Author
The Beloved Particular
What readers say:
“Words woven together creating a beautiful tapestry of the poet's life. Reading her poems makes me feel like I am stepping directly into her memories. I thoroughly enjoyed this collection of poems.”
"I don't usually read poems but I love how these are so relatable!"
Columba livia
This is what we get for building concrete jungles --
Birds that have absorbed the message
And don’t give a crap about being beautiful.
In the vast, rainbow paths
Of speciation,
They did not choose the scenic route.
Only that strange purple iridescence hangs
Like a pendant round their necks.
Once I climbed a staircase, following
Their cooing till I reached
Their roosting place,
Heavy with stench and wings
That moved at once
Like weather, back into the sky,
Leaving mortuary and nursery.
Odd the way you won’t see baby pigeons.
They keep their young at home
Till fully feathered,
They can make a living on the streets.
I picture them so heavy that they almost pitch
Their parents’ nests on practice flights.
And such patient parents they must have,
Teaching them everything
Before they leave --
About children in the playground,
Tourists in San Marco Square,
The lake in Central Park.
At last they can bob their heads
and scramble imperiously
for the Crust of Hot Dog Bun.
But they lack the purple iridescence;
Ah, there is beauty earned.
Refugees
Aren’t we all refugees,
Immigrants in the foreign countries of our lives
Moving from what we thought
To what was unexpected?
When did anyone claim a fastland
And not watch the stake crumble off the edge?
Who are these people that claim
A long swing on a cool verandah?
We pack and move,
We swell and shrink possessions
Until there is a nightstand with three pictures
And a nameplate on the door.
My grandmother came on a boat
With three small children.
She stuck it out as long as she could,
With cossacks at the door.
Then island-hopped from Ellis to Brooklyn,
Set up a still for vodka in her bathtub,
Colored it with tea and called it whiskey.
How I love to have the blood of a survivor in my veins.
The Old Sailor
When I was young, of spirit strong,
I sailed the sea in ships so long
That lives were lived across their length
And bodies tested for their strength.
Winds that carried birds to shore
Dropped them, and were heard no more.
Great monsters raised their slippery heads
While others dreamed in warmer beds.
Faithful mermaids and their kin
Sheltered me with flesh and fin.
Now my bones have found their weight.
I think too much, I sleep too late.
I move too slowly for the land’s fast wonder,
I can not bear the sound of thunder.
Rain’s long journey to the ocean
Makes me sad. I lost the courage I once had.
The moon’s capsize at night’s demise
Brings ghostly figures to my eyes.
I see my coral mistress sleeping,
But it is I who’s weeping.