The Poet Never Eats Alone?

No, don’t apologize….

It’s me who is wrong;

I should be grateful for my “cush” lifestyle,

I should feel honored to brown the butter,

to don the apron nightly,

to make magic for you

squinting in awe,

as the oils eek out what looks like

my reflection on the Teflon of the hot pan?

I should feel whole, just  squeezing that lemon….

I should feel uplifted….joy in the steam wafting up,

I should feel renewed?… that sizzle,

And comforted…in the routine with the lemon,

I should feel giddy that you are on your way home.

Don’t get me wrong,

I do take great pleasure….

In your fight with traffic,

as you navigate your way back to me,

Maybe tonight, you will check to see what I am wearing,

Give me the familiar quick whiskery peck

as my rounded lips turn to you,

I’ll be present; and notice, if my eyes avoid yours or not?

I hunch busily over the stove,

cooking is art you know.

Perhaps at times I act “super into” what I’m cooking cause,

It is dinner time and while you have deadlines,

I read the cookbook, for fun.

I snicker as I count the times you ask me to clean the fridge,

It’s good, I mean don’t get me wrong….

You….you just start cleaning it, so I know Its time,

I take great pleasure,

In watching you lift the fork,

knowing that bite came out of a clean fridge,

“just taste it” ( then look at me)

Yes, my cooking, , “ my art” makes me prideful

another bite, and another, how many is that?

If we add up each bite, each night at dinner-

Times sixteen years, how many is that?

Anyway….so long as you make those pleasing sounds,

I guess I can let go-after all-you’re the breadwinner,

you don’t write poetry,

Who would expect you to read…… mine?

And besides,

I know at least I’ll never have to eat alone?

Lunch with my doctor

My plate is more full than you know,
at my table there is no one,
to clink their glass against mine,
to meet my eyes and taste what I’ve prepared,
what is their to feast upon,
will it be there tomorrow?
Will it be plump with juices,
rich with aromas steaming my fork,
the savory, the bitter, the sweet
peaking, unearthing sensations
from a mouth which restrains words,
watering with curiosity,
readying my palate,
why is it you are too busy to dine with me,
should I even bother to eat
when it feels that nothing is fuel?

Anger Serum

A good friend spoke these words to me,

As my insides squeezed inward,

An invisible fist wringing my heart,

My breath dashed away,

“it’s just a drink”

For her it was….Simply, a beverage

For me it was utter darkness lifted,

Painful quietude removed,

I sipped, then I gulped,

The light switched on,

The dark empty room bright with light,

Like a toy room awaiting a sick boy,

By the second glass innocence freed,

Me- a floppy, toy rabbit,

Coming alive, ambling out of the walls,

Add red wine, a catholic priest, a wafer of grape on my tongue,

Demons giggle and rise to the top,

The rabbit is in full swing; Tango, Foxtrot, Lindy Hop,

Eased by smiles flashed her way,

Is it the flaring of the dress that gains approval?

The yearning subsides,

I am skating, gliding on the glass top

Like a figurine on a child’s music box,

Pulled as if a magnet tugs beneath my skates,

A once dormant smile stretches wide

My heart drops out,

If only temporarily,

I am Weightless, buoyant, bobbing free

Wanting for more red anger serum


Not THAT Lady!

Not THAT lady….

Not today, I promised to breathe in only that which fills me.

She does not.  But rather plucks at my strings,

Like a toddler on a ukulele at the three o’clock hour

Head pounding, succumbing to lethargy

The prayers answer would be sleep, instead

I must  splash my face with the proverbial cold water of ettiquette

I pull strength from within, like a belly filled with poetry

The orb teetering on my neck, a glass see-thru skull,

Pulsates like a frog’s thin skin, stretched, puffed, garbled, ribbit!

Like an anxious teller who knew there was something not right.

I cannot pretend to be unaffected,

Her boundaries spill into my comfort zone.

There is a bothersome delivery punctuating her every word

My mantra settles me “stay true, stay true, stay true…”

I beam as if I must’ve seen a baby shrew

The surprise in my voice goes up like a perfect pitch-then smack

The baseball is quickly back down in foul territory

“Hi, I’m in a Huuuuuge hurry, nice to see you”

Life is ticking away, no time for burdened souls

Souls, who cannot feel your presence, souls fueled by Harlequin novels,

When you yourself prefer non-fiction.

But instead, I listened and nodded.


She Woman

            She Woman

If only he had known;

Her scent was a mere accent color,

Barely detracting from a ready palette of bright hopes,

 She was never as gentle as a field of poppies.

 Her presence blinded many before you.

You were the white her brushes were missing, her contrast color

To dampen the vivid hues of her vixen,

Before you, her muffled heart screamed,

Like a junkie on a binge, gifted but sorrow-filled.

She was the paradoxical woman, a SHE woman

Capable only of bloodshed,

Like a double edge sword.

A woman should never be ruled

By monthly renewal, that which is the color of yesterday’s anger….

 Which ekes blood from a crevice of beauty?

Confusing as it is, not everyone looks beyond a pond’s first layer

Curvaceous, seemingly delicate, legs like a race horse, slender mind

Still her eyes look down, at her feet.

Her biggest fear, her own shadow, keeps her from wanting to know more.

A pity…. that the mirror tells only half of her story.