I asked her when she knew.
And how? How in this complicated, frustrating world did she know he was the one?
And do you know what she told me?
She said he was her anchor.
He keeps her steady when the world is storming.
He keeps her grounded when the seas are raging.
He keeps her here, when everything else wants to disappear.
Because what is a ship without it's anchor?
It is but a piece of driftwood, being carried aimlessly away by whatever current happens to sweep it away.
But not when he is there.
Everyday he grounds her.

Oh dear, what can the matter be?
Some thoughts have come to me
that God knows as much of me,
But how, alas! how may that be
love comes to all the rest but me?

O wily wind go find and tell me
on a tree how many leaves there be
or fishes swimming in the vast sea?
Not lost yet, although I like to be
amid the stars in the heavens I see.

Oh dear, what can the matter be?
What a strange spell is come over me
that I should dance and shout in glee?
Should not I be more inclined to flee
where a fair wind blows fresh and free

I sat in my son's classroom
for the first hour of his first day
while he measured away
with a red and yellow tape measure,
finding the length of the rooms,
the width of the dividing wall,
the height of a train tunnel.
He might have been a builder,
an architect, an artist:
so serious, so engrossed
as he checked the dimensions
to make sure there was room
for him.


(First published in Songs of Eretz Poetry Review)

The latest excuse



I would have visited you this time,

I had saved enough for the jump ticket,

but a brand-new bubble universe

popped into existence between

your star and mine.

(Surely you heard about it.)



It expanded so fast that just since

last Wednesday you have

moved about 300 billion light years

farther away, and there is no way

I can take off work long enough

to get there before Christmas.



By which time you will probably

have moved so far that light

Patrzę na deszcz
myjący brudne szyby
moje odciski palców pozostają

Translation:

Rain

I watch the rain
washing dirty windows
my fingerprints remain

First published in Three Line Poetry

The heart in this poem is not afraid of heights it is a skyscraper without a fire exit its suites know they don't perfect rhyme with street hate an October poet whose blood lends its blue color to porches whose swings have no business being broken.

The once breathtaking scenario, The once blossoming field of flowers, The once enchanting view, Has been swallowed Ninety five percent by a flood, Of tears and beauty, Of fervency of heart and scribblings, The pen writes away at the unending flow, A tireless flow generated from point zero Of a lovely union, Drawn to the minuses on the number line, Cancelled out by plus one minus one, Dry up the overwhelming flood, Yet when vessel stands within heart-sight, The pen vomits infinitesimally, And volumes tied to this vessel fill almost to the brim Accounting for ninety five percent of entire fill.

I’ve finally learned how to walk on air,
Taking soft and gracious steps toward heaven,
And not to fall down.
It’s fun! It’s easy.
I know.
I just have to be lighter than sky
And brighter than light.
I have to be free from anger and greed,
They have too much weight
To fly with.
And jealousy is a dangerous thing,
My wings will be burnt by its fire.
Joy is what lifts me up, like balloons.
And Love.
You can’t see my flight?
It’s fine.
It’s still fun
For me.

The past nights words were feathered hermits that passed before your quill could grasp them and tonight is no different; you have not forgotten the taste of salt on fresh cuts the sound of secretive moans of a maiden still naked in her childhood sweater you only stopped documenting the miseries that remain faithful to their vow to build you a monastery. ~ I haven't held a secret in so long, but oh God, I can still feel the ghosts on my shoulders as I pick my way up to our pretend Olympus to give my testimo st.