Tag Archives: golden star

How to Take a Shove


she was sitting in an old chair, but she wasn’t in repose.
she was laughing at you.
she was looking at the way you hold her fingers like an infant,
searching for a person in a person right in front of you.
she had been stealing, but not for love.
she was stealing a book on how to take a shove
she was minding her own damn buisness.

she was in your arms.

she had her sweet, sweet song,
and liked to think she had your tongue
which dovetailed on her lost nomadic sentences
you never caught her kissing under false pretenses
and when her words started dripping out like smoke
within the wooded moss, the fog grey air like a brush stroke
you found an orange myrrh baloon in the sky and it was her
happy to become smaller and smaller
pointless as a gunpoint, barely much asunder
lightweight, featherweight, bit of string and whispering
take a shove and leave a shove, it’s cheaper by the dollar.

Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry


The B-10 Mystery– a short story


Just before we begin–

this is a piece of fiction that I wrote, and I know  it seems a bit out of character, considering the fact that I usually  just write poetry. However, I was very interested to write this, so I hope you all enjoy!





Nobody lives on on the fourth floor anymore-at least, not after what happened to Mrs. Winters. No, everyone stays an arms length from that thin dusty blue carpet and the doormat in front of apartment B-10 that once bore the strange and unfamiliar word “welcome.” It’s funny people even speak of it now. Most people would just label it as a “convenient superstition”.


Molly strode up The narrow staircase nonchalantly, carrying a rather large and unmarked cardboard box. She was dressed in an out of style Calvin Klein tee shirt, a taupe, knee-length overcoat and perfectly washed, but faded and slightly ripped, designer blue jeans, suggesting that she had once been wealthy but recently lost all of her money.Molly Plunked Down the Package outside of apartment B-10, smiled briefly, then ran down the staircase to the lobby and was gone.

A man at the end of the fourth floor hallway had arrived there accidentally, just as the old building elevator, which often malfunctioned, carried him one floor above his desired destination. He observed Molly walking along the fourth floor with purpose, carrying the box, and suspected her of doing something she ought not to do.
The next morning, the man tiptoed up to the apartment B-10 and realized that the box, and whatever lay inside it, was gone. The man shuddered. He dragged his feet back to his residence, then sauntered through the door, unlocked his desk drawer, picked up a shiny revolver and shot himself. If anyone were to have asked him who took the box before he went back to his apartment, he would never have disclosed what he knew: people have a way of constructing detailed and vivid stories on their own, and have such wild imaginations that it would spoil the fun of explaining it.



A small portion of a conversation between a Ms. Hewitt and a  Mrs. Cooke, at seven thirty eastern standard time, Monday, June seventeenth, 1996.

Ms. Hewitt: You know he had a bad day, Maggie! It was bound to be a rash decision!

Mrs. Cooke: No, not the way I saw it. He was pacing around the kitchen table giving me that look. I got so freaking scared,  I–

H: Well don’t you dare blame me, I was the one to get nearly 50 letters from the man,while you sat there at home doing nothing to stop him.

C: Don’t exaggerate.

H: What?

C: I said don’t exaggerate. It’s called a Hyperbole.

H: Yes, we all know you went to grad school, Margaret.

C: He only sent you five letters.

H: More like 20.

C: The point is, I know he hid it from us.

H: So… he had it brought back for…safekeeping?

C: Bingo!

(there is a long pause. Ms. Hewitt breathes heavily)

H: Let me get this straight. Are you telling me that Bas***d had the balls to do PLAN G?!?! Of all the–

C: Nobody has to know!

H: Oh, but they will know, they will Maggie, the second it gets there someone’s gonna go bananas. And if it gets out, It’s gonna be–wait, who did he hire?!

C: Molly

H: Ah Shit! you’ve got to be kidding me!

C: I can always have her let go–

H: No, No! It’s all ruined! she knows too many people…

C: We have it under control.

H: That’s highly doubtful.

C: Beth, we have it under control, okay? I love you but–

H: Yeah, love you too.

C:  What I mean is,  sometimes things don’t  turn out how you want them to. And, I know it’s never getting any better for us, but–

H: You want me to order flowers?

(Long pause)

C: You’d do that for me?

H: Of course.

C: Thank you darling.

H: Not a problem. Call me if anything else goes wrong in the next 24 hours, which I’m sure it will.

