses
the pen across the room,
frustrated, blocked, unable
to love well
at all
or what you write.

Your mind tosses
thoughts, memories, moments
back and forth,
adding and subtracting
into a null set.

Your heart tosses
its walls in and out,
in and out
and your hat into the ring
which you chase in the wind
all the way to Pamplona
to have it stampeded
inside out.

Your soul tosses
back and forth between lifetimes,
trying to catch glimpses
of you
and others and any fears
yet to discover you this lifetime.

Your body tosses
you and your lover back and forth
in fits of pleasure,
the unmoving need
to sweat against another,
the moving need
to be sweat against
by another.

2.

August, after midnight
your hotel room shakes like an earthquake. You are
awake, someone in the room next to yours
is making love and your room shakes. You hold
your breath and the stars go black one
by one and the moon conveniently
backs behind clouds. Your heart pounds
and your hotel room shakes, someone in the room
next to yours is making love. You are awake.
You hold your breath, the clock
is silent and your dreams forgotten.

August, after midnight, your dreams are
forgotten, your heart pounds and your hotel room
shakes. Passion, you think, is a moving
experience. You chuckle aloud. You are awake
and you make a mental note about the eternal
something or other of things. Your heart pounds
against your chest, the sheets, the mattress, echoing
in the bedsprings, and you breathe into your pillow
to vent exhaustion. The clock is silent
but you know daylight or the couple in the next room
will break soon, you hope. You are awake
and the room next to yours is soundless
except for the rush of laughter. You wonder
what the joke is, hear the words ‘inside out’
and more laughter. The clock is silent and your hotel room
begins to shake again. Someone in the room
above yours is making love. Your heart pounds, you hold
your breath and light the stars, caress the moon.

Poem

Your Desire

Heel to toe,
heel to toe. The space
between strides can be measured
by your shadow on the sidewalk.
Your hands swing at your sides.
You feel the tiny blisters
on the tips of your toes
that never healed, bled
and the nails lost. Heel
to toe you walk the city, the sun
full out on bare head,
sweat dripping off hair
onto neck and back skin, absorbed
into clothes. A child
shoots a rainbow of water
from a toy squirt gun, the cement
a bright, reflected gold, pleased.
A park fountain spits at small kids
dancing in the manmade rain.
An elderly woman crosses the street
without looking, cars passing
around her without stopping.
She wills herself to the other
side, oblivious to threats
and tumbleweeds. No one thinks
nor dreams in this
straight-ahead-
heel-to-toe heat.
Everything is
a thirst.
Nothing real
but your desire
to drink in
whatever comes
your way.

Self Portrait