Five Finger Haiku

This shoe came via
FedEx; it is not a foot
or it would smell worse.

The Music Teacher

This is my homage to Rufus Wainwright's song, "The Art Teacher". Although I never had a Turner-loving art teacher, I did date a Jeff Buckley-loving guy in my early twenties who taught me about music and love.

Incidentally, I'm a happy married woman with no regrets.


There I stood in my friend's apartment,
trying to blend into the carpet.
Your gaze rested on me and I met it.
All at once, I felt like a roman candle,
ignited, excited and unfettered.

You were a few years older,
not high-class or pretentious.
A crooked smile dripped words of pained passion
as you spoke of your love for music,
and I orbited the sphere of your existence.

We listened to Jeff Buckley
on my birthday, while you drove your Mustang
and the wind whipped our hair
into a fine frenzy.
My hair was longer then.

You asked me what my favorite song was,
and I longed to say that it was you.
You were unforgettable,
my unchained melody,
My wish fulfilled, my dream come true.

I knew you were untouchable,
but I painted you wonderful.
I was just a girl when
you broke my heart into pieces
and left me for Tom Waits and Edith Piaf.

All this having been said,
I fell in love again.
My son has my husband's blue eyes
and listens to my extensive music collection.
This woman's favorite song is him.

My Gift, Wrapped in Sorrow

And so, this is Christmas.
What have I done?
I used to have two;
now I have one.
What is this new year bringing for you?
It ends for me, and begins with sadness
and fear that you forget and regret
we were ever together.

My love, Happy Christmas.
I hope you have fun.
Please don't replace me,
now that new life has begun.
Oh, boy, or girl.
It’s a milestone of my regret,
this gift I’ve given
hasn’t stopped haunting me yet.

Commemoration

"Sometimes we love with nothing more than hope. Sometimes we cry with everything except tears."
— Gregory David Roberts (Shantaram)

I intended to love you,
wrap you in my protection and
never leave.

You are perfect, wonderful
and strong now.
So strong, you don't need me -
in effect, the epitome
of willful independence.

Do not forget, but Love,
don't only see the fault in me.
My resolve is to please you,
to give you protection with
those who cherish you.

I must believe that
in her embrace, you have found
peace, but please remember me:

I intended to love you,
wrap you in my protection
and never leave.

Love Hurts

I write love on my face
in lipstick and mascara.
You snatch it and smear
the ink.
It turns red,
drips from your fist,
stains the bed.
I think for a second
about our first kiss.
Been here before;
oh yeah, I know this.
Seen you this angry,
I’ll never forget.
Man is a name you just don’t get
because you’re just a kid
throwing a fit.

How We Keep In Touch

You burn, and your anger
is immense when we fight.
The human in you becomes an
angry bull, you begin to control us.

You do not think,
there is no feeling when we cry,
you pull away, reasoning with your actions.
You are the animal, a live wire
waiting to snap.

This pain registers, the pitch-like
chord which affects all reasoning.
It evolved, pictured here,
as a creature, complex and controlled.

Of course, reasoning with you
is impossible, unthinking.
If we must keep alive, we have to
run quickly; we cannot stay
in this house with you.

Five Fingers

touch the concrete,
sense the air above,
feel the rain falling on
treading padded paws.

Pad. Pad.
There the ball drops,
meets the ground,
and bounces back.
Falling, bounding,
reaching again.

Like a canon
gliding through the air,
they were opened once
and now they soar.

The plash of water,
the splash of fingers,
fast moving on feet
that know boundless joy
and lovely abandon
like never before.