She Looked Me in the Eyes

After a seven year courtship,
we were married on
Black Sunday.

She looked me in the eyes
and said:
“I Do.”

The day was cursed,
her family
wouldn’t speak with my family.

The two-tiered cake falling
during the first dance
wasn’t a good omen either.

Though she slept a lot
during the day
throughout our honeymoon,
I kept thinking
that my expectations
were too high,
and things
would get better.

Six weeks in
I discovered she
was secretly dating her
C+ programming professor
since before we got married,
and she assured me
that he was just a friend,
but also somehow mentioned
that he made $70,000 a year
to my $29,000.

On Day 141,
I left,
and she went to his place
to drink champagne,
slow dance and screw.

Five days later,
a flirtatious married coworker
who pretended to care,
offered me
sympathy and fellatio
anytime I needed it.

I was aghast,
but still heartbroken.

After weeks
of dreamless nights
crying and trembling,
I could no longer
resist.

She looked me in the eyes
and said:
“No One Will Ever Know.”

I gave in
and shot all my hate
rage and anguish,
into her sweaty
debased body
that August afternoon.

Naively,
I thought that might end it,
not realizing that she thrived
on such humiliation.

The next day
she offered herself
as my slave
to be used
defiled,
desecrated.

Finally,
my soul sent up a white flag,
and I unilaterally
ceased and desisted
from seeing her again.

She eventually
broke her promise
when she told her husband
that I tried to rape her.

So,
when I tell you I have
trust issues,
it isn’t that
I don’t know
how to trust;

I don’t know
who to trust.

Afloat (Prompt: Toulouse-Lautrec’s “In Bed The Kiss”).

Eyes closed
heart open,

future laid
before them.

This moment
erases years
of obligation,
forced sentiment
spent elsewhere.

Afloat in
that mysterious
afterglow, before
losing consciousness

and gaining
direction for
this newly
coupled life.

Rapture Strategy

The world is coming
to and end
and we couldn’t be happier for it!

While we don’t appreciate
all the evil in this world:
the fornicators
the drive-thru abortionists
the sexually deviant
the slave owners
the torturers,

we are grateful,
as their sinfulness
rockets us closer to
the Rapture.

Reaching out to them
in compassion and
empathy,
might work against us,
for if we really loved them
and understood them,
they might change their ways
and then
the homosexuality
the abortions
the war
the wholesale destruction
of precious life
might cease

and there might be
Peace,
Harmony,
Heaven on Earth,

and that just can’t be
permitted to exist!

How the Hell
is the Rapture
going to get here
if we love and
take care of each other
and this world,
and make ourselves
as sinless as possible?

It can’t
and it won’t!

So
we just won’t presume
the inherent sinfulness of Man,
and the necessity
to turn to Jesus,

we need to
foment the misery,
avarice
and slaughter,
so that it becomes
so abhorrent
that Messiah will return

and take us up
with Him in His rocket ship
to Heaven

and leave the rest of
His Fouled Creation
to wallow in the filth
negation
and fire of the nonbeliever.

Now,
I ask the congregation:

do you believe?

(Written for http://dversepoets.com/ #OpenLinkNight)

Prepare to Die (Prompt: Preparation)

Everyday
I prepare to die,

by slowing down
and not fighting
the inevitable.

I practice
wide-eyed breathing,
taking in everything
without judgment or attachment.

I feel less scared of death
but I am still not ready
to go.

My best poem
hasn’t been written
and my best melody is still
hiding somewhere
inside a piano
waiting to be coaxed out
and I just hope I find it
before Death finds me.

I wonder if every goodbye
is going to be
the final goodbye,
but before I can
do anything that would
constitute a Grand Finale,
I just leave,
to prepare myself
for how random and mundane
the inevitable end must be.

This life is
an improvised play
in a theatre with
outdated permits
and it’s only
a matter of time
before the Fire Marshall
unceremoniously
shuts it all down.

So,
play on, I say!

