At Gull Pond

I am the soft fold of a silk scarf

as it drops to the sand.

I am the smooth underside of a beach stone.

I am salt and dampness in your mouth.

The weight of you lingers,

leaves an impression on the shoreline

like a chalk outline

at a crime scene.

We swim in soundless waters,

float on surface tension

like watermeal and rootless duckweed.

The afternoon grows long as

we amble through the dunes

and watch the weed raker

clear the pond of invasive life.

Drip drying, I lean, lopsided

against a sandbank, heeding

the horizon, knowing

winter will steal the sun.

And I can’t pretend
I don’t need to replace you.

Fire and Earth

How can I love

in a vacant room,
gasping at air

too thick for my lungs.

Voiceless conversations

repeat themselves,

so loud in their silence,

they crack the night.

Ice-gray air in the morning sky

warns of looming squalls,

terrible winds that will

lay me prone.

A downpour of recollect

washes sins,

erodes fear,

clears the way but

How can we love

when yours is earth

and mine, fire.

I burn you.

Without flame,

I am not protected

from the harsh terrors

of a shadowed eve

And always at risk

of exposure

when the rising light
falls on my heart.

The Big Death of a Small Brown Snake

Here you are, 

coiled rope-like, 
outwardly at peace,

yet disemboweled, 
disembodied,

sitting on top

of your own stomach,

an essential organ once held within,

now so obscenely thrust out through

a tear in your skin,

onto a graveled floor.

Yes, that is your belly,

though it looks

at first glance

like a fat bloodied worm

like red berry jelly

you swallowed this morning

and haven’t had time to digest,

not the tender, vital organ

that nourished you

through a lifetime of

twists and turns,

thrilling those who caught you

rustling through native species

and non-native too,

like a manic wind

that couldn’t be stopped.

Now, that organ lies still.

Life is seeping out and

you are here on your own.

Did you glide in grief

from the lofty grass

onto the walking path

so that I, too, could lament?

Some may find no meaning

in the loss of you,

but your day of death

is my day of birth and

this is the season of passing,

so I cannot ignore

the spectacle of you.

Now, too, a storm is rising up,

hail like bullets

shooting down.

Again, I have come

together with a dying snake,

a dead mother,

a reminder that

I love grief and the grossest

truths of living

only because I can feel them.

As I watch you die,

you are sorrow, ache and

the wonder that keeps me alive.

But as I, too, slither along

a twisted path that

ends with me alone,

we will soon become the memories
we were destined to be.

Light Verse: A Double Dactyl for Grace Schulman

Wiggledy Figgledy,

Grace Schulman,

twenty-first century

wordsmith in prime;

indefatigably,

ever so brilliantly,

pulls from her students

lyrics and rhyme.

Urban Haiku

Radio talking.

Grab a coffee from the cart.

Good morning, New York.

Garbage on the street.

Greasy soot on window sills.

Authenti-city.

While nesting high above,

pigeons point tail feathers down.

Watch out for vile rain.

Street noise overhead.

Never one to be outdone,

the subway roars back.

It hurts to beg but

it hurts more to be hungry.

She cries for her child.

Music on the street

draws attention from the crowd.

Spare change pays the rent.

Through the underpass,

 a graffiti gallery.

Admission is free.

Under city skies.

Dancing in your underwear.
The moon is laughing.

The Starry Night

The hiss and snap of a
firework sky,
a tsunami sky that
rolls up and over
the valley of lights.

The moon sees me
up on the hill,
behind the tree,
trembling from
the sound of the stars,
a fear of the night.

Candlestick (For Aunt Molly)

More than a delicate sconce, this candlestick

Is strength and weight,

Heavy metal, a safeguard against

Any attack.

Laughter echoes in the hollow of its base.

Holding onto

The joy that spread through

Shadowy nights,

With dance and song from the land of Scots

So long ago.

This candlestick burns wax and sparks the dampened lights

Held up by those

who dwell in murky corners, barely

Touching their hope.

But like an alcoholic who burns sweet spirits,

That fire will dim.

Time has tarnished its metal and loosened its frame but, for now,
the flame climbs high.