Gabriel

I spent a decade of my life
trying to write stories.
I’d sit in this very seat,
pen raised over page,
preparing for an angel to call.
Instead it was a black hole
whose chill embrace I feel
these many years later.
Storylines avoided me as if
my face were blistered with pocks.
I gave myself until 35 to publish a book
but that day passed like a racehorse.
Now I’ve climbed over
the continental divide of that dream.
It is so blank here that
no metaphor can conjure it.
How do you make a dream from scratch?
You wake up,
do your work,
eat your ham sandwich
and hope the angel finds you
through the mist.

Siren song

Let’s face it: sex is not always sacred.
That’s what the man thought.
So one day he took another woman
to his hotel room.
And the roof did not fall
upon their naked bodies.
And a choir of vengeful angels
did not shout his damnation.
It was just sex
and it got easier every time.
So he made it a way of life.

As long as his wife didn’t know.
She believed the story
that sex was a holy thing.
Let her, he thought.
He loved her and respected her opinion.
As long as she didn’t know she would be happy
and he could have his fun.
(The lying was a thrill
he could not admit to himself.)

Of course she found out.
They always do.
And a choir of vengeful angels
shouted through her mouth.

He had told himself his own story,
that of Odysseus
sailing uncharted waters,
living adventures,
defying the gods with his guile.
He forgot that Odysseus was yearning for Ithaca,
for his faithful Penelope and the peace of home.

All life is a story we tell ourselves.
It is not sacred or unsacred of its own. We make it so,
and if we choose the baser option
we suffer the consequences.

Poetry under construction

Good verse is currently unavailable at this website.
My muse is out of order.
Down with the flu, her voice is backed up with phlegm.
What was epic in me has drained away.
I must raise a machete and hack through
my inner jungle to the source.
Some devil has blocked its hole with a wad of gum.
Let him have his laugh; brighter days are ahead.
My muse can’t lie on the couch forever,
her chest mounded with Kleenex,
her brain clouded with Oprah.
She will sing again.
Thank you for your patience.