Transvaginal Probe

“Before proceeding,
I have to tell you that
your answers are being monitored
for quality assurance purposes,
and they can and will
be used against you
in a court of law.

You have the right to a
born-again Christian attorney.
If you cannot afford one
or scored “Less Than Competent”
on the “Morality Inventory”
you answered when you registered
one will be appointed for you
at no cost to you.

Do you understand?

Yes, I can see you’re
bleeding,
but before we proceed
I need you to tell me
you understand.

Very good.

Question 1:
Are you now
or have you ever been
sexually active outside
the boundary of traditional,
one man, one woman
marriage?

Very good.

Question 2:
Have you ever inserted
any object into your vagina
other than a tampon
for anything other than
hygienic purposes?

I’m sorry, could you repeat that?
I couldn’t distinguish
your response
from your moan.

Very good.

Question 3:
Have you ever
used any of the following
products:
male condom
female condom
spermicide
diaphragm
cervical cap
contraceptive sponge
birth control pills
Depo-Provera
Lunelle
vaginal ring
intrauterine device
withdrawal
sterilization or
natural family planning
to prevent the
fertilization of
your precious irreplaceable
ovum?

Hm.
Could you elaborate
on your answer?

Your doctor prescribed it
to regulate your cycle?
I thought so.

Alright then,
I think we’ve everything in order.

Just take this sheet
into the green room,
change into this paper gown,
and after your procedure
the nurse will inform
you of when your results
will be uploaded
to YouTube.

Thank you.”

(Written for http://dversepoets.com/ #OpenLinkNight)

Open Mike (Prompt: Risk Poem)

In my bedroom
at my parent’s house
me and my little $28 guitar
performed concerts
at Carnegie Hall
at the Universal Amphitheatre
in Abbey Road Studios.

Starting in 1975,
I strummed and sang
to adoring, imagined audiences.

(I even planned for my
New York debut
to come out and start
the show with an
acoustic version of
“Nights on Broadway.”)

But
I never worked up the nerve
to sing my own songs,
my own heart
for others.

Flash forward to 2001:
My father died,
I lived in a passionless coupling,
my chippie went back
to the man she would eventually marry,
my OCD was at fever pitch,
and while the Prozac
didn’t kill my erection,
I couldn’t come anymore.

The ad said
“INLAND EMPIRE
SONGWRITER’S OPEN MIKE.”

Dr. Warren said I should do it,
so I found myself there
armed with what I thought
were my best songs.

They called my name,
and my nerves jangled
all the way onstage.

I couldn’t see
past the stage lights
so I closed my eyes
and
launched into
the first song
I remember
ever writing
from 1981.

By the time the chorus
came around,
I could hear
their laughter,

and it felt good,
since they saw the humor
in a song titled

“If I Fall In Love
With You Again,
It’s My Own
Damned Fault.”

It took 20 years
to get there,
and I reveled
in my three minutes.

Some Cry

Some cry
in the stall
of the men’s room
during the sermon

and some cry
at the far end of
the Target parking lot
with the windows
rolled up
and the music on
loud.

Some cry
just sitting there
in the Starbucks
afraid to be
anything but invisible.

Some cry
but you’d never know it
for all the pain
they inflict
on others.

Some cry
only when
they’re happy
for to cry
otherwise
would start
an endless flood.

Some cry in the spotlight,
and some in that moment of
massive quiet
after they orgasm.

Some cry for the
mistakes that brought them
here,
and some cry
for the dreams that
never will be.

Some cry
because they can’t un-learn
how not to cry

and some cry
because it’s all
they have left.

Everybody cries,

but in this universal
malaise
lies the hope
for the birth of
empathy
which can give birth to
compassion
which can give birth to
love.

(Written for http://dversepoets.com/ #OpenLinkNight)

What My Neglected Lover Thinks (Prompt: What _____ Thinks)

We used to make
music together, and
though you couldn’t say
it was beautiful,
it was ours.

