saving it for later

If blindness came to me

I would remember roses;

Structure tight and winding

To a center

Would be easy.


I would try to remember

The face I saw yesterday

In a huge cloud

Whipped by wind

And how the white face grew

And changed

From the wispy profile of a boy

To a wise

And somehow patient old man;

I would remember just now

The food in your beard

And how you said

As you always say

Before wiping it away,

I´m saving it for later.


But when I close my eyes

I cannot remember your face.

Sometimes it troubles me.

I remember pictures of your face

But your real face

Like my own

Is too close

And it eludes me.


You were curious when I threw away

Our old photo album of Rhodes Island;

You didn´t want to see

The photographs I kept

But all day you were asking

And so at last I handed them to you,

The photographic little stack,

A memory of you leaning against

A café wall,

You sipping black coffee,

You in your indian t-shirt,

You with the stray cat on your lap,

You looking down at it

With a smile and a kind word

For a skinny striped beast

No one wanted.

You in your favorite sunglasses.





and him silent

wondering at the window

i turn from clouds

to see a sound

or hear a picture

of what was

and never will

be, either present tense

or future.

In absence

i see a window

a little girl


she turns to clouds;

it was a whisper

and then a shawl on bent shoulders,

glasses on dim eyes,

the one book

and him silent.



i know there are

letters that should be written

telling how you are,

and how i am

in the aftermath,

but silence is so effective

in these circumstances,

and lyric wants its place;

its sound and i

wait for

the old reality

to be restored.

solitary one

My solitary one
Is there another –
Your cool fingers
On my scalded face
When I sleep
On my new pillow –
No, there is no other.
Vision like vinegar
Stings my eyes,
Or is that my fear
Enclosing –
You socialite rejected,
Spurned and turning
Into light –
Happy birthday, reason –
My treason changes
In earth´s deep garden,
Sprinkles lily pollen
With laughter
Wet with dew
As my roots


Giving in to gravity
I become heavy,
Noticing the void
I begin to decorate;
But have two eyes ever lied
Than mine?
Buttons for a pocket watch,
Cheap fabric for the priest?
What must I do
To become
Empty enough to know
That gravity
Is transient,
That transcendence
Is not only in the mind?
A modern day Neanderthal
I look for just a little
To paint my face
To ward off all these
Of false gaiety,
Too bright colors,
And pen in hand that must
Every space
With votive word
Or thought.

what is stolen

An old woman was in
the dream –
Her leathery skin brown
And yellow,
her dark eyes
Matching the black muslin
Frock she wore.
She looked like she was
Supposed to look:
A seer,
One who knows
Not all the answers
But only this one:
That the thief
Was a girl
From a nice family.
All that was missing
Was the box
Of cancelled stamps,
Torn from envelopes,
I glimpsed them
Before they were gone,
A gift from the grandmother
Who despised me:
Sometimes what is stolen
Stays with you too long.

ALL in the universe that is not brutal

crippling the rainbow
i steal Your color;
cold air from my cold heart
sends Your warmth
blends then blurs
everything You had to say
to me
Jesus, what was it
You wanted to say
when i was hunting for quotes,
when i was shopping for roast
and felt angry over prices –
what was it you wanted to say
when my fear crept over me
and ruled my thoughts
those minutes
over a cup of tea,
when doors slammed
and people hammered on the newborn
in our building.
“blessed are the persecuted.”
i hear you now, Beloved Saviour,
i am listening
to ALL in the universe that is not
from a world
which is.

in the beginning

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.  The same was in the beginning with God.  All things were made by him; and without him was not any thing made that was made.

In him was life; and the life was the light of men.  And the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not.

John 1: 1-5

one flame

two old beggars, in love

“it´s the story of an old beggar”

he tells me

through cigarette smoke

and i am feeling,

for the moment,


about the fact

he is still smoking;

God, have mercy on us,

i say throughout the day

knowing through long years

of experience

that Jesus is real,

His mercy is there

through poverty, illness,

and anything else life

can throw at the weak.

and it is why

when He came

He promised He didn´t come

to find the strong

though perhaps no one needs

Jesus more

than those who think they don´t

need salvation

at all.

but we two,

we two old beggars in love

know how much

it means to be loved by God.

this moment

agatha christie and red herrings,

love letters from long ago,

old maids and crazy eights

and your voice saying

Go Fish;

and when i see your aging smile

i cannot remember


at all;

this year is the year

i was born for,

this moment of mystery

is my destiny.