Cosmic Nights

Writing-
Fabricating
cosmic nights
with back strokes of a pen.

Swimming-
In my own words
paralyzed
by the moon’s reflection.

Floating-
Forever
on a letter or two
at the top of the ocean.

Photo by eye2eye at flickr

Underwater

There are rocks on the bottom of my ocean’s floor and I refuse to walk anymore, but only swim underwater with my eyes open until you grab my hand again and pull me back through the passing wave, back to you.

Oceans in the Sky

There are connections
that only can happen in the dark.
Whispers from other worlds
with moments of silence
between slips of the tongue.
Undercovers wondering
where it all goes from here or
where it could have came from
as the wandering
wanders away
from all its plans
wishing there was at least
one thought
that hadn’t been stripped
and tossed to the floor.
It then all becomes an afterthought
and I look in the sky
as if it were the ocean
and I was looking
for flying fish.



Photo by pwnedbyryan on Flickr

Caribbean dreams

A New Yorker
Who dreams
With a Caribbean soul

Pours out their heart
Solely to the ocean
Sings out loud on crowded trains

Loves to dance in heavy rain
Then craves a warm fire
On a summer night

Plays in the riptide
To forget and remember
Surrendering to fairytales

Summer Reading

Tony Iovino, the creator and host of The Summer Gazebo Reading Series, put together a collage of all the performers.

I am so glad I had the opportunity to participate in this series. Follow the link to read bios of the incredibly talented participants.

Thanks again Tony!

(This photo and all others were taken by Ali Iovino and Betsy Transom)

Here are the poems I had the pleasure to read: Love Notes , Conversion, Madrid, and Crowded

One empty. One full.

That bottle of red wine-
the one we saved for a rainy day,
a sexy hour,
a dim light,
that bottle that turned me on.
It floated far from my mind,
holding imaginary love notes,
but it’s only a bottle of old grapes
to get me tipsy,
inspire a little poetry.
Two glasses left empty
proved it all phony,
left a lonely bottle on a dark
pantry shelf collecting dust.
I feel alone
tonight,but began to drink it by myself.

Lit

I would have turned up the flame if I knew it was going to burn so slow...

There are no next times, no. Only past times screwing new ones,

but I can let them go-

you know, when the wind takes lit ashes

they look like fireflies in the dark

and I have learned to gladly dance in them.

Writer’s Dew

The dewy air tonight drowns my inner dialogue
My pen grows heavey and falls

I can only see shadows and faces dance across my walls
silent like old black and white films

Buried a Jew

Sometimes when I close my eyes
I walk in my mourning clothes
to visit tombs I have never seen,
searching for the mausoleum of my grandfather.
To kill his living memory,
to bury him with the floating
spirits of his Barese peasant ancestors
who prayed everyday slaving away by the Adriatic Sea
without a thought that one hundred years later
I would be here.
A mutt,
mixed with the Anglos,
the Micks, and the Jews
stripped of their Barese last name,
not living for the land,
but riding on a dirty subway train-
Underground I sat waiting desperately to see
a man before he closed his dark brown eyes forever,
went back to the lands of his fathers,
to reclaim his name,
to repent for his dirty deeds,
to wipe away all the disgust
he held for his heritage in life-
Behind a glass window,
It was so simple.
So quick.
Just a few words
from a woman in white
who told me politely,
“he was transferred”
and she will never know
how I shattered
as I replied, “thank you.”
Moved from the hospital bed,
he was dead-
And I went back underground,
my soul at civil war,
exploding and destroying
until it stopped and I felt dead.
Helpless.Betrayed.Disowned.
In darkness
I felt God, but it still hurt.
I felt God, even though
I am not a catholic,
protestant, a Jew,
baptized, or confirmed.
My grandfather’s poor Barese soul
watched with his fathers
as he was given a Jewish funeral.
I can only imagine
his burial site,
unless I can catch him as he floats
around in my dreams
to show me the way back there,
but for now my eyes will only over flow
when I see the funeral card,
my grandmother framed,
but cannot read because it is written in Hebrew.

There's a Soul Down There

There’s a soul down there
That I touch when my soul’s energy finds yours
It is somewhere
Maybe behind your ribs that cages you in this misery

When I am silent only your soul knows I’m there
and never comes through
I often try speak to it, but when your soul
moves up to your lips, past your breath,
it dances with humanity and your personality fucks it up

I dream of days when the sun reflected off of the snow,
turning our faces and noses red digging for things that were
frozen to the ground.
My eyes couldn’t see then, but through a narrow scope
finally I became tainted myself
Now even my soul is silenced
resting up against my heart

There’s a soul down there, I know
Ours only play on a different snow
Each day my soul presses on my heart
and I feel myself crying inside,
stifling the soul from the world outside

Casualties (working it out still)

We are all casualties of time and war.
Some of us hide our scars,
Others turn them into tattoos and worship every mark.
The clock ticks and I only hear chains rattle.
Each day another minute is really taken away and every freedom
only appears to be freer when it is becoming more fabricated and fictional.
I can smell the smoke and see it before it rises over the horizon,
but I will never know who lit the fire.


We are casualties, who are really ghost soldiers,
fighters with imaginary swords,
dying for our blinded fathers
who have taught us to see too much color
and killing for the words that have been marked on us
before we were anything to mark.

We are casualties, I told God.
And I knew since I was just a small child
that with time I would only bear more scars
and have deeper wounds that would never close.
That I would look into the eyes of strangers
and first be afraid. And next feel sorrow.
That I could hold out my hand, but know it could be cut off.
And that love wears out, but pain only incubates and regenerates.
That I will cry inside until I die for the false belief that there can be unity
and peace between two souls.

We are casualties underneath the armor.
Our eyes look innocent, but if you look close
they are broken up with little cracks and imperfections that let light in.
These eyes are blinded by many skies.
Blinded by God’s words that they never heard themselves, but were given as hand-me-downs.
And blinded again by the distant screams of the wounded who seek revenge from lives before.
We blindly walk on a planet that is stale and has hardened,
sealing in tears, blood, and other fossilized ammunition.

We are casualties and we continue to walk among the wreckage.
We invent what we can only conceptualize as beautiful,
painting beauty mostly at the expense of another.
There is a war always already waging even when we think we're cleaning up.
Yet we hold on tight to things that allow us to sleep at night
As we dream in worlds that don’t exist.