We would fly away
to quiet islands
where his touch
would bring forth
my sweetest sounds,

I was there
when every other female
broke his heart.

I’d take him in
all busted up and pitiful,
even smiling as he croaked out
the Great American Songbook,
until I nursed
that ungrateful bastard back
among the living.

Now I stand
waiting in his closet
with the rest of
his neglected digital concubines,

each with the empty promise
that we’ll be loved soon,
but we’ve all grown a bit jaded
waiting.

I should’ve seen
it coming,

The guitar
and the drumsticks
tried to warn me.

The King of Romance Speaks (for Sarah Lynn)

Flowers sent
on February 14th

rarely smell
as sweet

as the bouquets
sent

on any other
day.

(Posted for #OpenLinkNight, #31, at dversepoets.com )

Rock Bottom (Prompt: Dead End)

When the police ask

if you have any
unused vacation time
so you can go into hiding
until they can
find and dissuade
the man who is
trying to kill you
because he (erroneously) thinks
you raped his wife

and you pack
as many of your possessions
that’ll fit in the back of your Honda

and you take
one last
good look around
at the room
and think
“what if I never see this
again?”

then
you’ve probably hit
rock bottom.

My Secret Motivation

My acts of selflessness

are those of

a flawed Christ,

and I do not accept

their approbation;

their lauding.

Ostensibly,

I feign modesty

when my actions

are seen and praised,

for I know

my secret motivation.

I never dreamed

I would be walking through life

with someone so

beautiful,

so in order to keep her

I became a different person,

a better person,

to remain in her

circle of grace.

Sensing I will die

long before she will,

I work daily to leave

a legacy

so loving,

inimitable

and unexpected

that she will never

ever

want for any another,

but me.

So,

at the heart

of all this

grandiose selflessness

is a niggling kernel:

selfishness.

(Written for OpenLinkNight at dversepoets.com)

EXTRA! EXTRA! (They still say that, don't they?)

Thanks to the wonderful folks at bar none group, one of my poems is featured on their homepage.

Poetry Template by Buddah Moskowitz

They showed me some love, now it's your turn!  Show them Love too!
We now return you to our regularly scheduled broadcast.

Shpritzo (Prompt: Habit)

Maybe it was years
of being picked on
for being fat,

or being the middle child,

or my training to be a
comedy writer,

but there is an ongoing
internal monologue
that answers
everything I encounter

with a shpritz,
a comic insult,
a smart-ass remark.

They are unwanted
and arrive instantaneously:

in quiet moments reserved for intimacy,
at deathbed confessions,
during pompous sermons,
while reading narcissistic status updates
and I just can’t help it.

Being a professional
I’ve trained myself
to keep them in line,

but sometimes I release them
because I think they’re too good
to keep to myself,

and I often realize
I was wrong,

usually, 

a word or two too late.

Then I wonder
what light is it
that shines through me,

Jesus Christ or Don Rickles?

The Crying, Brown Bear

He kept me company

every Sunday

when I dragged myself

into the empty computer lab

in graduate school.

It was lonely work

crunching all them numbers

chasing my thesis,

but his plaintive

beautiful voice

sang to me

like a lost brown bear,

crying in the black night 

trying to find

his mate.

He wrung poignancy

out of every lyric

and when he played piano

it sounded like it had

a million keys

and was 30 feet long.

When I finally got the chance

to meet him

the following year,

he was as genteel and kind

as he was tall and dazzling

in his sharp blue blazer

and his sequined captain’s hat,

and my only regret

is that I shook his hand,

suppressing my instinct

to hug him.

(Written for Dverse Poets Open Link Night )

My Best Friend’s Best Friend (Prompt: Friend of a Friend)

On Facebook

I see all the friends

of my friends.

They all look great.

Wonderful, glorious times

with gleaming movie star smiles.

They do not look incomplete.

They do not look melancholic.

Smiling happy people

reveling in their college memories,

with that same REM soundtrack.