C: That I will do.

H: well, so long for now.

C: so long.

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry




Internal Dialogue


After “The Pillow Book”


I’m lost in a transient sort of state

utterly lost  and abandoned,

I mean who was this girl–

this thing–

I’ve become?




on a  dry, razor- perfect cut lawn,

her red lips are stained with a sort of

forced forgetfulness.

the magenta furls of summer,

like kites or long twirling dresses.

White alabaster carvings in her mind

of a boy she almost left behind,

like a patch of cool shade in the late afternoon,

making her swoon.





The wooden chime sings in the air, as

we take a moment to find ourselves once again.

We will sing, like two small flutes,

like proud-breasted birds,

on miniature twigs,

as the wind rides on the current like a dancer on the water,

flickering in

and out

of everything,  as if she were a

skater without skates.

she flies once again through the night

without any means of suspension

not by firelight,or torchlight, or by the sound of her breath,

but by the only sense that she has

which is senseless.



I’m lost in a transient sort of state

utterly lost  and abandoned,

I mean who was this girl–

this thing–

I’ve become?


Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry

Photography Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry

Zahava First usage of Camera 002

Black Blue White New



the  people on the ground,

heads bent,


and unable to look at the ever reaching sky


“is it worth it?”

they ask,



i was just  little boy yesterday carrying my book bag,

the sun hanging deep and low over my brow

and my forehead stank of breath ad of  saltwater

tears, and–”


The shapes become all engrossing, so

i  find some


in an old painted book store

of who-knows where



as i read a line from a silent ode he brushes against me and i don’t

know what is happening and suddenly he

is with me and suddenly he

is around me surrounding me and

the shouts of the street people seems to die in the

sound of his voice;



he says

(that’s a command)


enter it


and  see

the glorious undertaking of you and me”


his eyes like seascapes

or sky-scapes

of piercing blue fantasies

as if

he was always



but with a rush of the train and the steam he’s gone

in the blink of an eye and a lash he’s gone

in the mood of a novel or book he is gone

and the slight inclination of head he is gone


and i lost that sky….


Now looking up to the expansive light

so much like his dazzling

unshakably passionate eye

i find myself on the street

like all the countless others,

among the thousands of women and children–i am just like them

and the whisper of giving up—i am one of them

and the shouts of the street

i am them.



seemed to pass me only as i was ready

in the fashion of

true bittersweet punishment;

i sat on a fountain and spilled coins from my pockets

and every wish was a wish for him.



now i am  holding him once more

and he surrounds and envelops the air


but this time i am dreaming it,

and this time the pavement seems all too hard

and the  spurs in the ground digging at my heels making them bleed


will you please

tell me

if i can even breathe

in this,

without at least some



I think

in that case

i might just need

for you to feel


(but oh

it’s a pity i found the loveliest boy

In town

when he was just about

to wreck his vengeance

on me)


Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry


Under the Foam


You, on the back porch,

smelling like soap.

I have been married to you for fourteen years.

I am all stain, all hush, all quiet and mussed.

I never hurt you

because I was faithful.

I held god’s hand through your pockets

Like a dreamer,

and I drifted like sand.

On the beach

your eyes will play a darting maneuver,

the fierce crashing against rocks  like the sea waves to shore

closing into a submissive


Like a sorcerer, the sea splits.

All too soon I’m watering up,

but your hands are suddenly closing

and for defense, you say

“What did I do?

What the hell did I do?”

Some smile!

Some Mistake!

Some Apology!

Some rough Explanation!

This feels like mud

This night feels like wind

against the stifling bed sheet,

and I’m dreaming of you

tasting the salt of you,

licking my lips to dive under the foam.


The lamp turns off

The lamp turns on.

Who are you?



I hope you like a busty woman

because that’s who I am.

The sides of my hips

grow to the edge of the blankets.

I am bloated with weeds,

with gross, sickly weeds.

At first, though, I was a garden-

touched, then untouched.

The first day that I met you, you were by the stables, laughing.

You were made of muscles,

then mouths,

then lastly eyes, filled with stern


“Might we duel? Me seeking you?

Seeking the sun? Seeking the old green devil?”

I wonder where you came from…


I bustle, and my new dress sparkles.

I bustle, and wear it till worn.

And the sequins fall like shards of glass (MAZAL TOV!)

