Tonight the beach is calm,
tide pregnant with crabs.
Carib moon out; shadows
frolic outside like
...
Timid as a moth
my willing wings embrace
the hollow of her love;
dark on the sheet her face.
...
I know the sparrow in the marrow
of your bones.
And in the spring, closely within
your pirouettes I follow
...
A poet lurked for poems
in the woods near Walden Pond.
She surveyed the ground once trod
by Walden himself, and secured her traps
...
Der were ratz in the suflé again.
My moder gave me ratz to eet.
Cellar ratz, in the suflé, again.
Has my moder ever eeten ratz?
...
together we two
masculine arms stretching, reaching
feminine arms embracing, caressing
both creating
...
Clawgrip, clawbite
and wings that slay
fly hard, thrust straight
the bird of prey.
...
Poet: how you must have bled for her, must
have wriggled and squirmed, spilling your blood
...
early morning mist
already the barn fowl scavenging
but not the dragonflies
...
Dear Jane:
I thought with all the
protests and planning
the rioting, picketing
...
The apprentice went to see his master.
Utensils in hand, the master sat under
The bough of a tree laden with cherry blossoms.
Master, you’re writing I see.
...
i am the fetus within she
throbbing membranous love
begotten by aspiring they
the slow descent into alive
...
I began writing poetry, and creative writing in general, one night my freshman year in college. I woke about two in the morning with an urge to compose a poem-an ode-about some topic then pre-eminent in the news. I wrote the poem, about 30 stanzas, in one sitting at fever pitch. Since then I've written poetry and short stories and have been published in small literary magazines and journals such as Chiricú (Indiana University}, Latino Stuff Review, Dragonfly, Cyclo*Flame and others. I've also published poetry in Writer's Digest and online @ RedRiverReview and The Cortland Review. Most of the poems appearing here are from my unpublished book 'Lineman.' Paz.)
Poem At The Window
Tonight the beach is calm,
tide pregnant with crabs.
Carib moon out; shadows
frolic outside like
flamenco dancers.
Surf sounds come
soft as silk. No sign
of rain tonight, no tinkling
on the zinc roof or pebbles
pelting the Miami windows.
Just heat, humidity and
that subliminal tug
of salt: seawater.
When I decide to write,
the images of surf will come,
the seaweed smells, the cicada-
the thoughts of day
slipping into night
Then I will write.