Summoning my imagination,

I try hard,

squinting,

to picture myself among them.

Too fat.

Not brown enough and

not white enough.

Hopelessly uncool smile.

Too square to party.

I haven't forgotten the sting

of exclusion,

of betrayal,

so I became

my own best friend,

and sensing his loneliness

I am also

my own best friend’s

best friend.

Hibernating

It is a quiet,

sullen

sour grape of a month.

Jealous that it’s sandwiched

between the showbiz spectacle

of Christmastime

and the sexy pink orgy

of Valentine’s Day,

January is the

“get your tax forms ready” month,

the “sober up from your holiday bacchanal

and pay those

‘I don’t care,

Christmas comes

but once a year’” bills.

And this January

was the 12^th time

my father’s birthday

passed without his embrace.

January

finds me hibernating,

in my bed,

at my desk,

in my heart,

storing up my energy

for brighter,

more verdant days

that I am almost certain

are on the way.

(Posted as part of Open Link Night http://dversepoets.com/2012/01/24/open-link-night-week-28/ )

A Fatherly Perspective

My brothers in Christ

tell me of the lost souls

who have not accepted

and will be separated from the Father,

damned for Eternity.

I realize that is

a brotherly perspective.

In many human families,

children vie for the loving attention

and protective embrace of the father,

thinking

if they do the right things

if they say the right things,

they will be favored.

Since becoming a father

I can report that

and each of my children has

betrayed me

disappointed me

and saddened my heart with their actions,

some intentional,

some incidental.

However,

I do not

and I cannot

love them any the less for their

shortcomings

ignorance

or meaningless noisy rebellion,

and I welcome their return

even if it takes

years.

I realize this is

a fatherly perspective,

and this is very good news

indeed.

Her Empty Bedroom

Her empty bedroom

as silent as my heart

when I think of

her unexplained,

abrupt

departure.


(Written for the http://dversepoets.com/ January 20, 2012)

I’m Just Being Honest (prompt: Cruelty)

Look at the fat

dripping like fleshy syrup

off that gross stack

of pancakes

he calls a torso.

He had the nerve

to put a tattoo

on those arms?

Like trying to draw

the Mona Lisa

on a drinking straw.

And when

he gets his guitar out

and tries to sing,

he thinks adding vibrato

to his warbling voice

will make it soulful.

It doesn’t.

His nose

has the width of his old man’s

and the length of his mom’s,

and I won’t even mention

the wart on the left side.

Don’t be fooled.

He might sound

authoritative,

but if you

question him hard enough

he’ll cower

and back down,

assuming that he’s wrong.

Worst of all,

he writes this pseudo-poetry,

wrapping his fear and insecurity

into trite monologues

and foists them upon

an unsuspecting internet.

I’m not trying to sound cruel,

I’m just being honest

and trying to anticipate

the criticisms that are

inevitably headed my way.

So,

now that I’ve exposed

my weak spots,

I trust you won’t use them

again me,

for to do so

would be cruel

indeed.

This Passionate Communion

I bring the delicacy

to my lips

and breathe in its

presence,

the hint of steam
and the scent

immediately swimming

in my bloodstream,

finding my heart

and rocketing

its adrenaline magic

throughout

my body.

I am brought out

of the gray silence

into a fresh new dimension,

a secret garden,

and I am unashamed

at my gluttony,

but that naked vulnerability

I share with only you,

liberates me

and I unravel

like a morning glory,

petals unfolding

to catch every bit

of life from above.

I cannot,

nay, will not

stop this

passionate

communion.

You are here

bringing me life

and my response

is ravenous

and messy

and unrestrained;

I never feel more alive.

Now, bring that canister

of aerosol frosting over here

and let’s tear the roof

off this sucker. 

(Written for the http://dversepoets.com/ Open Link Night, January 17, 2012)

Sparrow

In the parking lot

of the big box pet store,

a lone brown sparrow

flits and hops,

a displaced sprite

in search of

the discarded French fry,

cellophane with a smear

of something edible remaining,

a stray sunflower seed.

