Thank You!

I’ve been working on this blog pretty steadily since January of this year. I’ve enjoyed sharing the work directly through Facebook and Twitter, and it’s been very validating seeing how many views the site has accumulated. Makes me feel good that people are liking the poetry and coming back to read more. So thank you for that!

I won’t be contributing to this blog much more, as I want to begin writing new material I’d like to use for my next collection. Can’t say how long that will be. No one ever really knows how the creative process will pan out. But I’m hopeful to have a collection out with new, never published material by late spring 2018. That’s the goal. 

So again, thank you to all the readers. I mean, WOW, 7,922 views since January! Just WOW! 🤗

What Good is Freedom When Illusory?

I used to hide under the bed.

Despite my pounding heart, 

I was safe so long as I wasn’t 

discovered. I’d leave for hours, 

disappear, when cell phones 

didn’t exist. I was free until forced

to return, out of hunger, want for 

my pillow, or having circled the 

mall far into the double digits. 

I’d return to that ugly face, 

wade through another day of 

muck, waist deep, retarding my 

every step, undoing the previous 

day’s little freedoms, having 

slipped through my fingers

and back in my cell, under the 

dictator’s oppressive regime that

moves like a visit to the DMV or 

returning gifts after Christmas. 

I might too equate this regime to

adolescence and its lasting 

punishment on our hormones.

What is freedom anyway? 

A mirage? A tall tale? A story of 

hope? All, but maybe none. 

Maybe it’s all just an illusion. 

Trapped

I feel helpless

trapped

like my days

as a child

when she would 

hurt me so bad

I’d wish to be dead 

or run away,

far away

and to where 

never mattered,

as long as I was 

free

from her scary teeth

in my face

when she screamed

at me,

or when I looked

up from the floor

beaten, lost, 

trapped in that hell.

I never thought 

after surviving all that

living with the truth 

of me, being

an abused child, 

would I ever again

be victimized so bad

by someone smaller

younger, one I’ve 

spent the past 

15 years 

caring for.

Never did I see

the same meanness

coming,

all the while

her forgetting
all the days

of all the years 

I sacrificed

for her better life.

I’ll never understand 

how the more I give

the meaner she can be.

I never thought I’d 

once again 

feel trapped like this.

The In-Between

I’m an end of the spectrum hopper

at one extreme or the other

wishing I could slide myself over

to the middle, find comfort in 

a happy medium, a less drastic 

direction one way or the other.

But no, for me, I get the all or nothing, 

desire to consume me now, hold

me till I can’t breathe, try so hard 

with an outpouring of over-the-top

sweetness that my teeth begin to hurt.

Or it’s let’s be friends with benefits,

take it really slow, and I hear again, 

what’s the rush? So I’m dangling 

once again on said spectrum end

waiting for the magical words

that we are now moving into the 

middle, the long sought after in-

between I’ve been hoping for,

but what you must know is I only

ever bounce from end to end, as

drastic as us distinguishing from 

the left and the right nowadays, 

which has become a part of the 

demise of reaching the in-between. 

The current political climate has 

severely torn us into supporters 

of the current regime or haters, 

finding a middle next to impossible.

So what’s a girl to do when it’s sex 

and friendship only, or desperation 

with sappy, disingenuous motives 

to ultimately have some void filled,

one they can’t or don’t want to cope

with anymore, leading me to believe 

that perhaps what they should be 

seeking is a mommy instead.  

At Home With My Pillows

Sometimes I think I’ll never make

it back to my pillow, my velveteen

blanket, my safe space.

I’m far removed, and connected 

only by the little texts my daughter 

will send, three dots displaying

on the screen, and I’m impatiently 

waiting for the reply already. 

But there is something about the 

uneven, hanging, donut-shaped 

lamps and shiny marble floors. 

Cookies and coffee in the evening

and all you can eat in the morning,

as I stick to fluffy scrambled eggs, 

sweet melon and Life cereal, 

always dry, in a bowl, perched on

my egg and fruit plate. I’m pretty 

consistent that way, but I’m known 

to have an occasional bagel with 

a thin layer of low-fat cream cheese.

