April is still not a Nice Girl

April 2018-  Seems it all to runs either too cold or too hot- thinking here a broken thermostat or heart

The Missing Thread


Trying so very hard

not to miss this

fragile thread.

The tail end of the shadows

contains it like it was pulling ink

in a thread line pinpoint

needles eye of the lines on this page.


April ignoring Spring

Back turned smirking

lusting in the gusting

of a premature barbecue twilight

gale burning hotter

wanting Summer now


No time foreplay.

April pleading hot and fast

Jump me now

Instead of holding the fool May’s hand


So in the hissing high unnatural

desire there is just enough

light and heat to make you

believe out of season

you’ve got a shot at all this.


When April wants to really taunt March

she uses his winds like this on you.


The roar of Winter in the throat of a August Dog

right after the Fools day with your name written

all over it.


April laughing in all their faces.

Calling then just a bunch of numbers with Roman names

don’t let the calendar door hit you as it clears

your ass clear away.



Not a nice girl

after all.

Knows you and your missing thread

and shows up on an afternoon like this

to taunt and tease  you…..in knots.

                                       Gridville 4/2010



Resurrection of an old April Foolon that Easter Sunday

That Easter Sunday morning

One year later broke

Bright, sunny and mild


but as the day progressed

a gray chilliness encroached

hour by hour

till by the mid afternoon

there was little memory



or perhaps too much.


It had been another Spring past

since you left earth

walking through me

on that train platform

just after I put my son

on all aboard.


Not like we haven’t spoken since

I suppose in a fashion

in a sense

The sound of your voice was gone

except what clearly recall

from time to time

in my heart.


Much like the memory

of a morning of resurrection

struggling to be recalled.


and on certain nights

there is this distinct scent

of freshly popped corn

all about the room in the attic


but only once in awhile


Just a kernel of you


Just a kernel


left now.                                                                   4/8/2012


Near the Door of Spring

 When I have almost forgotten

In the blur of years make memory

The dream visit returns

As it does every March around

This time of year more than

Twenty years now since


She left this world

Young, blonde, vibrant

Cybil Sheppard of a woman

In the prime of her life

Her illness was swift and decisive.

No drama, just a quiet fatal infection.


In her latest visit

I was in a place of many colors

She was wearing red

Kissing me quickly I think

She usually does

To remind me she hasn’t forgotten


Then is a series of confused, brutal images

They were trying to pour gasoline

Mixed with water into her mouth

She wouldn’t open her lips


She was looking at me to help.

I could do nothing.


Sometimes Grief-  3/11


Can I ask a Small Favor ?



will sow

the seeds

of regret

into every


reckless impulse

one succumbs to.


Locked down emotions

escape and will

eventually lead

to the inevitable quarantine

of a past love

like some toxic entity

you picked up

on the door handle

of a rest room door.


And washing your hands

of it now

Will not help

You can ask

Lady Macbeth

about that

or perhaps even

Pontius Pilate


and while we are

in the neighborhood

let’s just ask for

a small favor….

the truth

and the consequences

just this once

without justification

or contrived filter

like the severed head of

St. John the Baptist

that Salome ask for


In exchange for doing

the dance of the Seven Veils

for her lecherous



Leaving even Herod

left scratching

his head over that one.


I recall him asking her



But what would…..  you do with such a thing ?


Salome smirked


I want him…..to ask for it back.


So in the end

much like a decapitated prophet

the truth will be known


and all the guests

of brutality

at her most

grotesquely best

are unanimous

in denial

about all this.



will sow

the seeds

of regret

into every


reckless impulse

one succumbs to.

 Sometimes Grief-          2/2012


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