She is too consumed

with her tenuous survival

to notice all the people

returning to their cars,

with bags of overpriced kibble

for their kept,

chosen animals.

She doesn’t know any better

and perhaps that’s why she

looks happy:

she doesn’t know envy.

Protocol

Serious meeting

confidence shattered

not by miscreant ringtone

but an uncontrollable

coughing

fit.

The Moment (February 10, 1990)

The pointy- toed-

shoe-in-my-eye-socket

hangover headache

made its

predictable

return.

The voice:

“How many days

are you gonna do this?”

Shutup.

My stomach felt like

every disease in the world

was inside me

fighting each other

for bragging rights.

7am,

which meant I wouldn’t

get back to normal again

until that afternoon.

The voice:

“Turn over and look out

the window.

Look at the sky.”

People always tried

to point out “nature” to me

which I always hated,

but I was in no condition

to fight.

I turned over

and pulled up the shade

an inch

and I saw it.

No clouds

to give a sense of perspective,

just a clear

blue

infinite

serenity.

It awakened my heart

and I smiled,

and as if on cue,

gossipy birds

sang and chirped.

I laughed

at how

“perfect”

it all seemed.

The voice spoke

one last time:

“OK, now what if

you’re not here

to enjoy this anymore?”

It was a question

too pointed to ignore,

and a moment too beautiful

to throw away.

I lingered in the moment

a few minutes more

before confessing my alcoholism

and changing my life.

(Check out Open Link Night at dversepoets.com)

No Contest

She solves puzzles

and spends hours at the computer,

trying to get high score on Bejeweled or

the perfect triple letter triple word score

in Word Feud,

her mind ever-working

trying to figure out a solution

within the confines

of established rules.

He writes poems

and jokes for future ad libs

trying for the perfect combination

that will pierce the façade

with honesty and laughter,

his mind ever-working

trying to figure out solutions

to problems that

may not even exist.

No contest:

she’s smarter than

he is.

(Linking to dVerse poetry open link night, first time!)

I Can’t Write Small Stones

Perhaps it’s my

argumentative nature

or my verbosity,

but I can’t write

small stones.

Some stones are smooth,

some craggy,

but each one is perfect

because they’re not

the product of

an imperfect

human

hand.

So

I stick with the label

micropoetry,

as it describes both

the genre

and my painfully

modest

talent.

The Unstoppable Rain (Prompt: Unstoppable)

It's taken years
to un-learn
that purposeful alienation
of my self
from my feelings.

Now,
when I see something
unspeakably beautiful,

or feel something
dark and cold
collapsing upon itself
at the core of my being,

or rejoice ecstatically
in those rare moments
of bliss,

I allow the tears
to stream down my cheeks
accompanied by sighs
sobs or
smiles
as the case may be.

Ironically,

I have triumphed
over what was intended to be
the unstoppable power
of male socialization,

with the
unstoppable
rain of
human teardrops.

Box of Dreams (Prompt: Box)

I used to keep a

box of memories

and over time

I kept shifting the contents

from smaller

to larger box.

Once when I was

switching boxes,

I lost my grip

and it fell and broke,

scattering my memories

mementos

anecdotes

across the floor,

like beads

from a busted necklace.

Seeing them all there

the pearls mixed in with the dross,

the voice spoke:

“why are you keeping

everything? 

You can’t even remember why

you wanted to keep it

all.”

So, I picked out

a proper display case

to honor the pearls

and threw out

everything else.

A box of memories

can weight you down,

so now I have a smaller,

lighter box of dreams,

which helps me fly.

“Wow, I Made This?” (prompt: new start poem)

There’s a new start

at the end of each old year.

I need a new start

because I know how

all of my old starts

end,

and if I can’t have a new start

then I want a new middle

and a new

end.

