The sun and the moon,
Two souls in opposition,
vast in their differences, yet bound by something deeper –
a pull that lingers even in silence,
as the stars’ sparkling light draws their wandering eyes.

No matter the distance endured, their pull remains unchanged.
While light bathes the sun,
and the dark consumes the moon,
the contrast between them becomes something almost divine.

Colors of beauty surface the sky as the souls pass.
No matter the distance or the darkness,
no one can deny the beauty that their souls display –
proof in our atmosphere that love conquers all.

No more hesitation, just the simple truth:
bound together through every turn of the earth.

She’s patient. Uses many words
I’m trying to follow.

Look for the setting button on the left.
    I look at the top left–don’t see it. 
See the gray vertical colum on the left.  Go to the bottom. 
Do you see the setting button?
   I think I see it.  Click on it.  Find the edit button.
    I hear Eleni’s voice but fumble.
Copy and paste.  Move text down.  
    This requires plenty of fine motor coordination,
    technical understanding and confidence.
    I lack all this morning.  
Would you just make the changes for me?
    With quiet patience she agrees.  I’m sure she’s relieved.

I’ve abandonned other struggles, 
asked others to step in when I faced failure: 
    sewing a dress
    cutting up a whole chicken
    doing a full gainer from a spring board
    singing a high G.

With a finite numbers of days
to learn– 
I choose writing a poem,
reading a book, 
listening to music
and feel no shame these day.  

draw meticulous chalk outlines around dead mosquitos
leave a bowl of moonlight for the moths
scatter some breadcrumbs across the train tracks
applaud when the compass gets lost

sprinkle rusty thumbtacks on the trampoline
recite radical verse to your old smoke detector
make a yard sale of your botched resolutions
send sonnets to the garbage collector

praise the weeds for their persistence
and the fence for its restraint
if your neighbour turns to weedkiller
pray to the weeds’ patron saint

discuss the tropes and trophies of misdirection
and file the teeth of the leaf rake
glare at your prescription and demand an apology
ram your fist into your friend’s wedding cake

label each of your regrets by season
untangle every shadow you own
feed the old dog some jamón serrano
and teach him to answer the phone

(consult your religion
looking suitably solemn
and sort the above
under their respective columns)

After dark one night—our first  
winter in the country—my father,  
city boy with skyscraper-size  
suspicions, called the state police.  

A two-tone farm van, surely 
from the downhill neighbors, 
had parked down the road 
lights blinking in odd patterns.  

My father didn’t yet have his 
Doberman and Trooper Brookes 
answered the call, the van gone 
by the time he arrived. He hurried  

all worries to the bottom of our minds’ 
decks, though my father’s eye tics still 
swarmed like fireflies around 
his Brooklyn stutter. He’d hated  

city life, longed to grow his own corn 
and asparagus. And then that van 
pulled up. So, spring brought 
a black and tan pup and by next  

winter we could settle into family 
games of canasta and pinochle— 
where we parked our bids  
with just a frisson’s worth of risk. 

He said, and I quote,
“Observe my handsome boat
and how gracefully it does float
downstream in the gutter.”
Which caused me to mutter,
“I wouldn’t gloat
nor especially note
with hand motions dramatic
and voice so emphatic
such a flimsy paper boat.”
Then I buttoned my coat
and clutched at my tote.
Then the wind, once remote,
took hold of that boat
and forced the small craft
as it spun fore and aft
right down the gutter hole.
Moral: A paper boat headed for the sewer is nothing to brag about.

June decides to blush again

Single horse wicker & wood
chariots pull the darkness
towards the desert horizon,
eclipsing lost monuments
in shadow.

A stiff headdress, chipped
& cracked, still surmounted
with the Vulture & Cobra rests.
Nekhbet & Wadjet, risen
from the sand, protection
forgotten, names mostly
unremembered.

Below the warmed floor
of the desert a forgotten face
and wrapped chin beard
still guard the antechamber
that the beetles took over
centuries ago.

Cartouche & Crypt.
Pyramid & Arch.
Humanity, Ego, History–
food for the scarabs.

Curiosity
I don’t believe it kills cats
Instead, it kills hate

(Another peom from Artemesia’s Revenge)

The press release from Artcurial  
predicted a modest €600,000 to €800,000.  
The newly found Lucréce would draw museums  
and collectors, but no spectacular bidding expected. 
This third of Lucretia represents a young woman’s surrender to shame.  

Artemesia returned again and again to this story –
women     once powerless     seizing their power, 
stabbing self-determination in its aching heart.   
Where to start the bidding for lost virginity? 
The price would   

                              shock the artist.            

                                      €4.8M   

What do I say when he asks what I know?

The future I see is not one he wants.

He would be king, ruler of all

But I see bewilderment when he learns

Someone else has usurped his throne

He is not the first to be a pawn

Of another’s manipulation.

He will not believe me while he

Can wield power like a dagger

Shaping destiny by severing those

Who do not bow and flatter every move

Heedless of the subterfuge around him.

But there is a propitious moment coming

That will bring him down.

I could reveal the visions I have seen

Or let the future go forth on its own.

When he calls me to tell him

What the future holds

I offer what I know to be true:

“A just ruler has no need to fear

The wrath of those he governs.”