Westminster Abbey

The air
is cold yet humid,
thick. I choke

on antique intrigues,
ideas, passions,

plots, surrounded,
supported, oppressed.

I sit until
bones chilled
by these chilled bones
I weep.

This Ring

This is the very first draft...I'm still not happy with it, but decided to let it go. Feel free to have a whack! Thanks all.

This ring
isn't what it used to be.

Too cold
uncaring
sharp

I liked it in the case.

Sometimes I turn it,
clammily hiding
facedown, cutting
into my palm

Dangerous unexpected daydreams:

A tragic boating accident
severs my finger.
Man overboard!
The ring still attached
curious fishes nibbling
scuttling crabs pinching
irretrievable

A mugger abandons
in the icy twilight
me to my life
pawning this ring
for twenty-five bucks

I can't decide what
is worse:

halfhearted concern
at my finger suddenly ringless

halfhearted relief
at finding it in the soap dish.

I just know
this ring slips
off far to easily.

Sound Still

This is rather rough, but its my latest. Sorry to have been absent so long!!

"What is stillness? It is in no way merely the soundless." -Heidegger


What I hear
most here
is stillness.

It hovers
awaiting definition:
the spaces
between words.

The trees speak gently
chattering leaves
straining, I listen

It hovers
behind noises:
the pause-ending
of a sigh.

I want to know the secret
everyone here keeps
so quiet.

Untitled

very rough--don't really know about a title, but its something that i've been toying with. thanks!

hours fill the uneven
spaces that separate
each tick
of the second hand

afternoons sunk deep
in summer, when dust
motes sway, achingly
slow, in thier snake-charm
dance

even sunlight just brushes
skin, too lazy,
really,
to burn

the words spill out, organizing
themselves, serene
and undisturbed,

for once, by the skitter-scrape
of the pen

not captured
merely settled
into endless
moments, caught

between pages.

2 to 4 a.m.

this heat slows time
nearly freezing night air
where afternoon showers still
linger, padding midnight whispers;

a lone car's sleepy swish

palely rising
falling sirens

the neighborhood stray
moaning complaints

to the listening streetlights
shining in constellations
just overhead

Drive Home

The prose muse has completely abandoned me until further notice, but i thought i'd give another try at some poetry. i like the idea of this poem but am not sure of the vibe...but without letting others see it, it can't get much better, right?? so here goes!


Tires brush the pavement
where the stars shine grey.

One hand, out the window,
tickles at the soft underbelly of the wind
as it washes through leaves.

Slap-swish, gently,
as waves against the shore.

Landlocked a thousand miles
in a sea of unmanned intersections,
flooded with flashing lights.

Red. Yellow. Yellow. Red.

Too late to be
early, too early
to be late

I wonder
if I take a breath
and lean back
will I float?

leave taking

[[this is my first attempt at poetry--and in such company i am terrified. but i felt moved to write this, for some reason, so here it is. you've forced me out of my comfort zone, PB. be proud!!]]

sitting too close together
to the crackle-thump of speakers

I lean in to catch the whisper
of your shout and feel
your lips stir my hair.

you leave in short
hours that keep passing by

marching uniformed

measured steps

back to your new life
without me.

your hand softly
on the skin bared
between my belt and shirt

you speak

but what

I remember best
the tickle of your breath
and what it stirred
in me.