So after receiving daily fresh towels 

and returning to a made bed, you 

would think I’d not be in a hurry 

to check out. But contrary to such belief, 

I am far more content in my own bed, 

my own room, hearing my three cats 

chase each other from end to end 

of the apartment, a small hiss here, 

a loud “MEOW!” there, until I 

jump from bed, uttering my first

“Hey, stop that!” and they scatter 

like blown leaves in late October.

I’m grateful for Friday’s, as I sit 

with a glass of wine, listening to 

crickets out the open windows 

three floors down. And then, 

in the distance, speeding vehicles 

tempting fate at 1130 PM on I-86.

Human Condition

It's so different now.

The games are hard

and the price is high.

I'm lost in the dust 

like an aimless passerby.

I can't predict 

where the truth will appear

but I've waited for you

year after year.

I believed in forever 

from the day that we met

I know that you felt it

but no permanence just yet.

I meant it, those words

that I laid on your lips

In the quiet of our embrace

when I tasted your kiss.

I miss you in the dark 

when I imagine your face

I can never sleep soundly

not knowing our place.

My words have lost you

you've forgotten my eyes

how they searched for your soul

wished it to stop my cries.

How can I tell you 

what you mean to me

when you won't even look 

at all we could be.

We all live with pain

our human condition 

that we may ease in each other

it's all I've been wishing.

Don't turn away forever

move cautiously as you leave

as I have not left your side 

but slowly, I do bleed. 

Not the Only One

He was busy having a beer

and couldn't talk about us. I said 

"maybe later then" and he said "sure." 

One word text glaring at me.

I knew I couldn't live with it. 

His vacant words: emotionless, 

safe; words that would inflame 

my normally placid ways.

Driving through two hours of traffic;

pulsing, blinding pain traveling 

the curve of my skull, landing at 

either temple, and all he could say 

was "sure." I could have said, I'm 

dying on the side of the road,

can you call me? And he would 

have said, "sure." There was no, 

"I'll call you soon" or "feel better."

Just a few simple, unfeigned words

that would so easily soothe, let me 

know I was not alone in the pain; 

that he cares. But his single-syllable 

replies left me angered inside, and too, 

defeated, as I accepted finally that

his capacity to care for others is 

greatly diminished by his own pain,

so, at least, he did let me know
"You're not the only one."

It

I knew I wanted it when I didn't have it

and when it snuck up behind me

I was startled, a little frightened 

and didn't quite recognize it.

For a long time I looked away from it

denied myself of it 

looked in the mirror and said 

I don't need it anymore.

But then I thought how other people

have it and why should I be different?

My breath can be seen on a cold

winter day just like anyone else's.

My pulse is strong and I'm alive.

I'm awake and free to revel in it...

so in that moment, when it pulled me 

hard and fast, like storm winds do

off the shore, I let it, I let it sweep me up 

with its strong arms, into that first night.

Old Vine Zin & Looming Questions

I don't mind just the sound of a 

fan oscillating across my bedroom,

or the windows pulling in a soft 

whoosh of cars nearby on the interstate.

I don't mind that it's Friday night

and I've drank three-quarters of 

the old vine zin without having 

shared it with anyone.

I don't mind, I guess, how clueless

I am beyond our cute dinners and 

steamy hours in bed. But then, maybe 

I do mind, if that's the peek of our 
crescendo, the high note falling flat.

I do mind feeling weird if I raise

the question, that looming question, 

and then waiting for something more 

than "What's the rush? Chillax."

I'm as chill as one gets, immobile often-

times, but shouldn't I want to know, pry, 

look inside his man-skull and find the 

tiniest sliver suggesting I'm more than 

just an ego stroke to his way with sexual 

prowess, his proven manly ability to 
cause a woman to moan and squirm 
in a way that keeps him fully content.

I mean, who am I to him anyway?

Musings of a Hotel Guest

It's just a room like any other

with towels shaped like elephants,

mini fridge and adequately stocked 

tiny bottles of toiletries, but I bring 

my own. Along with enough 

personal primping products to 

set up a salon in my room; I'm a 

small slave to creature comforts. 

