Heart’s in Exile


I am told it is in the voice

The phone call

I’ve been waiting for

Telling me I should not


Telling the story

The voice is one

I know


With expectation

Unwilling to agree

I have no business

At the bar

(Step back please)

Not enough time

To drink

The words

Of the ages

It’s all been

Done (In Exile)

And the voice,

Breathy & hollow,

Now silenced

Until more

Weight is assigned



If  *“poetry keeps longing alive”

Then the art form will live forever

There are those who will always

Long for something more:

Than the tent in the desert

The humble chapel in the mountains

The manger in the cold

The dread of the day

Beyond the dawn

I am one

Of those

Longing for the

Sweet, semi-comatose

Of the forbidden dream

Where warmth

Prohibits reality

Of a world

Run amok, chaotic

Where the gifts of

The wise are dashed

Upon the altars of madness

Turned away

From a manger empty

Of hope

I long

For something


*Robert Bly

This World Is Not Conclusion (Honoring the Poetry of Others)

 Bridge to somewhere this world is not conclusion

a species stands beyond –

invisible, as music –

but positive as sound –


it beckons, and it baffles

philosophy – don’t know –

and through a riddle, at the last

sagacity must go –


to guess it, puzzles scholars –

to gain it, men have borne

contempt of generations

and crucifixion, shown –


faith slips – and laughs, and rallies –

blushes, if any see –

plucks at a twig of evidence –

and asks a vane, the way –

much gesture, from the pulpit –

strong hallelujahs roll –

narcotics cannot still the tooth

that nibbles at the soul –

                                                           This World Is Not Conclusion”   by Emily Dickinson. (Public domain. )

My Son: In His Own Sweet Way


 ~ I wonder what my son will think

When he is old and gray

Will he remember fiends from night

Or the sunshine  from his days

~ I did what every parent wants

To raise strong and healthy kids

I am so afraid my labor’s lost

When I see him on the skids

~ Silly now, or so it seems

That imaginary age

When child puts away childish things

To turn the adult-like page

~ But there are days I get a peek

And see the son I wrought

He takes this life as serious lesson

That magically can be taught

~ Now most days I get a peek

Of the smile I used to coax

I know there’s sunshine in his heart

As it issues from his throat

~ It remains a joy to relax and bask

In these times I want to hold

But I should know as well as another

Nothing stays that’s gold

~ So I wonder what he will think

When I am old and gray

Will he remember terrorist nights

Or his sunny fields of play

 ~ I wonder too if he will see

The chimera, remora-like pain

Riding his parents’ loving  hearts

In that symbiotic train

Your Sister Mine

Alexander Khokhlov’s “Weird Beauty” project
Alexander Khokhlov’s “Weird Beauty” project

So you have a sister

Works at Wal-Mart –

The oft-ridiculed ‘greeter’

Makes people smile

Forgetting their troubles

Walking in

But not out –

When the yellow smiley

Icon becomes a badge

Empowering her

To check receipts

Against purchases

She complains to you

Of her knees

As she dines on

KFC in the few moments

She has left before sleep

The cuter sister

Who wanted so much

Much more from life

So much – as long as

Much didn’t include

You or your like

“I don’t want to be like anybody else”

And so she isn’t – at all costs

She is unique –

Within the family anyway

She is able to hide from her disdain

For you

When she complains of her life

Compared to the abundance of love

She says she has

For you

And the abundance

Of things yours

This has been her lash

Skillfully applied

No pain

As you whip out your


You consider the  amount

As her “miss goody, goody”

Taunt rings in your head

You were never close

Resentment then guilt

Ties you to the mast

Of a chromosomal

Sharedness and

The fear that neither

Of you is different

How could that be?

Her world is bought

And paid for

With her greetings

Her gray smile that wanted more

Her hands that

Replace the ‘go-backs’

The same fingers that tremble

Around the rigid paycheck

That won’t stretch through

The one bedroom apartment

Off the strip

To next month’s untenable rent

You find the line

Enter the amount

That allows the roof

That covers her grief