Book: "Anatomy of a Poet"

Sample Poems from the Book

When It's Over

You don't always know
how you know.
The awareness comes slowly.
With the certainty and final resignation
of a child learning there's no Santa Claus,
… you just know.

The breakfast table, once a venue
for long dreamy stares
and coffee-flavored kisses,
becomes a silent stage
for reading the news,
eating breakfast, and
the only sound is the
clock on the wall, but
… you just know.

The smell of his shirt
when you bury your face there,
the feel of his hands on your body
as if they have a life of their own,
all silently slip to a place
wherever memories go
to gather dust, and
… you just know.

You miss the nights,
how his body and yours
breathed and moved as one.
Maybe it's the nights
and the way they were
that give the knowing life, but
… you just know.

Like ocean waves upon the sand,
love recedes
with all the other yesterdays
and you would trade
all your tomorrows
to have it back, but
… you just know.

-*-

Breathless

Breathless when I met him.
Breathless when he left.
But the breathless loving in between
was breathless at its best.

-*-

Anatomy of a Poet

Go in through the eyes of a poet,
deep into her alphabet mind.
Ideas like flotsam and jetsam
dodge poetry fragments and lines.

Beware the dark shadows of memory,
knife-sharp and bloodied by time,
or gentle, orgasmic and sensual,
swirling eddies, some without rhyme.

Softly notice the spirit in hiding.
Tiptoe past the bruised heart mending there,
knitting poems, pearls strung on a necklace,
unfinished jewels everywhere.

Take note on your tour of this poet,
the outside no different, you see,
but inside, my God, a passion abyss,
the poet, the woman, the me.

-*-

His Hands

His hands should have
their own identity,
a name, perhaps,
befitting each vocation
they enjoy:

Skillful Hands --
Finely tuned,
they hold every tool
with equal panache.
Each callous earned,
a trophy,
but self-aware
and gentle
as they browse
my every curve.

Comical Hands --
The right one
scraping whiskers,
razoring down
a field of white
revealing trails of
pink-skinned angles.
I laugh at the silly poses
skewed by the left
so the right
won't miss a spot.
My just reward,
a foamy kiss.

Angry Hands --
His driving hands,
hands that slap
the wheel
as assholes
go too slow
or cut in front,
turn signals
up their butts
with their heads.
I'm glad the
angry hands
are only known
to live in cars.

Those hands --
I love his hands.

-*-

Full Circle

A little girl clops in mommy's heels,
her dress, a floppy hat.
The borrowed pearls she's chosen
dangle halfway down her back.

Her face a shining rainbow,
ruby lips, cheeks tinted pink,
blue splashes on both eyelids,
powder snowflakes in the sink.

She'll go twirling in a ballroom,
a princess with her knight.
Or better still, be mommy
out with daddy Friday night.

In a child's imagination
everything is crystal clear,
yet the truth beneath the surface
is revealed in mommy's mirror.

That little girl is all grown up,
clothes and shoes are now my size...
but the mirror of maturation
… is my own daughters’ eyes.

-*-

Taps for my Soldier

A gentle breeze
chatters the leaves
as birds sing
their greetings.
The sun shines.
A day like any other,
and yet like none before.

Two mirrored rows of uniforms
line up like blue dominoes,
white gloves holding rifles
at the ready.

A lone bugle cries.
Twenty-four notes,
Each note, slow as a tear,
blankets ears and heavy hearts.
In the silence between,
nature holds its breath.

Gone is the breeze.
Gone are the bird songs.
Gone is her hold on composure,
all lost in the bugle's lament.

Solemnly, a soldier approaches.
White gloves present
a tri-fold flag
and, in one final mournful note,
legions of silent voices unite
to call a comrade home
and a young wife weeps.

-*-

Adonis in Passing

Young god, head held high,
proud mane blowing
in the city's dirty breeze,
clothes just enough wrinkled
to make a woman believe
you just climbed
out of a quickie,
or stepped off Page 42
in this month's GQ.

Do you mind
that I turn and look
as you walk by?
No, of course not.
You don't see me as a threat.
You don't even see me at all.

But give me ten more years …
by then, I'll be old enough
to reach over,
give your ass a squeeze
and say,
"Mmmm … nice buns.”

-*-

When I Finally Close My Eyes

When I close my eyes
for the last time,
I want to have lived,
really lived.

I want to know I've tasted
the smorgasbord of life,
having relished the good
and spat the bad back out,
knowing at least I tried it.

