Category: My Poetry


The Waif

You are not to blame for what I’ve become, You
who abandoned me, wounding me, forever
Traveling from border to borderline between comfortable numbness and stark despair

Alone in my life have I become …

Distant and disconnected from the mother who could not love you, condemned you to feel unlovable, to find love, but not joy, to give love, but not keep it: keeping your distance instead you kept it vague, until you faltered and fled, abandoning us all.

A little girl alone with her witch mother,

-UNIMAGINABLE!-

Her anguished childhood, lost, to the terror of war,

Sharing her, sorrow and shame I see her enduring what I could not have survived,
But you, a frail little girl were resilient, it took her time to break you…

The little girl I never knew, who I am helpless to help, comprehended, or forget.

Who haunts me, following me, She leads teaching me, that
Love is not what you give, it’s who you lose,
keeping only no one to lose I follow her,
losing her, losing her,

I am lost

Loving now only those who won’t let me in I keep them out.
Keeping only what was never mine I have lost no one,
losing no one, living alone.

Skyline

There’s a city out there

he wants to be part of .

Its skyscrapers jagged edges

etch their way across his mind.

From the tenement top

he can almost touch them.

Leaning an inch, two, three,

too far, he’s falling , falling

Frantically,

pin-wheeling arms

throw him back to try

in desperation, driving him, again

and again, until fatigue defeats him.

Then with arms hugging folded knees in despair,

he watches darkness descending

on a dimming distant skyline.

Armchair-Quarterback

He’s an Armchair Quarterback,
the best in the league
He’s played in every Superbowl
and won some in overtime.
He’s handed it off to Czonka
and thrown touchdowns to Swann.

This Sunday afternoon he’ll do it all again.
But when the game is over leaning back in the armchair,
he feels the years catching up, while youthfulness pours out.

Like an open field runner, running out of gas
Too many hard hits, warm six packs take their toll
Battling late into twilight a table lamp by the armchair spots the room,
six o’clock sports lull him to sleep of future seasons, dreams of glory.
Where dreams of future dreams are all the dreams there are.

When I was a kid I was a master of dreams,
a hero for the common cause.

But growing up under the reality’s dead weight,
dreams break. And while

dreams make fools of wise men.
Fatigue makes cowards of us all.