Two gender defined rows, straight military style, into the gymnasium, windowless, dank, metal folding chairs, in arrays, one small 14 inch black & white tube TV on top a cart six feet tall, a long twisting extension cord connects to a wall outlet, aluminum foil wrapped right antenna; … view
It was almost a textbook case of how not to communicate, Styles thought, trying to maintain his detachment. In his long career as a Hong Kong communications consultant he had not seen anything like it.
Mega’s Chief Executive had begun the press briefing on the company’s results reasonably … view
A Sonnet to the Siren Zilphia
Short hair, large nose, dark expressive voice
Amounting to the highest part of the mainly positioned careful fall
Would be the problem to seethe about the actual but prudent filled
About the careless side of the deeply impressed voice pattern was
Fog rolls in on the red mountain.
A husk. It is blood Winter.
We sell ourselves, ounce by ounce
To the moon.
The sky has swallowed it’s full and
Grows colder, darker.
Years peel back like rind.
My children are as old … view
Please click on the link to view these poems: Three concrete poems
When I was six, my Nanny decided to tell me my birth story. I know her intention was to tell me how much she loved me.
I didn’t know then about self-filtering mechanisms, about choosing words carefully, or editing what you say to sensitive children who, no matter … view
Before I banished the poets, who whisper
about reflections of things – lovers and lakes,
cold rain, and rough breath rising
in prairie towns, or fathers returning
in dreams, before that I banned the birds
for their restlessness, and the ache
they … view
Drought: Spring 2017
Yes, let’s date this poem, date ourselves.
Ants have been sneaking in looking for water. Sometimes
I find them single-filing in and out of the antique bulb
glass I have on the kitchen’s windowsill.
There’s an avocado pit poked three times with … view
The doctor cuts me like a paper doll
to source the sadness, takes vials of tissue
for those who’ve stopped feeling.
Too many to count.
He adds something blue.
The waiting room is a weep of concertos.
Elegant against news