Losing one more time

Let me wallow in the warmth of losing you one last time;

like sleep, let me wish for more.

Let me pumace dead skin of my heart layer by layer–

again, this time for sure.

Polished, it shines to the pulse of another now

though never too late

it is, but how

to let you slip past me in one more rhyme?

Writing Poems Amid Artificial Sounds of Trains and Falling Snow While Pipes Burst and Birthday Boys Skated


The train traveled far today so the whistle sounds faint
tired, perhaps, of the snow-muffled shrill of un-restraint.
A cool stove lay undisturbed, cool iron clean, all the day
while the ground leaked, forming my father’s bed a lake.
Two daughters slept and awoke to buy birthday boy gifts,
then flew home the helicopter, remote, controlled, adrift.
A husband fished for answers in a plumber’s busy way
only for rejection’s sake he pleaded dearly for his case.
For tomorrow can right itself in rhythmic steel drumming
and pulse below a calm repose in boredom’s humming.
For neither burst of pipe nor creativity’s pace may shatter
the week end’s closing call to the summer’s opening gala.
The hours longer and shorter still when poetry awakes
in bed the daylight long with trains, pipes, snow, skates.
An inspired screen tortured hard frozen bits slow falling
while thunderous trains traveled ever on, never stalling.
Words dry up, writing sours, turned to poetical blather
time to gather up my wits and return to other matters.

(and so ended my poetry half marathon)


There is a Leaving


credit:  https://timrwalls.files.wordpress.com

There is a leaving that must be done
everyone knows when that it is too
when the pastels of the sky deepen
at dusk and pink becomes orange-red
a time when the ending paints true
the beginning and hope is contained
in darkness.

There is a leaving that must be done
when fall leaves and winter begins
a dying that prefigures anew the new
the hatchlings of sea turtles and fins
of mermaids spied prancing the deep
in imagination veered round the din
of darkness.

There is a leaving that must be done
when the face utters no more sighs
and a voice thinly reaches a mind’s ear
for none but the countryside cottages 
of someday adorned remain in dreams
plans of then dissolving soon too to
the darkness.