Two new poems published

My poems "Chasing Light" and "Donetsk Revisited" have made their way into Tuck Magazine! Thank you to the editors! You can read them here.

The Parsons Confession published by second magazine

"The Parson's Confession" now appears in Deep South Magazine Summer Issue. Check it out here.

Poems Published by Askew Literary Journal and Vox Poetica

Two more poems appear online and a third in a print journal. In Vox Poetica there is Corona Solis and in Vox Poetica Contributor Series 9 there is Donetsk 2009.

Askew Literary Journal has published Caerlton. While my poem does not appear on their website, I encourage you to check out their site in any case! Click here.

Three Poems Published by Milk Sugar

Milk Sugar Literary Journal has published the following three poems.

Taxi Girl
Found In Translation
Subway Portraits

All three poems are inspired by time I've spent in Ukraine. Please check the website out!

Three More Published

Apropos Literary Journal has just posted their inaugural online edition. Three of my poems are featured in the issue. Please check them out!

Holodomor
Street Corner Blues
River Song

"Yakov's Stairs" Published

My poem "Yakov's Stairs" is now published in Issue 9 of Caper Literary Journal. Check it out here.

"The Parson's Confession" published

My poem "The Parson's Confession" now appears on page 63 of the September 2010 edition of Eclectic Flash Literary Journal. Click on the link to access the online edition. You can order the print edition by accessing the following link: http://www.lulu.com/product/paperback/eclectic-flash-volume-1-september-2010/12573964 

You can also listen to me reading my poem on the Voices Page.

Making Love published by Vox Poetica

Please check out the Vox Poetica link below. Note: I originally posted a link that did not work. Below is the corrected link! Sorry about any confusion!

http://poemblog.voxpoetica.com/2010/08/19/making-love.aspx

To Notice For The First Time

I watched him unobserved in full view
as five bare toes, slightly spread, felt
their way to explore below the chair on which
his belly laid. He played in the room
of vinyl and steel, of strangers and sounds: a waiting
place, not knowing what he was waiting for
(both years of his life). All he knew was taste
and touch, smell and sound. And now another
sense was just in reach of those five

bare

toes,

slightly

spread.

Two days later he sat straight up with eyes
wide open in wonder: to a brand new world
filled with shadow, shade, light and radiance.

____________
April Poem A Day prompt: "To (blank)...:

Sanctus

I am called, today.

The sun lights your kindness in the sky.

I praise you, my Father

and lift your name on high.

Your mercy and your love

lights the hope within my eye—

O holy One

O blessed Son

You are the One who gives

the sunshine and the darkness in my life.

But even in the night-time

I know I cannot hide

from your mercy and your grace

and the care that you provide.

The life you give:

a gift to live.

I place my life, my all—

body, soul and spirit in your hands.

I’ll live for you, my Father

and follow your commands.

A full, self-sacrifice

is all that grace demands.

To die for you

is life anew.

Dust and Ash

Hands filled with dust and ash

relentless cycle of earth, moon, and sun.

What was once future blurs into past;

tendons ache as we try to hold on

to that which we cannot grasp

victimized by gravity.

Life implodes upon itself

into a new sense of reality.

Two Poems Published

"The Literary Lion" and "The Salesman's Son" appear on Lyrical Passion Poetry E-zine.

Please check the website out.

The Salesman’s Son 

The returning always seems 
swifter than the leaving until 
you get closer to where you leave 
again. Then time expands, stretching 
out like thick rubber bands 
that bound his mileage books together. 
I hated his leaving: never there 
ever present eyes that followed 
me every day of my life. They haunt 
me even now. I don’t remember 
a day hating him, not really; 
no animosity there— 
just a pained and plain indifference. 
Ever-present-always-absent. 
I used to want to wish him to Hell. 
But I could not bring myself 
to care that much. 
The room still carries the scent of urine 
reminiscent of my father 
on his final birthday 
two weeks before he said goodbye 
the last time. The leaving now 
somehow seemed longer than 
before. The regretful ragged breath 
could never express his hazel eyes. 
Time expands, stretching out 
and then he is gone once again.

