The Stalking Moon

 

the heavenly body of record
lest you forget
crushes petty complaint
beneath its rocky seas
and pulls the tides
to cool work-weary feet
 
the stalking moon
sees you home
knowing twinkle in the sky
 
it lets you know
in the worst of sorrow
that there is still
another tomorrow

Couch Song Armory

We have our own song

for when the whole family

fits on the couch

a glad song

carves memory

forges mental ammunition

and bulletproof souls

to last

in the savage lands

beyond our living room

so here

among our cluttered life

we run a musical boot camp

for the woman soldiers

of tomorrow

Dance of the Frozen Devils

the good marrow

can be ice and snow

as we clutch hands

and brace

against the windy cold

the warmth inside

feels better

with a thawing face

only after such blustery violence

do we find our place

drinking it all in deeply

the close comfort

leaves us sleepy

but we spark again

alive at the freezing source

to dance with fellow devils

joyous

as life runs its course

War Letter from a Long Summer

the hard heat

adds to the thrill

of being alive

stalking scorched streets

with cold-minded eyes

hardened

in the kiln

of too many voices

being that exception,

that warrior poet

standing alone,

is enough

to make us smile

in the blaze

of the hateful sun

Invisible Flame of Misfit Workers

sublime

if we can creep

past the wear-down

rage

past thoughts

too hateful

to darken a page

past misery heedless

near needless

for pay

past the clock-worn

routines

we repeat every day

somewhere

some spark

flints away

in the dark

with plans

nearly hatched

for some progress

to mark

this waking dream

of guiding flame

powers us through

a poisoned mind frame

it is our own darkness

ourselves

that we fight

in the hellfire struggle

to create

our own light

For the Werewolves

I sweat each day

To earn my hide

To burn off this shell

And reveal the wolf inside

By work and desire

Embrace trial by fire

And make ourselves worthy

Of the life of blood and iron

Song of the Hooves

Soundly uplifting

to be the workhorse,

to charge unbroken,

scarred by thorny brush.

Make earthly tremors

a calling card.

Let armchair emperors

taste blood and dust.

Let very course

be a thunderous plain,

let every harness

lay broken beneath. 

Bleary Epiphany

spy the clock to find

the hours burned by fast

distraction waves

abound

like knowing knaves

bringing head-slump slumber

at the desk

the quiet dark

is false calm

a rude pause

to the world’s rage

churning somewhere

always

but the blue night

filled with child of dawn

sparks the need

to fly awake

and burn brighter than magnesium sun

while the rest of the world

slumbers

Playground Sneak

the stealth Dad,

trespassing

for children’s play

one eye over shoulder,

a gentle touch at the gate

dusk

cuts into afternoon

shepherd the young onward

through drizzle

and the quizzing eyes

of legitimate residents

outlaw father

stepping softly

across alien space,

a small price to pay

and will gladly pay again

February Spring

disjointed sun,

breezy strolls

where should be

lashing cold,

something broken

on an axis

rusted and old

false joy,

a gift poisoned

with a bad whiff

of heat damage

time slides forward,

a broken ride

swinging heavily

to an abrupt end

we keep our eyes sharp

to find

pockets of shade

to build our fortress

The Gospel of Swords

Blessed are the clear-eyed,

the keepers of swords,

by their bold blood

our lives are forged.

Lift our hammers

and our spears;

leave plowshare angels

their slavery

and tears.

Rejoice the future,

present and past.

As we make our history.

the die is cast.

Winter Thrives

let it pain us to the bones

the wind like splinters

that fires the soul

solid strength

piling higher than snow

savor the chilled air

the frost breath

that finds you there

to chase the skies

to fight, to dare

the hard, the cold

is winter’s great flower

breathe it deep

to gather power

Kisses for the Whale

empty box rowboat

in the living room

sets sail

orders from the captains:

kisses for the whale

sharp-eyed daughter

in thrall with her game

a glimpse of immortality

on the strength of our name

jumping and playing

no riches can compete

blood of our blood

makes a life complete

the news comes down:

there’s trouble in the skies

no worries from the captains

the ship is doing fine

Rogue Poets Fight Thought Police

The true rogue poet

can’t help

being a thought criminal

in their own home.

Each slight

just makes the flame

burn brighter.

There is no death

by a thousand cuts

when each blow

makes the poems longer.

Real rogue poets

can bear any storm

and it only

makes them stronger. 

Burned Out Firing Up

stunned sad

by my own reflection

caught among the commuter herd

going from bed to desk to death

mindspace cluttered 

with petty matters

paid to pretend to care

somewhere lost 

buried by the worry-lined face

is the slap-happy poet

who lived for twilight wine

and laughed 

under pink

sunset skies

rage in the transit cage

but vow

somehow

to find this person

again

Quest for Cold

Bring us that air of steel,

the punching breeze

that makes us real.

Thrive in crystal bold

blankets of white

that let us draw from the cold

to give us might.

Let us have the joy

of breath like ice

a little longer.

Give us the season

that makes us stronger.

Engine

the promise of future fire

in the night-ripe sky

burns its mark

on our slumber

the pull

to be that knowing passenger

feeling the alien hum

and know the power

unleashed

to throw the dice

and risk your neck,

the cusp and taste

            of death

lets you truly live

Young Pirates of Flushing, Queens

young pirates

of Flushing, Queens

shout about treasures

they pull from their jeans

taste floor hors d’oeuvres

before mother can clean

but even at their worst

we’re living the dream

the pirates

of Queens

have promises to keep

they punctuate their orders

by stomping

their small feet

our joy ambition

is molding these girls

into warrior women

who conquer the world

Alien Elite

No need to let

the freak flag fly;

the deadliest of men

stride by in bow ties.

Ladies replete

with bared skin and ink,

lethal beauty

that drives men to drink.

No fearful tales

cloud our minds,

no lies to sow misery

can bind our kind.

Hands too busy doing

to clasp in prayer.

Don’t promise us Heaven;

we’ve made ours here.

Irish Women

starlight beauty

drawn to kiss lightly

over every freckle

glowing face,

smile a shining emerald

of lost lands

smooth strong arms

shaped

to carry babies and muskets

eyes alight

with the power

of sweat-drenched promises

and closed for a kiss

that can keep it all going

another thousand years