Poetry Archives - Page 4 of 9 - Baltimore Post-ExaminerBaltimore Post-Examiner

Red Dress

Every tree needs a red dress in autumn, a crisp fire-red, fashion statement at November’s Ball, a party in country fields fueled by apples, cold cider in cups.   Every woman owns at least one red dress, its sensual fabric […]

Red Dress

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Every tree needs a red dress in autumn, a crisp fire-red, fashion statement at November’s Ball, a party in country fields fueled by apples, cold cider in cups.   Every woman owns at least one red dress, its sensual fabric […]

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Eulogy to abandonment

This poem is dedicated to those with borderline personality disorder. He was your love, your rock, your life's delight, And suddenly he'd left. What remained was the awful pain of your plight You

I Think She’s Hot

If I wanted to meet someone beautiful, right away, I’d think she’s hot. If I wanted to meet someone sensual, right away, I’d think she’s hot. If I wanted to meet someone spiritual, right away, I’d

Is this how I am to see you?

To whom so ever you maybe, I'm still sitting here, so patiently With your eyes haunting my dreams And a song, from long ago This is the time I need to see The woman

Mrs. Rochester

They don’t see me, but they feel me everywhere. When he touches her with his one good hand, he feels me. When she kisses his scorched eyelids, she feels me.   I woke

when silence becomes an attachment

a long root protruding from the esophagus we must say something stand before tyrant crowds who shout for the apocalypse who jeer you down a forbidden stairwell full of obsolete doubt watch you tumble

Tsunami, December 2004

So much bitters and sugar Dissolved with the salt of the sea   Sticks, stones, names Pummeled   Baptism surely in the ways of the world   Oh, the risen tide of weeping ---------------- Feature photo: Buddhist shrine along Sri

from the vacant stillness

from the vacant stillness of late august in maryland i’ve been long ago far away follied down a well after false premonitions of foggy discontent hollowed & beaten brown as mulch on

Love As We Age

it's love not Hollywood the cordial intimate breakfast table conversation the peck on the cheek the quick hug (which sometimes occurs, sometimes doesn't).   love as we age turns from an entrepreneur state all buying, selling, new things to

The Dream

The man walks up to our door.  I can’t see his face, but he can see me looking at him through the window.  I know he can, because I

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