Poetry

Open and Shut

Colon. Dash. Parenthesis.

Since when did such vocables

enter the conscious conversation?

I am guilty of these writings

but feel no strong emotion

toward it.

Call me desensitized. Call me a fool.

Call me when you open or close

the parenthesis

so that I know how to feel.

Poetry

Building Block

I’m fascinated by different methods

of making a cup of coffee

as each is still coffee

but each is different:

the bold and creamy espresso,

the old reliable drip maker,

the potent, burnt tasting percolator,

the evenness of the pour over,

the kettle filled with grounds,

the press which draws out the oils,

the Turkish, the Cubano, the countless others

representing people the world over . . .

I could go on, my friend–

it’s coffee, no matter the method,

but it has to have coffee, no?

Poetry

Table

Had we thought the other lied

then maybe there would be

sweet reprieve and clean consciences

all around this table.

But we didn’t.

We saw the lies

of one another

and only heard what we wanted.

And so there was truth

hidden and shamed

to depths of desperation,

made into an unnatural ladder of lies.

But peace? There was no peace.

Poetry

Waning Crescent

Were the glass half empty

I might have guessed

that I was just

a stepping stone

on your trek to the stars.

Call it optimism,

call it the moonshine,

call it the looking glass

half full and looking up,

but I saw what looked like

the crescent moon

in your smile.

Poetry

Trouble’s Door

It’s not that I get lost

it’s just that I quit looking

and find myself at trouble’s door

on the unintended detour.

I thought I saw you there

on one or two occasions

but I had to bite my tongue

until I tasted blood–

I never would have seen you

had I not been there myself.