Not A Christmas Poem

your smile stays hidden
behind a thousand snakes;
scales glistening in the spotlight
you force yourSelf to stand in —
so tall and manly (as you put it)

I still remember the color of your soul
& how warm it felt to the touch
when it was yet within my reach
not all that long ago

your eyes are filled with hope
when my fingers brush the last shred of dignity
off your starched collar 
& I realize
this is not a christmas poem.



tucked away in the smallest of closets
the child in her bellowed; holding fast to the promise of
an aging hyena’s sly smile, fully prepared
to deny those few strands of self
still clinging to pumping calves
on her steady decline

she left her name at the doorstep
along with her unbound fate, dropped
what little truth she had
into the blossoming weave of her mesmerizing colors
& displayed her heart for rent.

– The Sunday Whirl –


night falls, thickly
with a taste of tangy orange
that masks the lump in my throat
while I think about
saying goodbye to you, predestined,
in the early hours of morning

discomfort slouches at the back of my neck
& I tap my nails on those angular customs
as I see myself squirm in this crammed space —
You and Me were all sepia smiles &
so much more than worn wooden benches

I will keep our moments
in a pudding cup,
squeeze them joyfully
a little too hard
& still raise your voice
long after the silence.

Patchy Heart

would you rather
have a heart

or a heart
frayed at the edges
patched and stitched,
parts missing –
where you gave
pieces of it away…

showing character –
a heart
that has known
true love

the greatest pain
and wisdom.
no matter
how painful,
you will be rich.

Smile, here comes the Hammer…

isn’t it cruel how memories can sneak up on you sometimes and hit you full-on in the face?
that just happened to me. ugh.
one moment you’re doing fine, everything’s wonderful and comfortable and then… BAM! you’re taking a blow to the head and find yourself with your butt on the ground wondering what the hell happened.

i think the past 3 years just hit me. sneaky bastards. wow, that was a bad time.
i am happy to say that this part is over now.
still hurts, but i guess that’s okay.

The Muse’s Departure

day and night he worked
overtaken by arrogance
long departed from this world
to live in the illusion he created.

his talent flourished
endured by the humble muse
never satisfied
always wanting.

artistically ruined
he found himself
after the muse
dressed in her dark-red coat
and walked out
into the noisy street.

he sat
while the dust
gathered in ripples
on the blank canvas.

as the light left his eyes
and the daylight faded
he realized
that his talent
had never been his alone.

Coming Home

they asked for it
but you could never obey
to their wishes.

steel yourself, they said
but how (?)
could you avoid
seeing the maimed carcasses
paving your way?

when you returned
you were empty
and it wasn’t your fault.

good intentions
turned to ash
on your tongue.
in your heart.
in your mind.
never should have.

a soldier’s burden.

Dear Post-It,

a member of your family died today. my deepest condolences.

you know how much i love to use you and your cousins, aunts and uncles for my enjoyment… i write quotes that i like on your colorful surfaces and stick them to my front door… that way, i can always lay eyes on you before i have to leave the house. i enjoy your family’s services very much.

i know you, too, get older… and die eventually. the cycle of life.
this is what happened today. i think it was your aunt (the post-it was pink), she couldn’t hold on any longer and fell down. she lived a long life.

i am sorry for your loss and i have to say that it isn’t easy for me to see her go… but i figured it was her time.
please be assured that she will have a proper burial. i loved her, too… very much.

you, your family and friends will always be welcome to try a spot at my front door… it is a happy and meaningful life, i promise.

thank you so much for understanding and again, i am sorry for your loss.
she was wonderful.

best wishes,
your aunt’s mourner

The Bear

the shirt i wear makes me cry
when i look into the mirror.
the small bottle on the windowsill
still smells like you
though it’s covered in dust.
i see your scarred hand
touching guitar strings.
i see familiar smiles,
on photographs.

you were holding me
when she died.
and crying,
when he died.

you cooked your last supper.
you laughed and sang with us.
it was just us.

i never hugged you goodbye.