In Old Age

Porcelain filled with lavender tea
sits delicately on the table.
The old doily cloth matches your dress,
were both inherited from mother?
Remember how she would laugh so loud?

Flower teased by a small bumble bee,
please ignore it if you are able
it will only sting if under stress.
Remember that advice from brother?
Bees have the temper of a storm cloud.

"I'm glad that we still have each other"
Oh how I wish you'd say this aloud

Sea Mist

Soon you will be washed upon the sands of time as a memory left on the tongue tips of the angels left behind. Your physical form will be gradually reborn from the glistening teardrops we’ll cry in chorus as your body is bid to the eternal dust. You’ll slip into the arms of family through the gap of our knowing and feeling; welcomed and soothed by the same loving presence you too once grieved. All the fear you feel in the shallows of this vast ocean will no longer matter as you begin to drift between the folding waves of a final sleep. Goodbyes won’t be whispered into the sea, but the thickening mist will nod, on my behalf, that we’ll meet again someday.

Marshmallow Tar

Death's kiss, 
with all of it's surgical precision, 
cannot wash away your scent. 
Sweet burnt marshmallow
pooled in the final sands of the hourglass - 
a tar to keep the coffin sealed.
Stale espresso left in the morning dew
whispers that it tastes the same - 
a brew far more bitter than the lonely truth.

Pencil Case

Momma told me not to run with scissors
Lest I pluck out my own eyes
With the rounded tip of the blade.
But she needn’t have feared impaling
For the glittered edge could split reality
Into newer categories of felt or unfelt,
Processed or compartmentalized in boxes
That are to be continuously mislabelled
And indexed under different triggers.

Momma told me not to run with scissors
Lest I pluck out my own eyes
With the rounded tip of the blade.
But she needn’t have feared impaling
For the glittered edge was a siren
That promised to multiple your mark
By severing the ties to reality a little more.
Knowing the hook was catching enough
To long for a longer, deeper verse.

Momma told me not to run with scissors
Lest I pluck out my own eyes
With the rounded tip of the blade.
But she needn’t have feared impaling
For the glittered edge was a safety blanket
Bound in bumps of gentle grip polypropylene.
Soon substituted for safe preschool variety
In the same clear polyvinyl therapy pencil case
As the steel screw fit pencil sharpener.

Curiosity Ignited the Fire

Do you still smell the same?
Intoxicating and inviting.
Being wrapped in your arms,
Would leave me drunk off desire,

Do you still taste the same?
​Rich, and melting in my lustful mouth,
Like freshly pressed coffee,
And sweet fragrant vanilla.

Do you still feel the same?
Would your touch leave me trembling again?
Would my hands still know you?
Grip you tight in ecstasy.

The Woman Wore Purple

​I had spent many hours with her,
​Both young and grown.
I had grown beside her kin,
With a mother who shared her blood.
She was reckless in my mother’s eyes,
Wild as the wind that she flew on.
A woman who lived by no law,
But by principle of her own heart.
She near always smiled at me,
And she laughed at my cynicisms.
We drank several nights away,
At the bar, or on the step of a shop door.
Like many young, I fled the nest,
Spread my wings for lands afar,
Leaving them all behind me,
But visiting with growing infrequency.
On my return there would be happy reunion,
Drinks, songs, smokes, smiles, laughs.
Gatherings of the now grown and their young,
Besides our elders now older once more.
But time did fly by quicker,
And 15 months seems to blink fast.
And soon I am beckoned back,
Returning to see her again.
My mother, as always,
Holding the hands of my family,
As a means to hold their souls, their bodies,
And their strength, in an upwards fashion.
Me, smiling through, as taught,
Showing that the living are not afraid.
I hold her hair 'twix my fingers,
And braid in flowers as we laugh.
I roll her smokes, before my own,
The legality of them questionable,
As she waves between here and there,
Jittery with fear of being wedded.
I paint over the hollowing skin,
Lighten her sunken eyes,
With a mixture of tones, pigments,
Creams and powders, brushes and sponges.
The clocks strikes and the camera clicks,
She grins as she is wheeled along,
I press the button as she makes vows,
Promises to be short lived and kept.
We drank, we smoked, we laughed,
I sang, for she couldn’t any longer,
I walked for her, towing the chair,
And navigated with care and fear.
Family gathered, united, strong again,
Smiling at the simple pictures I captured,
Wondering at the beauty of her,
Of her soul, of her love.
The woman wore purple,
As a bride, draped in purple and white,
As a mother, through waking night,
As my aunt, when hugging me tight.
The woman wore purple,
And when I saw her last, she wore it still.
Though I’ll never see her again,
I know the woman wears purple.

How Will I be Remembered

How will you remember me?
As a schlemihl? As a schmuck?
As the one who was helpful,
But always deceived.
As a lunkhead who fell for lies?
As the one who always gave,
But was never to receive.

How will you remember me?
As the gregarious one? As social?
As the one who didn't fear the world,
But always felt constrained.
As the benevolent one? Unconditional?
As the one who acted amicably,
But was met with antagonism.

How will you remember me?
As the auspicious one? On track?
As the one who strived to achieve,
But meet obstacles.
As the triumphant? The fortuitous?
As the one who tried,
But put themselves last.


Hearing your voice,
Made me rediscover:
The wonders of smooth jazz,
How the notes seamlessly,
Easily, twist and turn.
How the double bass,
With it's step ladder pluck,
Eases my soul.
How the saxophone,
Can take my emotions,
And blend them into one
Continuous flow of joy.

Hearing your laugh,
Made me rediscover:
The beauty of sunshine.
How it gives the gift of life,
Of light and growth.
How when I see it,
When I feel its warmth,
I am content and graced.
How its rays turn to my skin,
Bronzes it a soft golden tan,
And leaves tender kisses of health,
To my next few days.

Seeing your face,
Made me rediscover:
The beauty of all forms of art.
How an artist, with his brush,
Uses tone and shade as expression.
How a musicians plays,
With every ounce of himself,
Bearing all to an audience.
How a poet, takes words,
Not for granted, but as gift,
Tools from our cognitive ability,
To share, express, to feel.

Your warm embrace,
Made me rediscover:
Just who I am.
How my loyalty always stands,
For those I care about.
How I'd willing lay down my life,
To save, protect and guarantee,
My loved ones thrive.
How I see the world,
Observe people, watch closely,
To find the inner beauty,
Which all possess

Painful Shore

The water trembles between my toes,
But the tide is yet to move,
Comforting solace repels the waves.
Sun holding itself from truth.

The sand here burns, melts away breath,
Chastising the silence, making it screech and bend.

But the water is cooling.
The tide is calming.
The waves bring comfort.
The sun still holds the truth.

The day time twists, pulling tightly,
Taking the last part of itself to keep for sure.

But the water has gone.
No tide exists, no waves.
The sun has set.


Sorry shan't heal my wounds,
It won't take away my pain.
What happened, unforgivable, evil,
And I've yet to understand it all.

I used to unfathomably trust,
To let people understand me,
Yet now these scars,
​Prevent me from standing free.

How could a friendly gesture,
Breach all walls of protection,
Leave me unguarded, insecure,
Fearful of the monster, that's you.

I doubt my own mental strength,
And your strategic attack
Shatters any fortitude remaining,
To grant your one, unforgivable wish.