My roommate's bed is empty 

tonight and I'm laughing at the 

irony. BF is in Israel and wouldn't

make it in time to spend the night.

We actually both laughed at that.

TV guide blue screen is a place-

holder while making a decision,

or perhaps it will be only the hum

of the AC and the screen for 

this evening's entertainment. 

Not sure I want hibachi, saying

"Thanks, I'll think about it. Got the 

room to myself." And she shook 

her head, knowing the luxury in that. 

The teenager's back home holding 

down the fort, and I'm thinking

she'll be wanting a raise soon.

The Families

They sat around, body odor and 

cat urine polluting any breathable 

oxygen left in the trailer.

You couldn't move one way or 

another without a definable trail,

floors carpeted with bottles, clothes, 

items that never made it

to the trash can, if there was one.

Another left food rotting on the stove

and needed it pointed out

as if it liquefying, somehow, 

did not set off her own screams.

The last house of the day 

wouldn't let us in but spoke through 

the small crack in the door, 

where ugly odors hit my nose 

like a police siren, and I untensed

as she came outside instead.

So we stood directly under the 

4 o'clock sun with the mom, and 

son who punches mailboxes 

and puts his fists not only through 

windows and walls but their whole world.

Waiting for a Hero

His lips were stronger than I 

imagined. His grip, firm

enough to calm my quivering.

Fingers delicately traveled 

the long edge of my back

and as limbs entwined 

I was so sure this was 

gonna be something.

I can't deny how funny

we are together, and how 

our Jewish roots bind us. 

He takes that tucked away 

part of me and invites it to play.

But how much fun do we have

before we embrace vulnerability

let it become a foundation

and maybe a serous one.

Sometimes it just doesn't come. 

I've dismissed my propensity

to form heroes, and instead, see 
emotionally wounded men 

have lost their vision of love.

How long do I wait 

before I know with certainty

there may be nothing more 

to wait for?

Blank Sheet

I asked him to look at me

let his eyes be the words

he couldn't say.

I asked him to take a walk 

let his easy stride be the 

words he couldn't say.

I asked him to kiss me

longer, softer

let his lips be the words 

he couldn't say. 

He mostly remained blank

like the sheet of paper

that would have looked 

beautiful with words

had they ever been there. 

"Work" on the House

It was adorable when she said

we're living at nana's until our

house is finished. 

Repairs she was told are 

being done but it's on the 

step-dad who uses God

to dismiss his sins

free him from guilt over

his pedophilia. 

Religious mama can't wait to

move back in with her

God-forgiven child molester,

as she surely can forgive 

if He can.

Satan somewhat to blame

in his confession: evil temptation.

She sits behind the wheel

wth pretty frosted blonde hair

and perfect make-up;

smiling, happy, and 

five-year old Kendra in the 

back seat, chatty, sitting with

her toddler siblings, big smiles,

pointing at their nana's cat 

strolling down the driveway,

wanting me to know they 

will be seeing their two cats 

at home just as soon as the 

"work" on the house is all done.

Imagined Loss

When I thought about it

being gone

I was scared and anxious

thinking that can't be

the right answer.

No one knows though

how it will feel when 

it's really gone.

We imagine emptiness

loneliness

a world without hope

without love.

Funny thing is

once it was gone for good

there was a realization

of nothing lost

as nothing had been gained.

Love never reached fruition.

And the wondrous world

of what it could have been

will never be lost;

as forever seen in the mind's eye

and rooted in the eternal heart.

Pretty Town

I would only know this

by walking down its 

streets and roads

rounding with the curvy ones

see where they'll take me.

Porches are decorated

still with summer colors

and there's the soft sway 

of our red, white, and blue.

Vastly present is all the green

purposefully verdant 

and proud of it.

I walked two or three miles

and no matter how pretty

the siding or brick was,

how unique in color 

the doors appeared,

or the unusual geometric

shapes of what seemed a

menagerie of windows,

it was what's inside 

the houses. It's the homes. 

The people, their families, 

their relationships.