The Literary Lion

We wander into an old

book store: into a palace

of pages, this tomb of tomes—

and there we drink tea            

surreptitiously stealing

words. Feeling the guilt

of my theft and to make

amends I procure

a lean chapbook of poems.

Baptized into the bright

light flooding through

streaked window pane

I find myself crying

out with Isaiah over

prison cells, saying

Kiddush for a day old

child, wandering empty

down the streets of old

Manhattan: an immigrant friend

     of homeless children.

Lament for Corinth

Father, they’ve divided my body!

Stretching my arms so they cannot cross

they pound nails and tear my flesh.

Forgive them; they know not what they do.

Father, they’ve divided my clothes!

Playing games around this sacred cross,

they fight over torn pieces of cloth.

Forgive them; they know not what they do.

Father, they’ve divided my people!

How soon they forget the word of the cross,

they rip and they tear my body in two.

Forgive them; they know not what they do.

Aftermath of a Teenage Romance

Her name was Rosa and I was in love,
transfixed by her deep crystal eyes.
I was too senseless to know the difference
between transfixed and being impaled.
It seems to me that a rose by any
other name still draws blood.

Snow Queen

desolate waste land
wind, rain, ice and blowing snow
tears from a cold heart

Serenity

a night for drinking
green tea sweet with blueberries
stillness in a cup

Release

Rope burns calloused hands,

panic and fatigue set in,

wet palms grip tighter.

Failure close at hand:

stomach churns in frustration.

Peace found in release.

Revisiting Psalm 121

There never seemed to be much hope

this side of the heavens. So

we pinned our hopes upwards. Perhaps

there was a chance among the stars.

We worshiped sun and moon. The gods

lived in the hills and halls of air.

We set them in the high places,

but they never seemed to rise

above our own imaginations.

So we lowered our sights and looked

to ourselves for release

but found dust and ash sifting

through filthy hands and dirtied fingers.

Then you showed up out of the blue

and raised our eyes to gaze beyond

the heavens and into the mind of God.

This Is The End of the World

...... This is the end of the world:

sitting on the porch sipping

coffee with the scent of wisteria

floating by. Wondering why

The world can’t seem to slow itself down.

...... This is the end of the world:

single mom cursing the absent

baby daddy for leaving them

behind for some rainbow ride

with no looking back in love or regret.

...... This is the end of the world:

some politician selling his soul

to keep the money rolling in

holding on the reins of power

forgetting the people who put him there.

...... This is the end of the world:

some preacher preaching the end of time

selling his books and schemes on gold

and stock, while in vestments holds

the body and blood of Christ hostage.

...... This is the end of the world:

where the lion lies down with the lamb

the child will play in the den of the snake;

a world renewed for humankind

where man and woman live in peace.

...... This is the end of the world.

Laugh

The clown laughs,

his heart out

breaking as

he runs his lover's

through on stage.

It seems the crowd

cheers loudest for

the tragic comedy.

When it turns

out real there is

the awkward silence,

the flash of terror.

And then they yawn

and go back home,

laughing. La

Commedia

è finita!

Exhaust(ion)

Alone in my car, heading South
on I-thirty-five while the sun
is rising up in the East. I
rose up at four o’clock this morning
to make the trip. Not enough
sleep at nights put you in
precarious positions with
the sun melting on the side
of your face. The hum-thrumming sound of tires
spinning on asphalt wears me down.
My youngest is exhausted from
too many friends with too little time
while my oldest tires from
too few. My wife is torn in two
by worry while I’m about
to drift off (the road onto the shoulder).
I have to slow this old car down
and get off the thoroughfare
before we all crash and burn.

According to the Coal Miner

Digging into the darkness of

Donbass is no easy task. You

descend a thousand meters Into

the womb of the world and midwife coal.

I know each day could be my last

and the mine my sepulcher

I suppose life beneath

the surface made me see beneath

the surface of things, perhaps even

into the things of the spirit. Who knows?

I am just a simple miner:

a digger bound to the tools of an era

past, who remembers the names of the dead.

There was once a time when a shaft of life

penetrated deep into

this heart of darkness and I recognized

the faces of the living: the nameless

children of those whose names I

recalled. Now I dig In another

place: the heart of a child. Once

I was a midwife of the earth

but now I witness the birth of heaven.

Rock Island

He sat alone and read his book

oblivious to all who passed.

Waitresses were only waves

lapping against a coral reef.

Although the coffee shop was filled

With piped in music and tête-à-têtes

He sat, a solitary stone,

surrounded by a sea of life.

I Am Weary of You, Death

I am weary of you, Death.
.....I am much too tired
..........with watching children die;
...............with suicidal homicides,
....................with ethnic cleansing genocides.

You do not come as a friend
nor do you bring relief.
The only things you bring with you
are fears and tears and grief.

Your press is better than deserved:
.....you are overrated, over served.
..........And, please spare me the nerve
...............of the preachers who look to paint
....................you as an angel or God’s saint

to pluck a flower from earth
to plant in his paradise
(as if he didn’t have enough).
Do they think this his design?

You are an abomination,
.....the result of condemnation.
..........You’re the final deconstruction
...............and the ultimate demonstration
....................that something has gone awry

with our existence here on earth.
And although I will die,
I am weary of you death.

Sunset Dawning

Three celebrants levitate
while an earth bound three wait.
And the light shines from the West
casting shadows in the East.
Imagination and fantasy
bear me away in ecstasy
and in fear. So the spirit
soars, carried away by lyric
impossibilities dawning.
The airborne three fly from the coming
light of reason, or transcend.
In the darkness below again
wander an unholy trinity
of madness, blindness, stupidity.

I'm Late (Again)

I saw the rabbit jump down the hole
with his pocket watch in hand.
If you don't mind, I'll leave the chase
to the blond-haired girl this time.
I'm done with pursuing grains of sand
and temporary lines.

Nimrod's Complaint

I will never seek your face.

For I have tasted, I have seen

the flaming brand that blocks the way.

My choices lay East of Eden.

You will never understand.

Good is evil, evil good.

The rainbow arch, the sight of land

the fools who crouch in fear of God.

The spirit of cousin Cayin

the spirit of mother Chava

live forever in my mind

arbiters of good and evil.

Here is the dwelling place for me:

a steep and strong and mighty tower.

I raise it up for all to see

with stones of clay; my mortar: tar.

Chill

On this winter morning,
when I could sleep forever,
icy tendrils slip
between my sheets and grab
this old man's toes.
If I don't get up soon,
I will sleep forever.

Burnout

The beds are dry the clouds have blown

away from my sight. I thirst.

But there is nothing without to slake

this dry sponge that lies slack

on my teeth. Care and desire

have long since left. No living

streams well up within my soul

only my blood. Like slag that cools

it moves lethargic: slowly congealing.

Soon it too will dry up.

Like a prophet I search, groping

for an answer among fire,

wind, and power only to feel

a gentle breeze caressing my face

and to hear the qol elohim

(a whispered rebuke): "Why are you here?"

Previously published in Odessa Poetry Review, Fall 1988

Made for Flight

You feel the earth beneath your feet.
It gives you comfort, not like the silver
cigars in the air. Oh, you know
the odds. But just the same, you like
the feel of solid ground. And that
is who you are.

sun baked face, dirt under nail,
lungs that fill with the sweet, musty smell
of pine and manure

Those cracked, calloused hands
have seen enough abuse for ninety
years, but not so much they cannot
gently cradle a grandchild's hand
as you wander the fields together, or mend
the broken wings of those made for flight.

Sabbath

Fallow field turned;
broken, bruised, and burned
by bright Apollian heat.

Some call it abuse
to leave in such disuse
what should brim-fill with wheat.

Yet divine sense demands
relief from workers' hands;
a sabbath-rest for land:
a chance for brief retreat.

-DBW

Diminishing Returns

I lay in bed and cry tonight
I fear I'll not see you again.
The shades are drawn; a little light
creeps in beneath the door. I've been
wondering how long this pain will last.

Love is such an abused word;
too often confused with lust or desire
or romance or something else absurd.
But nothing compares with possession-fire
of father-love: a diminished ferocity.

I have to learn this terse new tongue
of letting go and giving way;
to let the young remain the young
while I grow old too soon. The day
has come to kiss my child goodbye.

-DBW

Song sung in a minor key

I remember the time when
by the pond I sang for you.
You were happy to see me then.
But now we sit worlds apart,
singing our different songs
(or perhaps it is the same
in dissonant melancholy keys).

-DBW

Thomas Edwin Willis

(1883-1972)

I never heard him recite a single poem,
except that old King James Version of
Romans-chapter-seven. Tangled words
pouring out; Chrysostom at eighty-nine.

He was educated: a country scholar—
college at sixteen teaching in ‘seventeen,
writing poems to Ada and Sara Jane.
When he moved back to Tennessee he kept

teaching. But he was lured by the love of trading:
auctioneering (again, the sound of words
slipping across those golden lips of his)!
He knew very well his love of language

would get him in trouble some day.
Depression settled in and he found himself
working a team for the W. P. A.
His derisive lyric abuse of his boss

cost him his job (it was only a song).
But if he could recite those lyrics again
I’d swear to him, I’d give them new voice.
It was too bad. I never found that poem.

-DBW

Weekend Woodsman

Day was cold; frightfully frigid. Yet,
the salty sweat beads covered his head like a crown.
Making an even fluid movement, he swung
the bit in position; pausing a split second.
The sunlight blazed on the blade as he brought it straight down
splitting the trunk of the mammoth oak. Repeating
the action again and again, he spent most of the day
at his task. Taking one step back he reviewed 
the results of his work, grinned like a fool and with
the faded remains of a red flannel shirt removed
the woodsman's crown and then headed for home.

Moonbeam

A moonbeam hurled Earthward
and exploded in forest below
with quiet gravity. Silent
translucent reflection bent,
disturbed by waterflow
of winding brook. A new birth to share
with those held fast in luminous glare.

-DBW

Colossians 2:9-15

Spawn of the demon world,
those who walk the night--
powers which feed on fear
lie crushed beneath his feet;
Image of the Invisible.
I have walked that night, have known
its fear. Chained by decress:
"Do not taste!
Do not touch!
Do not handle!"
But the specter can rule no more.
Debt is nailed to wood.
Chains are broken by mangled hands.

-DBW

O Faithful Hound

(with apologies to Francis Thompson)

O faithful Hound of heaven
how you pursue and follow me.
Relentlessly you run though I
in my arrogant unbelief flee
from the presence of your grace.
Yet you run to overtake;
and from your absolute embrace
I run, praying all the while,
that you prove swifter in the chase.

-DBW

Questions to the Eldest Son

Did she tell you of the awe-filled faces
belonging to the old sheep-herds?
Of the golden gifts given by kings—
or of the bewilderment in her own heart?
Or did she keep them to herself, waiting
for some appropriate mystical revelation?
Did you notice the quizzical look on her face
when she found you standing among the rabbis;
a prize pupil who wandered in from the streets?
And how did you feel when she questioned your sanity
upon learning of the opposition
from the teachers and priests in Jerusalem?
------------ How deep was the wound when you heard her cry
------------ in suffering silence watching you die?

-DBW

Final Regrets

a theos

In the stillness, silence surrounds me.
The cold invades my bones.
Descending darkness veils my heart,
while I wander among the ruins

of this, my own mortality.
It was a fine piece of art
I created for myself
from the rocks and dirt.

Yet tears are cried bitterly
for dreams broken in half,
which lie strewn among the tombs;
monuments to my life.

At last I am left to be
given to eternity;
the silence still surrounding me,
the silence still surrounding me.

-DBW

Grave Yard Run

I run in this place of rest for the dead,
lifting my feet, like so much lead.
The silence broken by ragged breath—
(it does not disturb their sleep). And I,
in the same, quiet way shall lie
on a damp, sunken bed of earth;
while above, a quarried canopy
will mark my space for eternity.

-DBW