Archive for the ‘People’ Category


I sing to my evolving hands

October 29, 2005

I sing to my evolving hands
a symphony of pain
the agony a metaphor
for what I can’t explain.

The rugged and the rough terrain
of what I have endured
allow my soul to understand.
Cold comfort I’ve secured

by fighting what I know is sure
and so my arms demand:
the signal travels from my brain
to my dissolving hands.

  • Note Part 1:

    I have joined the self-proclaimed “Best Thing to Happen to the Poetry Blogosphere since Sliced Metaphors” — and yes, I am talking about poetisphere. Started by two poet-bloggers whose work I admire, Andrew and Billy, the site promises to be a great discussion site/destination for other poet-bloggers.

    Imagine my surprise when I logged in tonight and saw I had been given an assignment. My task was to complete a poem using a first line entered from that site. I did that above (although I do admit to adding a “to” for metrical reasons (hope that is OK!!)).

    So, now my turn.

    The First Line:

    “The spinning cyclone spoiled the sky”

    The Assignee:

    Daniel from Finally Getting Somewhere

    (side note — ever notice how there are a large number of poets named Daniel, or is it just me?).

  • Note part 2:

    This is the first poem I have written in what I hope will be a new rhyming scheme… I call this a cyclone poem, as the rhyme swirls around within the poem itself. Cyclone poems can be written in increments of 12 lines (12, 24, 36, etc) with any metrical length or style. The one rule is the rhyming structure, which follows:




    As you can tell, the structure of the rhyme means that the end sounds return and return, whirling around and building (I hope) an internal intensity. Care to try to write a cyclone poem?


For Twenty-One Years – Poem from my Step-Father-In-Law

October 29, 2005

Yes, you read the title correctly…

My wife’s step-father is not a poet, or rather he doesn’t think of himself that way, but he scribbled this down a couple of years ago, and my mother-in-law just recently found it when cleaning up the study. I think the piece is beautiful, so I present it here:

My first wife was blonde.
Often said how we
loved each other.
I thought we did for
twenty-one years
didn’t fight much
didn’t talk much
we didn’t love much.
I thought we did for
twenty-one years.

My new wife is blonde.
Often say we
love each other
been more than a year
don’t fight much
talk a lot
we love more
like I thought it should be
for twenty-one years.


Remarkable Rosa

October 26, 2005

Rosa was remarkable.
With her calm and silent poise
in Montgomery she spoke
louder than the angry noise

of those who would refuse her
the front seat, the clean bathroom,
the job and education
she deserved. There is no room

in the society she
changed for those who still believe
that differences have bearing
upon what you can acheive.

Rosa, I am trying in
my unremarkable way
to say how grateful I am,
a white boy whose every day

could never compare to the
strength you showed that morning
but I wish that I could show
you how the world is mourning

our remarkable Rosa.



October 18, 2005


I am seared by the heat,
I am chained to the street,
as the English walk on by.

I am down on my knees,
I am begging, “Please”,
but no English hear my cry.

I am dark, Indian
and for that I can’t win,
but a change comes soon, I spy.

And now those of this land
once oppressed will soon stand
and we’ll crush this hard English lie.

Written about the British occupation of India and the toppling of the provincial government. This was an exercise written for a summer academic program called Governor’s School in Charleston, South Carolina (held on the grounds of the College of Charleston), which I attended the summer between my Junior and Senior years of High School (in 1986). I attended Wando High School in Mt. Pleasant, SC, so the C of C wasn’t far out of the way for me, but I grew so much that summer…



October 10, 2005

Children shriek roughshod on the playground . . . ripples on still water


On Hearing of Simon Wiesenthal’s Death

September 20, 2005

Sprinkler in the rain,
needless duplication now…
now Simon is dead.

Just in case this is not clear for anyone: Simon Wiesenthal fought with great passion to bring people to justice for the crimes they had committed, this in a world which seems not to notice or care about the atrocities which are still taking place (Rwanda, Darfor, Iraq, I could go on). Simon was, to me, always like a waterfall in the rain — making an effort, but always being overtaken by the world around him which “flooded” his plans.



September 1, 2005

My summer coffee treat: a Vanilla Bean Frappuccino® with Caramel Affogato. I love the “lava lamp” look as the Affogato melts into the vanilla bean.

Here is a shot of my favorite Barista making a cup of coffee:

And finally, today’s poem:

You awaken me
with the flavor of dark roast
so rich on my tongue.

Can your sensuality
and pale beauty
be contained in just one cup?


Luna Larussa / Alfie Alonzo

July 9, 2005

Luna Larussa


         Luna Larussa was more than a girl,
         she could sing, she could write, she could play.
         Luna Larussa was lost in this world,
         her mind traveled far, far away.

Luna Larussa had dreams of success
in which she would rule all the world.
Luna Larussa loved power to excess.
In fact, she was more than a girl.

         And one day our Luna decided to roam,
         she said that she wanted to stray.
         She wanted to find a new place for her home.
         She wanted to move far away.

Now Luna Larussa has ended her quest,
after hill, after land, after dune.
Luna Larussa is now heaven-blessed.
Luna is now on the moon.

Alfie Alonzo


Alfie Alonzo — oh what a fellow:
He was cool, he was wild, he was mellow!
Alfie Alonzo would only stoop so low:
He didn’t like red, black, or yellow.

Alfie Alonzo was so patriotic,
He worshiped the Eagle and blue.
Alfie Alonzo was sort of psychotic,
If you weren’t, he sure hated you.

Alfie Alonzo joined up with the league,
The men in white hoods had appeal.
Alfie Alonzo loved green and fatigues,
He relived ‘Nam out in the field.

Alfie Alonzo lived to old age,
His great hatred kept him so well.
Alfie Alonzo died full of rage,
Alfie is now lost in Hell.

Two of a series of planned “moral” pieces which never progressed any farther to fruition. I like the alliteration of the names, but never progressed any farther with the series than these.



June 16, 2005


A baby in her mother’s eyes,
A child that she sees,
A bird that tries to fly away,
Longing to be free.

A mixed emotion type of girl,
Some love, some hate she shows.
She lives the life a player should,
An actress no one knows.

A spirit that is locked and caged,
A passage with no openings.
Running down a shadowed street,
Flying without wings.

“In spite of everything, I still believe that people are basically good at heart…”


Black and White Photograph

May 27, 2005

2/17/1984 (revised 5/27/05)

Soft noise,
Loud voice,
Cold light,
Long night.

I awoke,
Grabbed a smoke,
Walked out,
You shout.

Hit the street
Hurt, my feet
Roamed away,
Gone a day.

Loud noise,
Soft voice.
Hard light,
Cold night.