When I'm done here,
I don't want to wonder
whether someone caught
the kiss I threw,
I will know.

I don't want to leave this life
with a heart as empty
as my pockets have always been.

I want to know, without a doubt,
I've left something of me behind,
-- something that's good,
not regret,
for never making a difference.

When I close my eyes
for the very last time,
I would like
someone to remember
... I was here.

-*-

We Need to Get Away

Have I told you lately
how good you smell
when the shower
spits you out?

I can't recall
the last time, but
it wouldn't surprise me,
considering the time
we’ve actually spent
alone together lately

I do know, I remember
how intense we used to be.
We need to get away,
just the two of us,
before any ruts grow
in our lovely road …

Let's go somewhere, now,
before “Talking dirty”
really means:
"You doing a light load?
Grab my pj's from the hook
on the bathroom door."

Before “Wanna catch a quickie?”
really means:
"I'm pooped. Wanna take a nap?"

Before “Oh God, I'm coming!”
actually means:
"Don't nag me, I'm almost ready!
Go ahead, start the car."

Let's go somewhere while
”Baby, that was fantastic!”
still means more than
”a Sunday Scrabble win.”
It's not too late ...
I remember.
-*-

Websters Dictionary:  Changeling:  (noun):  
1. One who, or that which, is left or taken
in place of another.

The Changeling

At dawn, I looked
with eyes wide open.

The color of his hair had
snow-stormed
to wintery gray,
the dark crowded out
to who knows where,

perhaps to join
a master work
in perfect granite,
his finite features
raisined to roadways
buckled into nose
and cheek and brow.

Somehow spared
by nature's cruelty
are steel blue eyes,
eyes that walk my dreams,
and lips that taunt and tease.

Where was I
when all this happened?
Here, a changeling, too,
and robbed as well?

Today, when morning
slipped inside
to kiss my eyelids,
I felt blessed
it reached across
to touch his too.

-*-

I Remember Mama

I remember Mama
blowing chewing gum bubbles
to entertain us while she ironed.
I was too young for school,
Sesame Street wasn’t invented yet,
the rain was pouring outside
and I was awed.

I remember Mama
sewing at her machine into the night
when she had to get up early for work,
patching my favorite pair of cutoffs
'just one more time'
or putting pockets on pants
because my little brother adored them,
and I still hear her words,
‘There’s all kinds of ways to say
I love you.’

I remember Mama
teaching us that beauty on the inside
was more important than on the outside.
‘A kind word to a stranger
might be the only kind word
that person heard all day’
and how good it felt
finding out she was right.

I remember Mama
telling us to hold onto our dreams.
Make them happen and never say ‘I can’t’
and how funny I thought it
when she said
the world was our watermelon
and all we had to do was
grab it and take a bite.

I remember Mama
who taught us best by example
with her unconditional love.
Love isn’t love until it’s given away
and it’s in the giving that we know
it truly does come back ten-fold.

I remember, Mama ..

-*-

A Nickel for Thoughts of You

I wish I had a nickel
for every time I think of you
watching TV on the couch,
chin parked on your chest,
not sleeping, just resting
your eyes for a minute;

or with your brows furrowed,
chasing an errant whisker
on the face in the mirror;

or your hands on the keyboard,
and the amazing speed
of the intricate thoughts,
considering the size of your hands;

or you secretly watching me
from across the room,
and me secretly catching you
secretly watching me;

or your gentle touch
when you pass my chair,
just because you're glad I'm here.

Love is measured
in so many little minutes.
It's important we not miss them,
for who knows,
life might be metered in hours.

It isn't really about the nickels,
-- but it would be fun
to see the almighty pile of coins.

-*-

A Poet for a Lover

Oh Lord, give me a poet for a lover,
whose words stroke me like velvet hands.
Word-tender caresses more reaching
than the caress of a mere mortal man.

A poet's light touch is so gentle.
Word-fingers probe deep every time,
arousing me, haunting me, wetting me,
seducing me, body and mind.

Oh Lord, give me a poet for a lover!
Lust and fire burn deep in his heart.
A silver-tongued devil whose words make me ache
to be on my knees in the dark.

Word-foreplay making me want him,
only mind-loved, I want to be free
to feel just one time, my poet inside,
where only mind-lust up to now has loved me.

Link to Amazon - Anatomy of a Poet

Poet/Writer/Author of 5 books.
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