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Samples of my Poetry

Granny’s Guide to the Galaxy

On nights when Florida pours herself

like molten sky into the darkness,

when breathing feels like drowning

and no one wants to swim though the night

to sit by your side, it might not be

the best idea to drop a hit of acid,

then ask your grandmother

how to clean puke from the wooden floor,

or tell her at length how you and the family cat

have “exchanged consciousness”

and now are both one and the same.

You might not want to tell her you’re “tripping balls,”

that the intensity of color, the liquid brown

of the cat’s eyes, the feel of the fur

beneath your hands made you want to weep,

though she did clean up the vomit,

make you a cup of chamomile tea,

wrap you in a soft blanket against the chills,

and sing you to sleep, dreaming

of  a time when just the thrill

of unfolding your limbs

into a run, or climbing to the top of a tree

was as high as you needed to be.

Published: August, 2017

North Of Oxford

Cold Front in Miami

No snow like back in ‘77

but it rained iguanas,

dropping like icicles from trees,

their catatonic bodies too cold to grip,

falling from mango, ficus, cabbage palm,

the hibiscus turned inward and brown,

bromeliads dried up on the spot, wind

sucked them dry, even the fish turned belly up

and vultures circled the bridges, perching

with the pelicans, who warily moved over.

The longest cold front in memory,

a world gone crazy with Floridians

bundled in scarves, coats, mittens,

extra blankets piled on the bed, reading

of earthquakes, landslides, blizzards.

Everyone still waiting for a sign.

Published: The Liberal Media Made Me Do It, 2013


(For Joshua)

Science states parallel lines do not intersect,

yet over the years, we have crossed paths

like swords in arms—combative, yes, but just

as often comradely, collusion and collision so similar,

as you spin off in your own orbit toward the future,

unknowable, mysterious, revealed only to psychics

attuned to the signs, while I, ignorant

and soon to be alone, can only wait for the “truth foretold,”

can only hope you have the tools to build

whatever you need for whatever storm will come.

*“A redshift occurs whenever a light source moves away from an observer”

Published in Sanctuary

Journal of the NCHC

Samples of My Poetry: Latest Articles

Science and Sex

What of the world of Quantum Physics,

atoms and quarks, electrons,

particles, waves, and beams of light.

A flash is blue, bright cerulean blue

in a tundra of white, crystal hard.

Not many have seen it

and those that have, have names

like Newton or Galileo, even Edison,

perhaps now Gates, moving

from electron to silicone.

Perhaps this explains

how, untouched, I still yearn

for the excited rubbing of atoms—

yours against mine,

any you, any how,

as long as there are eyes

to look into, perhaps to swim,

perhaps to drown.

Published: Georgetown Review, 2005

Samples of My Poetry: Latest Articles

More Poems

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Ghazal for My Daughter

Each time we speak, my daughter

and I, atoms explode in my daughter.

There seems to be nothing I can do

nothing to say, nothing to save my daughter.

If I gave her the trees, she’d want the sky,

so great is the hunger of my daughter.

Words are waves eroding rock

over time, everything breaks my daughter.

Somehow, it’s always my fault, still

my fault for not living only for my daughter.

The sun shines steady every day

but the moon waxes and wanes in my daughter.

Too strong, she says, too harsh, this sun, this

mother which warms then burns my daughter.

Published, 2019: Universal Oneness: An Anthology of Magnum Opus Poems from around the World

The Cape Was Never White

First of all, I was not skipping.

I never skip, but yes, I was eating

strawberries: red, ripe, delicious.

I had heard rumors

that girls who ate them

would never want for men.

I was after the woodcutter

not the wolf, but the wolf

was quicker, sly, and intense.

I hadn’t meant to enjoy it—

but being swallowed whole

was a definite kick

no man could ever give.

Published in Fourteen Hills, 2008



And what did Isaac think

when his father took him

by the hand, led him from

his mother’s keeping, up

the strange mountain

to the smooth stone table?:

What went through his head

as Abraham lifted him up

laid him out, tilted

his neck back just so?

As they trudged back home,

Isaac scrambling to keep up,

do you think it possible

that in his father’s presence

he could ever turn his back again?

Published in The Apalachee Review, 2002

Samples of My Poetry: List
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