Window Watching

Through the window pane I watch them eating.
Through the curtains,
the silver grey curtains,
that sweep the floor like ballroom gowns
swirling confetti as they spin. They
were a gift
those curtains.
Music is playing in the background
and everyone is dancing to a well worn tune.

I stand here day and night
through every season.
Frost bitten in deep bitter snow
or sunk into hot August mud. Locusts
beating against my breast. Gnats trapped in
eyelashes and I can barely blink at the life
in front of me.

I watch the children grow,
the new and old marriages,
vacations planned, bought, and taken,
baseballs, ballet slippers, baking and sewing,
visits from relatives, in-laws, divorce and death,
not necessarily in that order;
domesticities of the modern life.

Same as it ever was- the song sang- same as it ever was- the song sang- same as it ever was-
the groove gets deeper and deeper and yet it all stays the same
was it ever the same as it ever was?

There is a life behind me,
but I can’t see it
my face is glued to the window
“that life, that life is the right life…righteous…televised…”
If only I could turn around,
toss my envy into the compost
beside the perfect house, and turn around
see the many roads that reach out into the horizon.

There is a life behind me
I know because I can feel the sun
on my shoulders, urging me to move,
there is a life behind me, but
my eyes are glued to the Norman Rockwells, and the
American Dream,
if only I could turn around,
but all I can do is close my eyes
and feel the tears of the seasons.
the seasons are always hot
even in the winter.

I stand in the window as the sliver curtains
are drawn, once again, and the chatter never fades,
and I wonder,
will they ever get new curtains?
When they do will they see me standing here
or will I finally be gone?

Untitled Poem/Black Dawn

A new poem, no where near complete. My mother died last year, and I’ve struggled to find a way to write about my feelings of loss and grief, to express my loss, and I just have not been able to. In fact, as far as writing goes, it’s been so quiet, or I feel too tired, or cliche– I’m stunted.
About a month or two after her death (which was an unexpected and sudden death) I had one of my very few dreams about her, and in this dream I woke up with the words: “black dawn she is silent now”.
I wanted to do something with these words; after all they came from my deepest consciousness. They were given to me like a gift, like a message, but more like a code that I have lost the ability to decipher. Today, was the first day that I made something, anything from those words. And, something, anything that can even chip at the surface of my grief is something to me. It’s not a completed poem, the same as any poem that is published here, but at this point to put anything on paper, and then to transfer it to here is an accomplishment for me. So as it is, it is untitled.


Black dawn

minutes before,

the cock crows is
blue luminous light, a blink
a slit, below the horizon line

of earth as far as
we can see

from our own perspective
but, our eyes are closed.

We are all sleeping
except for the ghosts

who watch us
wishing they could hold us


I see her in my dreams


As I rise from my living death
she returns to her death,
real death,

languid, somnolent, cries:
don’t leave me.

She is silent now,
and I’m awake.

The Time Machine

I had dreamt I found a time machine
and it took me back before there were
children or wives.
It took me to you.
To a place where we both had been,
but never met.
I knew exactly where to find you
from all the stories you had told me
I knew exactly what to say.
You looked at me perplexed and intrigued
how could I know so much about you
how come it felt we were meant to meet?

I had manipulated time
so I could meet you first
but it would not tell me the future.
Still the expression on your face
was priceless, when I saw you out of breath,
“Chasing Junkies?” I asked,
and then passed by with a sly smile
trailing my own scent.
I had wanted to impress you,
especially the you I will never meet.

Gone to Get Milk

This is a poem that I rewrote from my very first post. In its previous form I think it was a collection of images pasted together but not making a lot of sense. The second title was the good-bye man. I like this title more. ***Update- I’ve reworked this poem once again, giving it a new title and cutting some words. This poem is working like chipping out a sculpture.

Gone to Get Milk

Breath to a window, fogging the view,
reflections and grief clamor for attention.
Emotions like a choir inside four walls.
Ludicrious, brooding for hours, upon days.

Dull, damp moonlight ushers in dark clouds,
headlights draw near and pass
leaving no choice but to close the curtains.

Anonymity is a wreaking ball to wanting to be seen.
It has smashed the veranda of imagined futures.
The home, the family an illusion.

Doors close and they close.
Life goes on
passing like headlights flooding a room in brief light.