masked Gerard Butler
Gerard Butler “Phantom of the Opera”

He came to me out of the dreamy fog, wearing an ornate mask.

Without a word, he put his firm mouth against mine —

then gently coaxed my lips apart with his lips and tongue —

urging me to unfold like a dewy blossom.

I knew he was the lovely articulate man I had met at the store.

He had bemoaned his struggle to quit smoking.

His hair was combed back from his fine face.

This dream was a baksheesh of hope for an abandoned woman.



authentic love

Authentic love
Photo ~ yours truly

What to do?


I don’t know, but this I surely comprehend:

I cannot bear to look at the moon or stars except when I am with you.

To look at your photos gives me a twist of joy and pain,

except knowing you would be mine.

To study anything to do with your country

brings a lump to my throat.

Arranged marriages of any nation bode me ill.

I cannot bear images of young men with brides

or men holding babies or children.

I’m like a specter gazing at what she can never have

with you. I die.

And yet

I wish you to prosper.

How could I hope to be your happiness

in place of all your dreams?

I love you enough to sacrifice all.

I simply do not know what the “all” should be.

Surely not you.


Us  —

how many congratulations

how many condolences would this entail —

my heart’s breath.







Sparklers . . .


spark visions of sparklers in childhood Julys.

When time to light them came in the twilight

after an eternally sunny day,

I felt like a fairy holding a potent wizard wand.

There were never enough sparklers

for my brother and me

on those firefly lit nights.

Like not enough eggnog,

never enough chocolate covered cherries

at Christmastime.

When I became a responsible adult,

I drank a quart of eggnog and

ate a pound of chocolate cherries

in one sitting.

That night I didn’t sleep

because of the cannonball in my stomach.

I was cured.

I love being satiated.

Like with you.

I cannot get enough of you,

my silken magic carpet navigator.

Never enough.

There is not a cure exists.


feet of clay
Art from Realistic Poetry


Today I marched for the innocents,

victims of the haters of the dissimilar desperate.

Where your feet go, tells who you are every day.

One can grow weary on feet of clay —

remnants of our greatness eroding away.

It is not of ability, but of will.

Love is the footsore person’s cure.