And the sequins fly, sworn off like a swarm of bees

and I know that I am she, in the sunlit beach

smashing a seashell.

I thought I was laughing at our life,

or, what I thought it was.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry.


Under the foam 2

Tuesday Already


what does mother say?

she lifts her head above ground to the silken sky

making symmetrical arches on the side of the green mountain

it’s bold, 

it spurts like a fountain

god, it’s lovely today,

and the breeze has found itself another way

to curl up into my arms and spread over my hands

as if it had it’s own brain with it’s own plans.

my mother says to look down

the counter -intuitive head spin that makes my head drown

in nausea, from the drop.

heights are never ending and they never stop

and it’s Tuesday already

and mother has climbed out of her burrow once more

closing the door

and her eyes

once more

god, it’s a lovely day.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

Stream of Consciousness #10


the armory-

god, it’s this banging

the trodden are down on their heads and are spinning

and their spindly arms are touching the spout of where the sun should be

they are clamoring up on their tip toes and shouting

like bunions on my feet are like the road smelling sweet

what a treat to hear and to eat meet and to feel beat

like it’s nothing to know no one and to feel the nothing I’ve known all along

what was the air like in December morning

in the winters and evening sun and summers you took me and kissed my flowering mouth

like a soft petal of rain in the ornery bushes?

that singing…

what is the name of my gods?

they are changing

what is the name of my god, for Pete’s sake?

you churn butter and you tore the street apart but you never listen to me when i speak,

I am just lifting my arms and my spindly legs and I am crawling out of the earth whispering like a madman

you don’t need to call me that

you can just call me mother or darling

or kiss me like you did when the world was new and we had nothing to do and I was only three (or was I two?)

and you saw the stars as they shone through

and we were too young to know why I wasn’t me and you weren’t you

we were just satisfied to be fully ourselves

but the knob on the door was mine always

and I knew that love was never just around the corner.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

Despondency- A Poem For My Friend’s Birthday



a landsacpe repeatedly seen
not to be drawn
but to be wondered on

the glass window was her quiet companion
and from her ledge she saw two lovers
who were shyly agreeing on nothing.
(her dress billows, she sees, yes, a nice girl having a nice time-
a fire and a cloudy day rounding out the appetite. I like fires when I can share a fire
when clouds make the milk for my tea and the red leaves spread out in warm blankets)
moments pass, it seems, now she eyes
the second orange sunset rise.

Nostalgia was the gut feeling.
She wanted to be herself at seven
carrying the oval sky in her pockets
in handfuls of cloud
leaning on her mother’s skirt
Looking out at the green plains
crying but not knowing she was crying.

a flock of Ewes go down the mountain
and now the nightwatchman carries his torch to the river, to drown himself.

she opens up a bright scarlet box
(come, hold the cold jeweled nest, and feel something inhibited)
“it needs care,” she says as she looks at it
“it needs to hold an emptiness”

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry


in the Stars’ Freezing Arms- A pantoum


I have never actually written one of these, and as a result, the quality is a bit poor…. I don’t think I will do this kind of poem again, the format is just too darn complicated! It’s alright, I think it’s still good enough.

in the Stars’ Freezing Arms- A pantoum

I lie down facing the stars

My hands are stained with blue

But no one can open my eyes

So I can see the world without hesitation.


I cannot open my eyes

In the stars’ freezing arms

And see the world without hesitation,

So I walk with the winter.


In the stars’ freezing arms

I am thinking of the sun

Walking with the winter

Remembering our love that wasn’t love


I am thinking of the sun

And for a second i think I hear your calls

I remember our love that wasn’t love

But it fades like a whisper echoing through walls.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

The Sonnet Project: Sonnet # 10


The Sonnet Project: Sonnet # 10

my mother is as bent as olive trees

when on her back she sleeps before the moon

her eyes as muddy as her wobble knees

Send god it well, for leaves she us now soon.

The night is windowless as death’s embrace

Against an endless skyward eye that calls

The maidens, who, like sailors after chase,

this lover who destroys all saddened falls,

can heal the hole that wounds my aching heart

for mother’s lost, my life of freedom’s lost.

From her, oh joy, i cannot be apart

to once again find love, what is the cost?

oh lover, take thy herb and sugar cure

and feed to me of what I can endure.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry