Category: Poetry

Mahogany masonry, stained-glass chandeliers.Light bulbs, waistcoats, industrial clockwork gears.Intricate carpets. A rickety red street car,A collection of glowing bottles kept above the bar. But we’re no longer trapped by your Victorian era,Now rises the day of the great carbonara.Smoke stacks, steam pipes, factories,Make way for authentic parmesan cheese. The spirits of factory children, tragically deadnow

The warmth of blood beneath her cold lapel, regressed like the distant rumble of a boxcar. Tempest thundered through cracks in the wall, like the blood of tattered men against the haze of an iron sky. Through the wooden carousel, the howl of sunrise  tore at her woven heart as she cried out to him  

sunlight in the graveyard carries your left lung away in an orange watering can sandals crunching on the gravel   you never wanted to see another beautiful day   but the earth won’t stop for wounded bodies   especially yours   especially you in dawn blood light   this isn’t the resurrection you dreamed of

As we sit poolside, warm Sun on our toes Mama feeling her Fentanyl patch  I’m blessed for another day    Thank you I spoke Your dying has  Taught me everything

I walked into a shadow. I found my mother there. Age is no longer a factor. Though memory leaves a feeling of 98.5 years. But what do shadows, dreams, and what fairies in the dust have in common? She’s no longer suffering from macular degeneration. I can still see her as a 78-year-old son now.

I conceal my craft beneath the shell of an armadillo, snug in its embrace, nestled near its warmth, as insects buzz under the midday sun, where stories collide with struggles, and words fester like unresolved thoughts, distant from the critics’ needle pen hearts. Their relentless demands, cold cash, and hollow praise layered thick with honey

Does the night soar beneath your breath?  Do you yawn to the sun?   It has departed on its pilgrimage to bear witness To the Gods of whom we boast.    Do you bruise your knees swollen and mauve and  Clasp your exploited hands ‘till dawn?   Do you dream of Him and  Toss and turn in