It's a pleasant normalcy 

like returning to Green Acres

I remember from from 

20 years ago.

I could have kept walking

viewing this pretty town 

but after passing 

a man snipping peaches

from his front yard tree,

white hair blowing 

in the late summer breeze,

turning and smiling

as I walked by;

this was enough for me.

Not Brave Enough

I want to cry 

retreat into that lonely place

I'm reminded of 

when I lose again.

I want explanations

an accounting of the truth

but maybe him saying nothing 

resonates the loudest.

He would often send me music

expressions he calls them

and they'd speak for him

share his insides 

with another's lyrics.

But this song is quiet, so quiet

I can hear my heart ripping in two 

feel the pink draining from my cheeks

see the light dimming in my eyes.

I'll go to sleep tonight

wondering what he would've said

had he been a brave enough man.

Some New Truths

Is it even possible 

to have romance 

in this day and age

while we're inundated

with the latest political pun

on Facebook or Twitter 

consuming our lives

with never-ending news feeds

forgetting to feed ourselves

with real nourishment

human emotion

soft conversations 

walks at night with only

the sound of crickets 

and a moon to light the way.

We're either too tired 

or too busy, slipping 

along the backward slope

the world is taking

descending into some 

new and revealing truths:

chaos is fast becoming

commonplace 

and the time for romance

between lovers

is fading from existence.

Broken

I wish I could put together

an assemblage of words

that would clearly say what

my heart is feeling today.

But my heart is in a state of 

confusion, and transition

to it being just the organ

pumping blood through my body

keeping me alive, as alive

as I'm going to feel after

love walked out the door,

literally and swiftly abandoning 

me at that moment I was 

most vulnerable, showing 

deeper layers of myself 

expressing real needs 

and without so much as 

a shrug, and to ask

"So, how do we fix you?"

Fix me? 

Can I be any closer to myself?

Can I look into my own eyes 

to reveal his true love?

Can I whisper sweet words 

in my own ear?

Can I press myself against the 

wall and kiss me like I was 

the only air left to breathe?

How can I fix these things 

when the broken pieces 

are what walked out the door?

And the Lack of Farsightedness

The preacher said it's more

than just waiting.

It's knowing it will come.

Like ordering a package 

that takes a longer route 

or is delayed by the holidays.

Still, you know it's coming

it's on the way. 

So I want to thank Him 

in advance for whichever 

delivery method He chooses

and to say I know timing 

is always going to be off

and for reasons I don't know

but I want to thank Him

for knowing for me.

I am resigned in heart and soul 

that I am not alone 

not left to figure it all out

or to need a farsightedness

of all that is possible.

It's not always easy 

to lay down just when you 

want to run in every direction

searching for the answer

the place, the person

fit it all into a timetable

I have no control over,

and once I know that

waiting is less painful

more certain

but because I'm human
When? still looms in my mind

like a flashing neon sign.

Couches and Red Flags

Of course I want to believe

all the pretty ideas 

never questioning

the details of sweet talk 

when we're spooned 

on the couch

his lips on my bare neck

each kiss more believable 

than the next.

Of course I want to stop

my own story-telling 

like I'm a fact-checker

with a rebuttal column

researching each kiss and
You know I love you

even when he was 

more comfortable 
retreating to the couch 
from my bed

when the whole idea 

was to hold and be held

in just this one night

in be midst of busy lives.

Why after all this time

is he uncomfortable?

Why are small red flags

waving; me, suddenly

questioning all that is 

supposed to be true?

And why are those 

pretty ideas of us 

buckling from the 

vacant space?

Remedy

It's the momentary buzz

the high from those first

few words exchanged. 

It's the words that make

you forget why or how 

you were so sad just 

moments ago.

It's the tide rushing 

over your feet

or for once

letting the wind blow 

through your hair

allowing it to feel good

and you, alive.

Wishing this moment

could remain 

in all the days to come

as the memory of loss

sadness, blame

fade into the background

like a shadowy figure

lurking offstage

one you thought 

you knew 

but the image 

less and less distinct

hazy, more like fog 

burning off the morning

disappearing into the sky

until it appears no more.