Sunday, 29 January 2017


On a porch in Amish country
a wise grandmother of the first
order knits a crooked path
Once it is of suitable length,  she
covers it with dry tobacco leaves
Then casts it up past the eaves
up past the stars
up past the edge of the world
Until the path finds a black hole
in the sky and is gone
And the grandmother just sits
there with her plants and knits
no more.

Wednesday, 18 January 2017


From a wonderful course out of Duke University (a MOOC, courtesy of Coursera) - a group of writers stayed in touch and wrote stories about places they were from, and/or had lived ... under the guidance and care of a special leader, Jaya Sengupta - a special volume came into being (more than one actually  - there's a cookbook that led off, then a two-part storybook). Here's the preview from my section ...

Thursday, 13 October 2016


At first glance, I think—
performance art —an actual
albeit, huge man
standing there
It's hard to understand why
Then, the scent of candle-wax
wafts towards me; I realize
finally,  the man's head
is melting

I walk towards the sculpture
and read the description
One artist is paying homage
to another
Has sculpted a larger-than-life-
size, absolutely realistic
replica of an idol
Then put, what one writer has
referred to as,' a candle that
burns at glacial rate'
within the head and neck

At some point, the whole
thing will, presumably,
collapse in a waxy puddle
I find it odd, but interesting
Less so when I find out
the fellow being idolized
is still living

As I observe the crumpled
cranium, the already long,
grey hair, frazzled and dripping
down the back
I wonder how the living
replica feels about this guy.

Seen in the Whitney Museum in NYC, August 2016 - Urs Fischer's sculpture dedicated to writer-director Julian Schnabel.

Tuesday, 27 September 2016


Doppelganger you,
never far from me
My damn, constant
companion, you
never let me be

You're no spectre no
spirit, too solid by far
My alter ego menace
my double, super nova
 - spirit-star

Oh shadow self, silhouette
let me see you whole
Step out from the gloom
come over here in
to the light, my mole

I wonder what it is you fear
Why darkness is your friend
Come forward, shady one
I'll protect you, keep your
ghost-trace from the sun.

Saturday, 24 September 2016

Monday, 18 July 2016

BASTILLE DAY, NICE 2010 and 2016

Bastille Day, six years ago, in the photo, she stands on the beach at Nice
Remembers feeling blessed to scrunch her toes in the sand where the very rich
and the artistic both loved to frolic - the playground frequented by Picasso, Matisse,
Monet - and the writers - Stein, Hemingway, Gatsby and others, too many to mention
The words idyllic and privileged occurred to her more than once but she didn't mind.

Fast forward to the present: annual celebrations underway for France's biggest revelry
as dark inks the night, and fireworks are readied to be-jewel the sky. Abruptly, chaos
reigns - a thunderous cacophony, and some flares - did the fireworks begin early?
All too soon it becomes apparent something much less celebratory is happening ...
An out-of-control truck is careening at high speed down the main boulevard; the place

is chock-a-block with people of all ages and no other vehicles. There is no escaping
the death-mobile. The night air saturates: shooting, screaming, blood, and dying.
Dying. Before police are able to kill the driver, dozens of dead line the street
with dozens more seriously injured.  A terrorist attack takes place in Nice on Bastille Day.
The woman stares at her photograph through stinging tears; first it was Paris, now
Nice; she carves out room to house more hurt in her heart. It's all she can think to do.

Monday, 27 June 2016


When I wake and find myself mad with missing you,
is that a form of craving?
I picture your infant self - you were so beautiful; everyone
said so; strangers would stop me at the mall, on the street,
everywhere - and it was always the same,
"Oh my, what a beauty - a girl, I guess, eh?"

Even though I'm all about gender-neutrality,
you were very fair, bald almost, and I got tired
of confirming that, yes, you were a lovely girl
Hence the bows, the pink outfits ...

Sometimes, my arms ache to hold you - often actually -
to not even hear your voice is almost beyond my ken
And the rest of it - this shunning thing you're doing -
I guess that too is beyond me.
At times I think I'm going unsane, that I'll never
get over this surreal period in my life.

It comes to me that it's your life also.
Do you feel the loss as keenly? Ever?