Monthly Archives: July 2015

Figment Angel or My True Protector? 


you said
be a child

so i was a child for you

and in the end that’s all i could ever be for you
at least, i thought so in my mind
for like myself and yourself,

you were the ideal angel but
not in the right light or the right moment
and everything else seemed to be wrong

with your wingedness
why, when even hello from you was

and to fly, to be so gone, so gone (!)
“even the sight of your torn red sweater”
was enough to lead me fly up, to be so far gone (!)

even as all i cried, and could not tell you my story
of how all this need came to be, you stayed
a patient waiting
(at least, bitter, i said, i thought it so in my mind)

and in the morning all was dew fresh, and my mind
as tho visited by ghost or remnant,
washed clean, fitted to me and handed pressed sheets

and i was fine
though i was not fine
though i was not, not fine,

tho the sight of you made for trembbling,
even 2 thousand miles away away
even 2 thousand miles away

Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry 


Quit reading your books and focus on her


she passes her
fingers to her lips like a “hush now”
like a savored hit, (not the drug kind) without a real
care, or passing for air,
without her eyes or coarse hair

she sputters when you 
ask her about the time she nearly
climbed up the face of a seaside cliff,
“monty tells people everything
(that’s just a lie!) 
he’s got himself wound up pretending 
to be someone he’s someone he’s not, pretending to
know me, those stories are a known facsimile”

maybe she’s glimmerimg in her bathtub
simmering and soaking in a bath of pink bubbles
but you’re afraid to touch her,
she clings to you like daggers,
maybe she’s too much for you,
maybe you should stay safe for now.

Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry

I Thought; Denied Access


i thought he was going to turn up
i thought he was going to be the type of guy to take you out on long drives, in any weather
make jokes about his soon-to-be receding hairline

i thought he was supposed to be the type that sat down by the fireplace
reading stories, face animated, wild gestures,
and a camp range, foraging for firewood, while rainstorms; holding, closing,
we’d be better soaking or dry

looking at the midlands, and the mindless meandering birds
i thought–
hadn’t it always been this picturesque?

on the mountain, near taking clumsy photographs and quiet confidences,
letting ourselves be too green to ever be dark
i thought i wasn’t built to be denied by my imagination, or whatever else it had in store,
now im doing it unconsciously;

i saw an orthodox man in his starched shirt, his long white beard and black sleeves.
he’s really a well built black man with a week’s worth of scruff on his chin.

i see a young blond haired man riding his bike, smiling,
he’s really an older, more dour man with a mustache, and he isn’t happy.

(i thought he was really the type of guy
i thought he was really my type of guy.)

Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry

Farewell Note


she pools out into the afternoon
making her dress, and you saw it
she pools out into the afternoon
wearing her orange sunbonnet,
wearing her new blue dress.
you liked it, into the afternoon
into the new blue afternoon:

(summertime is going time
going time is summertime
going time is when at last
the final find is found, and she)

she holds the song in four parts of you
the andante and the largo tune
and she found you
playing some invisible string?
were you not the only thing she had seen?
were you not the only thing she had ever seen?

she pools out into the afternoon
into the new blue afternoon.

Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry

Empty Doggone Weather Girl


she’s beating at her beating breast,
the times asessed, 
so you pity the ones who had to wait
(two years?)
or was that the sound of emptiness grinding her gears?
you see her in her room, 
she’s shaddowed for a few
and then wakes up, pained because she’s holding
in her hands.

you pity the ones who have time to waste,
lying their days down like stackable plates
silverware not too shiny but kept cleansed to prevent from going dull,
you wonder if the void is truly null,
or if she chooses to even hear you at all.

so you’re going closer, to zoom in on her pupils,
so you’re saying “tempestuous” now she’s glowering ether
her eyes dialate like an incoming storm,
and you’d best pet her so we don’t release her

she wasn’t pitied, she wasn’t given in to you quick
but even as she hesitates it makes you feel sick
to think that even plaster figurines could break so evenly
just when you thought your stupid eyes weren’t even looking

Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry 



you told me i was special, 



alternate universe in my head, this
weightless and amoeba aureole of flossy flaxen
where the impossible was reality
i took myself into your embraces like cold
winter beams into the inferno, 
moths into the sunlight.



clutched, murmured to please kiss me now,
before you have left so very, very soon, and the 
day is too young for you and yet, there i find my hope for your
words on my lips, and the honey flowing nectar we both could share
but also the way i felt as
thought i could embed myself into the
furrows of your every crevace

or were you

just being too nice?

am i simply brewing up this concoction of verses 
and the unspoken image of the road,
and the people and things passing me by?
your face too wide for its brim, 
or that’s all i could fill my vision with
too hard to fight my plea
to kiss you hard and have you kiss me
like an ageless ode or a law decree
as the suffering passing thru my lips to yours
was never spoken of again anymore

Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry 

Something We Don’t Say


maybe there is something there we don’t say,
something the mouth hides, the hair overcomplicates and furrows
something made over with kisses, and pale complexions not yet rosied,
with the sun, with any wethered summer breezes.

you have it tickled, thoughts which make me hope, 
love for somewhere sometime else,
and myself in a thicket, parseled away for next time,
in linnen and creased wax paper.

maybe there is a comfort to be burrowed,
maybe being burried not in earth but cloth and skin will perk the primrose skin up again
maybe the grey gritty hours smoothed,
you on my porch sinking your cool stone hands into the wooden arms of the swing,
and the daylight singing with all of you, filled with you,
and so am i, and so am i

Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry