Monthly Archives: April 2013

The Gobi Desert Cycle-HAIR


This is a cycle of love poems I am working on. This is the fist one in the cycle. Hope you enjoy!


The sand gets caught up in his hair every once in a while, like white marble castles drifting on seas of dark evergreen


he brushes it  off. Always it is night there, a perennial obsidian coffin, buried with incense. The light  cannot escape it.

it’s curve is

forever a hushed daughter’s keepsake, kept in place and twisted horribly all at once.  Hush, she whispers, fingers


each strand like a horse’s mane. He is a quiet warrior, like a sleeper who is not talking,


through the silent grass. A bridge echoes through the dark waterfall of  the daughter’s mind;

it breaks

evenly, vertebrae by vertebrae, slowly cracking, each piece of it’s  driftwood crashing into the open mouth of the  river:

she drowns

but she doesn’t know it yet.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

Three Haikus


Three Haikus

1. the floorboards creaking
cold green rivers rush outside
empty, white, old house.

2. the arrow misses
travelers seeing a new sun
audible stillness.

3. above the ground, ice;
everything is freezing now
so much for summer!

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry


void of inspiration


having some minor writer’s block. hope you enjoy this semi-interesting attempt at a play script…
And its pretty unoriginal, but who cares?

a typewriter shop storefront.

Enter LORAINE, a short petite girl, who is a studious college student , wearing glasses, collard shirt, and a plaid skirt. LORAINE looks at the sign that says “hours of operation”. Enter WALLACE, a scruffy man in his mid- forties with a belly, a beard , and a good sense of humor.

LORAINE: huh. the store hours are eight to seven. Wait, they close at SEVEN?

WALLACE: it’s just a typewriter store, and nobody buys them. you’re going to be the first customer they’ve had in ages. I’m sure it won’t take you all day to find the one. I mean, it’s only mid afternoon….

LORAINE:but I have to speak to the manager for a few hours! I’m working on something called “save the store” and it’s going to be a research paper about dying businesses in the larger Detroit area!

WALLACE: listen, doll, ALL the businesses in Detroit are dying businesses!

LORAINE: but I have to write my term paper on something!

WALLACE: write about me. I’m a dying man.

LORAINE: no, just a lonesome one. And I’m not making a novel, just trying to live through college. Hold this (hands him her sweater).

WALLACE: Listen Loraine, you have enough experience already. Just write about something more interesting. There is plenty to write about, believe me!

LORAINE: I can use you for inspiration, maybe…


LORAINE: well, huh, let’s see…bingo! I can write about the impact that computers have on the tissue that covers the retina of our eyes!

WALLACE: and you came up with this just from looking at me.

LORAINE: if it worked last time, why shouldn’t it work this time?

WALLACE: that’s true. I have saved your butt quite a few times, now that I think about it….

LORAINE: well there. ya see?

WALLACE: huh. yeah….you know you’re dress is just fantastic?

LORAINE: oh, lay off!

WALLACE: (smiles) whatever you say, Loraine, whatever you say.

LORAINE starts to walk off stage right.

LORAINE: I’l have to meet you again next time, maybe soon…

WALLACE: fine, just do me a favor. next time, no typewriter stores, okay?

LORAINE: fine.

LORAINE exits stage right .WALLACE exits stage left. He turns around and waves her sweater in the air.


WALLACE looks down at the sweater, sighs and exits stage left.

“Shouts and Murmurs” (“The new yorker”-esque piece) -hello my name is bob


 I don’t usually post stuff like this but It’s a bit of a joke. It’s a bit like a section in the magazine “The New Yorker” called “Shouts and murmurs”, which is always completely stupid and outrageous . I hope it makes you laugh.

It contrasts the way a teenager would write in a school  essay and how he would speak  in real life. 


Hello. My name is bob. I am a dandy and enjoy fishing for kosher fish. I do not resemble anyone and am very self conscious. My mother is old. She is a gypsy and does not have a job. sometimes she will read my palm for me, but her prophesy is always the same: ” you have a girl after you, but don’t worry because once she gets to know you she will be sad. why, Bobbie? we have already covered this topic, Bobbie . it is because your life and your personality will be always boring ,boring, boring. you will try to have fun but your life will still be boring.”. She IS right. There IS a girl after me. But her life is not boring. well, that’s not so bad.  and besides I hate her so why bother? She has never said to me that she is after me, she is a girl. But I ignore her now. now she leaves me alone. no she doesn’t. I suspected from the beginning. sorry, this is getting out of hand.  My name is bob, but I will write how I speak:


so, yeah, My name is bob, like I said. Some girl thinks that I’m a dandy (whatever the **** that is)

and I keep kosher…but When I get older I’m gonna eat bacon like there’s no tomorrow.

Actually, wait, no, i don’t know-pork is kinda fattening, right? cuz, like, I diet because I don’t wanna be fat….

I was talking to my friends and I ditched class for like the billionth time…George was so freaking scared…It was hilarious.

no really, you should have seen his face.

he was a flipping  razor shark without any persipitaing monuments!

yo, but really, that’s how I used to talk  to the girl,

but now actually i have to talk to her like a normal person if she does,

so she’s like “hi”

and I’l just say “hello, who are you, what school do you go to?”

and she’l be laughing or whatever but I’l just walk to my next class or I wont even care

anyways, there’s this really hot girl in her grade and i talk to her because she just, like,

doesn’t talk or whatever, I don’t’ know.

yeah, did you see her?

no, actually, I like Mia, she’s like my whole friggen  life.

I have to go, my mom’s calling me, she’s gonna get pissed If i don’t come,

no seriously, Seriously,

okay, bye.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

Ghazal #3- Flawed Handiwork


Flawed Handiwork

you, with the eyes

they are all I am imagining

they are all I am writing about.


