Collected Poems

The Duck of My Life

2009-04-05T05:03:00.000-07:00

– with thanks to Susanne Toth

Consider yourself plagiarized, I said
not realizing how close to the bone
your tongue slip had cut.

Duck. A failure. But
that’s not really cricket!

A disease? When the tum is too close
to the ground and I can’t
reach the mike?

Mike left me after the harvest
that was never to be
mine.

----
Created in response to Susanne Toth's poem, "Drums", read at Castles of Light on 4 April 2009, Cafe Miles Smiles, Vienna.

Collected Poems

2006-07-18T07:03:00.000-07:00

I've tried to bring my published poems under one roof. Poetry is awesome, and so hard to do. This is a work in progress.

These poems have been published at/in:

Bergli Books website

Cadenza Magazine

Ex Tempore

Mind Caviar

Offshoots - Writing from Geneva

Poets Against the War

Presque Haiku for Peace

2006-07-18T06:58:00.000-07:00

Children know too well that no
man is an island,
yet nations pretend.

-----

Published in 2001 in Ex Tempore.

Spices

2006-07-18T05:37:00.001-07:00

In the tang of winter warm
and summer cool,
the taste and smell
of crumbled
cinnamon,
the gentle brush
against the velvet grain,
his backhand stroke
of sprinkled golden down
grazed her nape
to hold her
firm and long.

His hand slipped
guided
by a finger cool
and teased
down
the heart folds
of her spine.

She closed her eyes
and took
his honeyed strength
knowing
she must drown
in the nutmeg taste of him.

----
Published in 2001 in Ex Tempore and in 2003 at Mind Caviar.

Telco Fair

2006-07-18T05:37:00.000-07:00

Uniforms.
Black skirts slit
to thighs.
Ties.
Cellphones stuck
to earlobes.
Eyes
roaming
unseeing
in the buzz,
the cacophony of
business deals
or
at least
the seduction of
neophytes
on the lookout for
gadgets.

My head spins
in the fuzz
of Millennium tools
and I long for
the still of the desert
before it is littered
with the husks
of spent
mobile phones.

-----

Published in 2001 in Ex Tempore.

Cat's Cradle

2006-07-18T05:36:00.002-07:00

You take a thread
And draw it through
Your fingers

Not content
To let it be
You tie a knot

Your hands close
Upright, strong
As if in prayer

And then they draw apart
But not too far

Restrained within the reaches
Of the thread
Your hands approach

The thread falls slack
You dip
Its hold to ease
And with your index fingers
Make a bridge

But there are spaces
To be filled

And so you dip again
Your longest fingers
Pulling at a grid
Whose play of slack
And tautness
Alternate
‘Til all that’s left
Is one tight knot.

Unpick the knot
And start again
Before the thread
Can fray beyond
The game.

Cut the knot
Pretend
The thread
Is fresh?

Or make a ball of it all
And laugh out loud
At your childish games.

-----

Published in Offshooots VII - Writing from Geneva.

His Father's Son

2006-07-18T05:36:00.001-07:00

She kneels at his feet, a bowl by her side.
Lotus petals float as she proceeds
to wash him.
Forgive him his sins, she murmurs.

The man leans back and buries
both hands in her long dark hair.
For the first time in months
his mind is far from the
pulsing red button
on his desk.

-----

Published online in 2003 at Poets Against the War, and in print in 2005 in Cadenza.

Justitia

2006-07-18T05:36:00.000-07:00

Lady, are you wearing
L’Air du Temps?

Will you cover the breast
of discord to pay for a peek
from under your blindfold?

The sword is heavier than you thought
when you first took on the job.
Then, the scales almost balanced;
you held them in one hand.

Now you need two.

-----

Published in 2005 in Cadenza, Offshoots VIII and Ex Tempore.

The Tourist Visa

2006-07-18T05:35:00.000-07:00

“The North Pole is melting
so where do we go?"

"Why, off to the Jungfrau,
she's covered in snow.

I'll call myself Rudi,"
the last reindeer said,
"and we'll fly down to earth
and just park our sled."

"But what about visas?
They're sticklers, I hear.
We can't say we do chimneys
and spread loads of good cheer."

"No worries, Santa,
as tourists we'll go.
You'll clip your whiskers
and I'll turn off my glow."

"But the gifts from the North Pole,
so many, so fine?"

"We'll get us a laptop
and send them online.
Then we'll sit in the sun
surrounded by snow
and your beard will grow back
and I'll turn on my glow."

And so on the day the North Pole dissipated
Santa and Rudolph to Schweiz relocated.

-----

Published in 2001 in Ex Tempore. Third Prize in Bergli Books Christmas Poem competition.