Friday, March 25, 2011



To breathe,

To move,

To stretch one’s arms

And not touch


Membrane strong enough,

Yet permeable,

Allows the world in,

Or keeps the world out.

Off the walls

Pictures fall.

She moves out.

He moves in,

Possessions pass

Each other

At close--but not too close--


Stories in.

Stories out.

Dreams yet unborn

Meet dreams

Deflated, plans


Too much room

To fill with new life,

Too many square feet

For just a bed, a

Dresser, a

Closet for clothes

And secrets--

Somewhere to hide

Birthday and Christmas gifts

Perhaps music

Will fill all this space,

Squeeze out/

Chase out the remnants

Of loneliness

A previous tenant forgot

To pack in the last boxes

They carried out.

How old

Is this living space,

How full

Of histories

Can one room be?

How many angels...?

Rooms with

Doors, with

Windows with


Lock the door.

Turn off the lights.

Don’t make a sound

And maybe

Come in if

You dare--

If you can--

If you know

The password,

The past word

Paced over the floor,

Pasted on the wall

Behind the plaster.
Knock. knock.

Visitor or


Visionaries welcome--all

Others must be announced.

Copyright (c) 2011 by the author



Standing on

A carousel going


Moving sometimes

Fast, sometimes

Slow, but never

Stopping so I

Can step off.

When I move, I

Move faster,

Hoping momentum will

Keep me from falling,

Backward, sideways.

This instability,

This imbalance

Shrinks the world

To the next step,

Then the next:

I refuse to


Tuesday, March 1, 2011


So, yes, I burned

The bridge some twenty

Paces back,

No regret,

Without hesitation.

Anger, mixed with

Despair allowed me

To wash my hands,

Clean of a score

Of years of memory.

The links--

Once golden,

And highly prized--

Are covered with dust,

Consumed by


Of silence.

I knew what

I was doing,

With an evening’s

Anger still in my head,

When I left,

When I lit the match

And watched the flame

Greedily devour all

Secrets, unbreakable


That would forever

Separate me

From a childhood friend.

We weren’t kids

Anymore. We were

Building diverging

Lives where

There would be no


No empty chair,

No place to sleep,

Or talk

Until dawn.

Strangers, once, we

Are strangers once again.

Copyright (c) 2011 by the author