I talked about you once  to the butcher

but he is silent:

he does not pay attention to you, only to your pockets.


I talked about you once to the barber

but he is silent:

he does not pay you any attention, only to his scissors.


I talked about you once to the author

but even she does not speak,

for she is always at home at night alone, always with her bloody pencils.


I talked about you to the teacher

but he just laughed, and mentioned, casually

about how many times you have been whipped and scolded.


I talked about you to the sun,

who only tossed his rays in my direction, who whispered

how he only shines for me, and didn’t’ know why I would mention you.


I know I should not fall in love with ideas of  stupidity

when reflecting on you and what (should be) perfect,

but what is, and always has been, a flawed piece of god’s handiwork.


I scramble for you, up on  these high mountain walls

Craving to say three tingling words that  dance frantically in my mouth,

but I  spit them back out on myself, knowing that you would not hear them anyway.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

Stream of Consciousness #7


Stream of Consciousness #7

likely she stood out

her silhouette  was my shadow

I lied in a company of two instead of five

I lived for one light fine and the voracious  beauty  which lied in my kin

i liked the manner in which she spoke

she was the woman of the Canadian wilderness

and second only to me,

I was the first in command

I held the rocks which by a sea she drove

and did not care what happened to me

long as I was free and held onto a part of myself that was undoubtedly me

and you kept it

you never let it go

you kept it in the palm of my hand

oh god who helps me

do you see me very foolish to want the same things for you  as I do for her?

x  x  x x  x  x  x  x x  x x x x  x x x x x

likely, she said, it was likely very likely. I will get back to you mister Morison  I love you mister Morrison give me that back mister Morrison mister Morrison call me Alexander misses,  alright call me Alexander .she says call me Aleka Alexander call me Aleka. I will call you says Alexander, I will call you by that name and that name only.

why does she muse about herself in another person’s shoes? she has nothing else to do, says her friend  it makes her cry, undoubtedly, it does. I love you mister Morrison do you want some coffee?

x x x  x x  x x  x  x  x  x  x  x  x

she listens to four classical stations

and her favorite tune

this one is his  theme song

it is derived from the word “Pig” in Latin

and it means the root of all evil lies within the soul of meat.

eat it now

or starve she says

why does his hair be perfectly combed

but he looks away and starts laughing

she laughs

she pulls the comb she pulls the trigger

she likes life, she likes it.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

A Scene From Texas-poem written at age 12


This is an older poem that I wrote when I was about 12. Was proud of it then, still proud of it now.

A scene From Texas

The windy tailgate

pulling up slowly towards the

misty sun


the pickups attatched to

wooden strings

fingering the landscape

like lost toys.


their wheels sidding around

in a circle,

their tracks appearing in a


like my open mouth,

sucking in dust.


the orange moon

clouded up from the rain

the pebbles like collected

raindrops on sunnier asphalt.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry


Ghazal #2- New Light


New Light

Groaning, the couch heaves a sigh with me

“I am the Lilly of the valleys” says her maiden

not anymore could she be so fond.


A bond breaks in an hour, but we are too late to catch it.

I loose the flower of the hour

I loose a thorn and then am gone.


I walk along with swords wiped free of blood

and make my way to pass the battle

without swinging my sword.


She sees a new light in the empty hall

she tries to knot her hair that thins and starts to gray

she sits and waits for sunrise in the middle of the day.


Galleons, fight at the gallows!

We are all allegianed  and armed till God parts us!

Come, if you be at all men.


She held her head beside your eyes

and that she can see is your departure

she is lonely while in your worn-down company.


“I do not loose faith each passing day”

I assert this fact quite loosely, but substantially enough.

“I gain hope-I hope-I hope”


Your hands are lovely, he says, as he inspects them.

Smile for me again and I’l make no argument

but bask in love’s cool wine.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry 


P.S-Passover ends at sundown today!!!!! WHOOPEE!!! BREAD AND CAKES HERE I COME!!!!!!!!!!

the Breath of the Morning-a Ghazal poem


Yesterday I headed over to the library.

This particular branch is home to one of the best, and most extensive poetry collections of any public library that I know of. I came upon a book of poems by Robert Bly, all of them in the form of “Ghazal” poems. They are a Rumi-esque type of poem that is popular in Islamic culture. They consist of three-lined stanzas that could all be individual poems. I was reading them last night at around 11:00 P.M and was very inspired to write some of my own. I did, in fact, and wrote three poems with 8 stanzas in them, all in less than 25 minutes! whew! It was some inspiration! In fact, I haven’t gotten that roused by my muse in AGES, it seems! Oh well, I hope you enjoy them. This is my second one (I didn’t care that much for the first), and tomorrow I shall hopefully post the third one. Happy Reading!


The Breath of the Morning


Like the breath of the morning wavering

you quiver and shiver at my doorstep

wearing a purple velvet overcoat and sweater.


My my, the lines you say are changed

our conversation rapid

and dashing across the scripted lines.


Our times are older and not as strong

we break barriers and call ourselves free

but we are pardoned against army walls, besides.


Trading off days was not so easy.

I bargained with you about which day was mine

and then wondered: what was the point?


We wander, wallowing in the shadow of our distance

clamping down on your gusty temper

that was swaying in an already bent breeze.


Point me to a grown tree, it lies

and fuchsia colors blind my eyes

this comes to you as no surprise.



Tumbling down onto a staircase of mud

the houses of the potters from centuries ago

are still wet and partially constructed.


carve me out of still wood:

burnt, balsam, and lilac nottlewood

myrtle and sage are my valentine.


be then, forest hill, at my eyes: awakening.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry