Poetry: Senseless






Conversation, soundless; we have never


Heard each other’s laughter, music, timbre.


Scent, ethereal; our arms have never


Held the other or tightened on a kiss.


Taste, unimaginable; the deep sense


That lies forever beyond the unreal.


Touch, hypothetical; a creation


Built from the one thing we have: visuals.


Sight is the devious sense, denying


The chill in the air and the colder sound


Of everyday, masking the odor


Of woman and man, leaving hungry lips


To quiver with sexual starvation.


I see . . . I want . . . but I must deny you.

Poetry: Wisps in the Wind


Grandfather needed no one, his hands clean

From the soil that provided solitude

And nourishment, his mind shaped by senses

Both common and immediate, his words

Steam-cleaned, spare and considered, his motion

Weighed by the meaning of a good day’s work.

His grandson lives in a storyboard world,

Hands filthy from markets, his mind clutching

At wisps in the wind, his phrases pasted

From memory, his motion a cold blink.

In this state, surrounded by grandchildren

As helpless as he, he damns the system

That gave them birth and builds a barbed-wire fence

To imprison the thought that he needs them.