So, I will keep trying

reaching

punching

for something new

something to surprise me,

something to look at and say

“Wow, I made this?”

much like God must’ve felt

after creating

the platypus,

the orgasm,

and the bursting orange horizon

where the sun sinks

dutifully into the

beautiful blue Pacific

everyday.

There’s No Magic (Prompt: Magic)

There’s no magic,

just unknown things

scientists haven’t wrangled into

submission yet,

and until they do

I’ll take my place among the

primitives

who stand in awe of

the perfection of a rose

the tingling of sugar

the impulse to move to music

the massive silent afterglow of orgasm

and I will enjoy them

all the more

for their untamed mystery.

While You Were Gone (Prompt: While You Were Gone)

First, I tried reading that book

you got me last month

but kept getting distracted

by the sheer overwhelming 

silence.

Then I decided to make sure

everything in the kitchen

put away

and the floors were swept

so you wouldn’t have to do it

when you got home.

I watched TV for five minutes

and since there was no one

to comment on it with,

I shut it off.

After that,

I ate the rest of the cookies

in broad daylight

not having to sneak them

because you were here.

Finally, I laid on the bed

and I smelled your hair

on the pillow,

closed my eyes

and daydreamed.

While you were gone

I just waited for you

to come back.

Against the Odds (Prompt: Against All Odds)

Against the odds

I still watch falling objects

and secretly wish

they stay suspended

in midflight

and imagine dinosaurs

climbing over the mountain range

as I stand watching

in rapt awe

and sheer terror.

Against the odds

I sit at the piano

and hope that my fingers fall

into a beautiful random

melody,

and peck at the keyboard

praying for an idea

I haven’t had

a thousand times before.

Against the odds

a tiny flapping bird

takes on the endless sky

trying to make its way home,

as all living things

resist the weight of gravity

and reach ever

higher and higher

to the Sun.

Against the odds

every morning

a former atheist

puts both

the Mogen David

and the Cross

around his neck

and remembers

he is both

an agent for the Christ

and a temple for

his Jewish soul.

Against the odds,

I believe

and love

and persevere.

November 29, 2002 (Prompt: Day and Evening)

The yacht could only hold

50 people,

so it was a necessarily

small affair.

We told everyone

to be there at 3:45,

as we were sailing at 4 sharp.

Predictably,

we didn’t leave the dock

‘til 4:09.

Minutes before sunset,

my deceased father arrived

in the form of a

rainbow in the distance

and blessed the ceremony.

I looked at

the assembly of faces

some representing my past,

and some representing my future,

with the calm confidence

that comes from knowing

the wisdom of one’s decision.

Then,

my new family came down the aisle,

one by one

until she took her place

beside me.

We listened

we assented

we kissed

we laughed

we ate

we danced

and as evening draped

the Newport Harbor,

Christmas lights twinkled

their silent code of cheer

and good fortune,

inaugurating

the best time of my life.

Playwright Story (Prompt: ______ Story)

I wanted to be a playwright,

as I fancied myself a modest god

who would make these players

do my bidding,

live out my revenge fantasies.

I aimed for

verisimilitude,

the illusion that it was

just like real life.

I wrote scenes of dialogue

and action

and characters

who all sounded like me,

but as a sheltered 16 year old,

I didn’t have enough material

to work with.

I’d create scenes,

situations,

snappy patter,

but I could never write

a proper end of a play,

and they would each limp

to their eventual final curtain.

Three years and

five plays later

I gave it up,

and went back to writing

songs

poems

jokes

temporary literary ephemera,

and I still watch

with palpable envy

and awe

when a writer pulls it all together

and finishes the story.

Now,

when I write “poetry”

when I am done with an idea

it just ends,

and I go on

to the next thing

just like real life.

Tribute to Myself (Prompt: tribute)

On days like these

when every step is a misstep

and every word is misspoken,

I feel completely

misunderstood and unappreciated

and I think it perfectly

reasonable to pay tribute to

myself,

as no one else knows

the trouble I’ve seen

and tried to fix

and eventually gave up on.

