The Writer's Life: Film & Book Reviews, Observations, and Stories
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Category — Final Poems

The Dance

That first cautious kiss
Ending in a cul de sac of my own making
Though once oriented
I explored every angle and crevice of your body
Because you willed it, not because I did.
How strange to be a man in reference to woman
More opposite than night
More impenetrable than mist rising from fields at dawn
Features suddenly made perfect
Endless longing, bright desire, a brief glimpse of home
With you anticipating every move.

October 14, 2011   Comments Off on The Dance


That time in the evening
When the windows are open
And leaves rustle beyond the eves
When a wind chime jangles two houses over
Mingling with the sounds of traffic,
And you come to me
As a presence
As a living thing
As the very essence of all that lives
And I know that you are god.

August 11, 2011   Comments Off on Namaste

DOT . . .

In a long, slow arc
Traversing the lawn
And through the skylights
The bulletin board in front of me,
Marking time
Like a burgher
With his collar turned up,
Focusing his attention on a spot between
An ancient caliper attached by a pin
Someone’s quick sketch of an ice cream cone
A postcard of the lamb of God
Dried flowers
A child’s skeleton hanging from a string
And an old note from my mother
Saying her head was better now
That made me cry.

July 10, 2011   Comments Off on DOT . . .

A Wasp’s Nest

A wasp’s nest made of paper
Enclosing a menagerie
Of stained glass figures
My mother assembled
From the shards and pieces of her life.

July 4, 2011   Comments Off on A Wasp’s Nest

The Opposite of Home

A dreamworld
Where you sleep, eat, and take your pills
A home that is no home
Two beds, a bathroom, and two closets,
A window, a picture on the wall
Wheelchairs and a walker
A telephone that never rings
A cheap, overpriced hotel
Where you are expected to die.

July 1, 2011   Comments Off on The Opposite of Home


The whistling will not stop
Though no one is whistling
And rain pounds on the grass
Though it is not raining
And birds call from the attic,
And when I tell him he is wrong
He believes me
But says someone is whistling
And the birds are driving him crazy.
He complains about his ears
That he can’t hear a thing
And the strange voices in his head
Though he is as sane as I am
Perhaps more sane
For he never lies about what he sees
And never pretends
For his mind won’t let him.

June 21, 2011   Comments Off on Errata

Ode to Pain

If your mother were Sylvia Plath
And insisted on
Openly discussing her means and methods
The one sharp knife in the house
Rejected because someone would have to clean up the mess
Or the pistol that had been inadvertently hidden and not found
Or, best of all, the antifreeze and carbon monoxide poisoning
She used in her last failed attempt,
And you could not dissuade from her purpose
No matter what you said,
How would you react?
Except to embrace the void that is her life
And the numbing pain that owes its existence
To the man who is your father.

April 27, 2011   Comments Off on Ode to Pain

The Green Man

Oh to be a Green Man
With roots of life growing
From the corners of my mouth
A part of nature
Not ruled by logic
Or temped by faith
Not a relic of the mind
Or something imagined
But a person with real purpose.

April 10, 2011   Comments Off on The Green Man


Flatter than flat
A thin layer of dough
Between the rolling pin and table
Made increasingly thinner
Until it is just the right thickness
To become a liner for a pie tin
Filled with fruit and baked
At the requisite temperature
Until fully cooked,
Removed from the oven
And cooled
Ready for eating.

March 30, 2011   Comments Off on Crust

The Offering

You make an offer
A gesture, part of yourself
A sacrifice that even though it is rejected
Does not matter
Because it is still your offering
An act of giving
That cannot be taken away
Or negated–
For how do you remove the smell of a rose
Or the sound of a ringing bowl
Or the air you breathe
Except by your own hand.

March 28, 2011   1 Comment