Saturday, July 19, 2025

Independence

Autonomous

I’ll call it love
because this one
stayed ’til morning.

She must not have
had a place to sleep;
need and loneliness
often end up
drunk and naked
in the same bed.

When they finally leave
I always try to tell myself
that I am a lucky man;
no woman to nag me
and spend my money.

Independence
is what the lonely
tattoo on the back of their necks
to make it seem like a choice.

I don’t really remember
what it is like to be part of a “we”
that lasts longer
than the inevitable hangover.

I suppose some truths
are much less
self-evident
than others.

SMG


CombatWords!: Combatwords for July 1, 2011: Independence: "Combatwords for July 1, 2011: Independence If I was rich, I'd be stalked by the hungry suits, craving my signature. I would ride the taxi—..."

Urbanality

Urbanality

I was never one to write about sunsets or birds,
to be honest that shit bores me to distraction.
I live in Manhattan so I haven’t seen a sunset
in three hundred & sixty five days, and birds here,
well they're just another pest to be controlled.
I never really liked to listen to sweet ballads
and there’s something pathetic about the blues.
I prefer the hard rocking sounds of Hindi profanity
sung by cab drivers, the tune of droning car horns
and the distant wail of another siren’s song of ending.
I never got much pleasure from hiking or picnics
and I have no real desire to get back to nature.
I’d rather choke down a cart hot dog for breakfast,
avoid piss puddles on the subway platform
and hide behind Ray-Bans and two hundred dollar ear buds.
I never understood the fascination with beauty
or people’ neurotic obsession with falling in love.
I’ve seen a lot of well groomed hair and make up jobs
and have had the shit kicked out of me more than once,
but beauty is a rocks glass, love is a generous bartender,
and the poetry is between the first sip and "hit me again".

SMG

*(Re-printed from The (&) Ampersand III)

Thursday, April 17, 2025

Jordaan

 










Jordaan


I was standing on a bridge over the Prinsengracht canal

in the disconnected calm of three joints from a coffee bar

and the cool predawn air. The click of Rembrandt’s footsteps

still echo down the cobbles at this hour-- Once, long ago,

I dreamt of the scene, this moment, fog tickling across

the warm canal water. I thought back to the person I was

when that dream was formed, and I realized that I missed him.

He was young and idealistic, so unafraid, with a swagger

that could only come from hubris and ignorance.

 

The damp morning air sat on the shoulders of my jacket

and I smiled as I watched a young Dutch couple fend off

the chilly dark, oblivious to the painter and me as we took it all in.

The distance between that boy and the man that I would become

seems so much greater than the twenty-five years it took to travel.

That boy’s dreams have turned into my sad reminiscence,

a longing for that time before disbelief and defeat; the un-jaded

days of wonder lost along the way. I wanted to see Amsterdam

before I died; I realize now that it’s too late.

 

SMG


Posted for:  
dVerse Poets Pub

Thursday, April 10, 2025

Un-Dead

Un-Dead

Alive, alive, the city is alive
and all abloom with smiles
under the warm and waxing moon

The stern days of winter have faded
from memory and the city is alive.
Streets once grey with soot and sleet
now teem with pale arms and legs.

Heads swivel and twist to take in
the fragrance of the fresh flowers,
all short skirts and décolleté:
We are alive!

A latter day Lazarus ascends
a subway stair and yells “I am alive!”
into the affectionate night air.

Six months hence the grave will call,
but for now we are alive and the city
is paradise.

SMG

Tuesday, April 8, 2025

Sexual Politics









Sexual Politics

 

Fair azure eyes encant,

oh, how she does enchant.

my heart doth dance,

in sublime hypnotic trance,

 

His angry eyes askant,

fearing I shall supplant,

and her love enhance,

if she be mine per chance.

 

Vainly does he forestall,

as I endeavor to enthrall.

 

SMG


d'Verse Poets


Tuesday, March 25, 2025

Alcatraz

 









Alcatraz


The words,

etched on the cell wall

a lifetime ago, contained a truth

wrought by pain and loss.

“No one is innocent”

As I thought about the author

I watched the tourists, 

oblivious of their own guilt, 

pass hurriedly, never noticing

the crude engraving.

 

SMG


d'Verse Poet's Pub Writing Prompt:  https://dversepoets.com/

 


Saturday, March 22, 2025

Mourning Jay


 












Mourning Jay

I can still see her sitting on the edge of the dance floor
of another gala evening. Adorned in red and white, she pulled
men’s gaze like the first cardinal of spring. A wallflower
that could not be ignored as she looked around the room at nothing. 

He never failed to invite her, something I didn’t understand
at the time. For me she was a familiar connection, a batch
of mom’s cookies or a copy of the hometown paper.
For him, she was door that closed when left unattended. 

The parties were not to be missed, all the wealthiest of Eggs
in attendance. He however, rarely if ever showed his face. 
The opulence and excess were for her, while he pined
the night away locked in his room of regrets and second guesses. 

I think of him now, not as the shadowed figure staring across the bay,
nor the limp body floating face down in a pool of blood
and mistaken identity. I only recall the gentle conversations
we had as two men seeking our place and hoping to find our loves.

SMG

Writing Prompt from d'Verse Poets Pub

https://dversepoets.com/#:~:text=https%3A//dversepoets.com

Thursday, February 27, 2025

She Calls in the Morning














She Calls in the Morning

In the end, it ended,
like all bad relationships;
she was a puddle on the floor,
as I stumbled out the door.

She used to call in the morning
seeking her daily diversion and I,
lonely and filled with doubt, answered,
beginning my daily digression.

“Let’s meet for breakfast” was met
with “I can’t, I have to work today”.
She had a way of removing my resolve,
with a seductive longing in her voice.

I may never understand her true motive,
but she knew my true weakness.
I wanted to taste her on my lips
and feel her warmth deep inside.
Logic and will were always inadequate
against the sway she held over me.

In time, like all bad relationships, my drunk dials
started going to voicemail as she became aloof.
Increasingly less willing to satiate my need, she
left me one night, a broken shell, in a pool of tears…

…but she called in the morning.

SMG

Friday, February 7, 2025

Life on the Line

Life on the Line

The Tuesday sun
set and carried with it,
the lies of New York and
a thousand broken dreams.

The shattered pieces fell
together in the bars
and bedrooms of the city.
Glue is another fairytale.

I let the sorrow wash
over me like fine whiskey
across my tongue and stared
out the window at the passing city.

The train car couplers creaked
and groaned in a sad staccato.
A preview of the death rattle
waiting in the distance.


SMG

Tuesday, February 4, 2025

Solstice to Equinox


 










Solstice to Equinox


Anais, Anais

Litha has passed

and we are left

to mourn the coming

autumnal balance,

for creatures such as we

crave the severe

and eschew

This Gentile World.


Travel with me to

The Tropic of Capricorn

and leave behind

the ever shrinking 

days of Cancer.

There we can live

in eternal summer

and Black Spring.


Grieve not my love,

for with the arrival

of Yoole's long nights, 

Sirius shall align

with Orion's belt

and point us back 

to the elliptical

apex, and June.


SMG