It veers closely to self-pity

but in essence,

I congratulate myself

on not diving into drink

or otherwise deserting,

shrinking from this fight.

I just recognize that

today I have lost,

but with a dollop of grace

I’ll be given another shot,

perhaps to endure

masterfully enough

so that I’ll have it

in my heart

to look beyond myself

and my collection

of impossible, miserable

personal

puzzles.

Reruns (Prompt: Good Old Days)

Growing up,

life wasn’t abusive or neglectful,

but it was staid, Spartan

and security minded.

My parents were too busy

trying not to lose their status

in the lower middle class

that there was rarely

time for laughter,

time for joy.

I don’t look back and see

the good old days.

I see reruns,

mostly sitcoms.

All I was allowed

to do was watch TV,

so I did.

I even learned to read

by matching the synopsis

to what was on

in the TV.

Now I use

DVR technology to watch

shows I saw as a kid

and I recite the scripts,

perfect in memory and intonation,

I even know the rhythm

of the laugh tracks.

To this day,

some of my fondest memories

are found in episodes of

“All in the Family”

“Sanford and Son”

“Green Acres”

“The Honeymooners”

and better than family

they will all

outlive me.

You Can’t Have Everything (prompt: comsumption)

“Limitless movies on demand”

“this ereader can store a million books”

“all you can eat for one low price”

“unlimited broadband access on your smart phone”

“access to our 8 million song music library”

all I can think is

you can’t have everything,

where would you put it?

Seen and Unseen (Prompt: Gather)

If I gather

all my good deeds

seen and unseen,

then subtract

the sum of

all my bad deeds

seen and unseen

and total it up,

and then stand it

next to one man

hanging on a cross,

no matter how

I size it up,

I’m not worthy,

but still

I’m welcomed in,

so

I give thanks.

Traveling Light (Prompt: Travel)

I’m traveling light

through this shared illusion

because thinking

I need to bring anything

is also an illusion.

If I put on certain records

and open that box with the

scented letters,

I am taken to yesterday.

When I see little babies

laughing, safe and adored

with softly wrinkled grown-ups

I travel to tomorrow.

When I have the

Chicken Cashew Nut from

the Royal Thai in Riverside

I travel to Heaven’s kitchen.

When I write

that rare combination

of perfect thought and feeling

I travel to places

previously unknown

sometimes wondrous,

sometimes scary.

So, I travel light.

All I need to pack

is my brain.

The Lime (Prompt: Fruit Poem)

Lime sits

in lemon’s shadow,

smaller, darker

maybe even a little unfriendly.

Rarely the centerpiece,

often,

an afterthought.

Usually relegated

to being sliced in half

and squeezed over

the star of the dinner show.

But then,

take a bite

and she sizzles with cool zing

makes the mouth water

and brings out something

exquisite,

hitherto unk—

ach –

I just drooled

onto my keyboard.

Whenever I Hear Julie London Sing “I’d Like You for Christmas”

Whenever I hear Julie London sing

“I’d Like You for Christmas”

I am instantly transported

to that doleful yearning

before you were mine.

Once I heard her

I needed to know

what it would feel like

to slow dance

to this song

with you

in front of the fireplace

on Christmas Eve

in our very own home,

in our very own life.

Now,

more than a decade later,

her whispered plea

still causes me to catch my breath,

close my eyes,

thank God

for this answered prayer,

and wait for the

next Christmas Eve

to slow dance this

with you.

The Best Advice Ever (Prompt: Best Ever Poem)

Scanlon,

the obese TV writing instructor

who insisted upon being addressed

as “Dr.”and then didn’t return

the manuscript I sent him

which was my final grade in the course,

gave me the best advice I ever got:

I don’t even recall

the exact question,

but I always remember

the answer.

With admirable passion

and eloquence,

he exploded

“Bullshit!

Don’t be

a second-best someone else!

Be the first-best You!”

I still

quote

him.