I am humbled. . .


This  evening, I was testing the search terms I created for Peggy on Amazon.  One was “confessional poets.”  I was shocked where I came in the random algorithms.  It may be arbitrary, but it just made me happy and humbled.

Day One


We pull on our pink caps,

Hand-made woolen symbols of our flesh.

Armor for the storm.


We take to the streets,

A powerful sea, defending our right to be.


This is not about women,

Immigration, religion.

It is about our humanity.


You will not tell me who

I will love, or not.


My health will not be legislated

My body will not be legislated.

My beliefs will not be legislated.


My right to be

Will not be legislated by dark men in stiff navy suits.


What I hear and see,

Is not my country—


If I am angry,

Then so be it.


I have words,

I have breath—

My sisters and brothers stand with me.


You will not

Make America hate again.




Peggy Sue is born!


My first volume of poetry is now available on Amazon!!

Almost 30 years ago, when I was a young undergraduate just starting to seriously study the craft of writing poetry, I purchased a book called Watch the Flame, written by a Greek poet named Eleni Fourtouni. My reasons at the time were rather stalkerish, as this particular poet was the mother of the man with whom I was in love with at the time. I had never met Eleni, as she spent most of her time living in Greece, and I was sloughing it out working toward my degree in upstate Connecticut. The man rarely spoke of his mother, and I sensed the two may have had a troubled relationship. Buying this book and sneaking it back to my dorm was a way of peering into his life; it was an attempt to fill in the gaps in my understanding of his life. I hid the slim white volume in the top drawer of my desk, taking it out only when I was alone.

Enola Gay


Put the dark goggles on.

If we fail, there is a pill to take.

Six minutes, and you will be gone.

You won’t know anything.

You won’t talk to the enemy.

The sun’s red hull invades the horizon.

It is time to deliver the physicist’s nightmare—

The brightest and hottest thing since creation.

Do not look at the source of fierce light.


Cold math is our new co-pilot.


Then, a lead taste in the mouth,

A crackling of the jaw—

Quantum artifacts embed in my fillings,

Pass through flesh.

They could be seen, felt, tasted.

Micro-clots of seared blood in my veins.


My god, look at that son of a bitch go.


A thousand suns bleaching the sky, the earth white,

The sun coming from the earth to explode.


Our legacy is history, but we never learn from our mistakes.

Do we regret the taking of life, or the change we brought

From that fierce atomic beauty in the warm August sun?

After the Fact

Gypsy Rose Lee Works On Novel

I can write about my fantasies freely.

Politics are easy also.

But I cannot write a poem for you.


I can give you this—


A picture of me,

Stuck like a pin in your mind’s eye.


Sitting in front of that old typewriter—

I do not wear a pink negligee.

I am not in a particularly romantic mood,

And I am smoking too many cigarettes,

Watching each burn out as the smoke and words rise.


I remember a time—

When it would have been easy

To give you a picture of me,

To show you the me I wanted you to see


The long blonde hair,

A look in my eye that suggested immorality at the age of eighteen.

There was nothing I would not have done for you.



Waiting for the Wreck


Everything about her was a lie.


The pink glove on the ground,

Obscured by dried crimson leaves.

The blank gaze, masking her need.


She suddenly realized she might be alone

For the rest of her life.

She did a poor job hiding the damage.


He sat her down and held her close,

Handed over the key,

Before telling her the terrible news, reluctantly.


She clung to the scrap of driftwood,

Splintered and bobbing in a black sea—

Praying for daylight,

For union with the god.

For the sacred water

To sweep her away

To the depths,

Then back to the shimmering surface.


Reborn, in the red morning.