Peter’s Dream


No rose may unclose without thorning

no star bursts to bloom without scorning

no diamonded promise walks unchained of warning

no night stays tight-shut from all inkling of morning

forever a day without waking

I’ll never away from your breaking

dreams I’ll dream with you, mistakeless.


Image credits in order of appearance:

“Peter Pan playing the Pipes.” By Francis Donkin Bedford (1864–1954) – Illustration from “Peter and Wendy” by James Matthew Barrie, Published 1911 by C. Scribner’s Sons, New York, Public Domain,

“Alberich steals the Rhinegold and is chased by the Rhinemaidens.” By Arthur Rackham – ; Rackham, Arthur (illus) (1910) The Rhinegold & the Valkyrie, London: William Heinemann, p. p. Retrieved on 23 June 2011., Public Domain,

My Bat Mitzvah

Friday night dinner and dancing with pirates

and fencing for the sugar-high feckled

on top of a grass-wove roof;

a peach-blue sea the safety net

should anyone be vanquished overboard.

Saturday morning wing-swept on a boat

the Hebrew prayers weaved in the melody of the language

of spiderweb spyglasses, coyote swells, songs of people

who know dolphins

are people.

The obligatory Saturday evening party

beneath the ondulant blue, finger-tipped from on high by thorns of sun

The music? star-fishes, a blur of parrot-swathed picnickers

The spread? every ice cream imaginable and no plastic barring total joy

still flowing into the night-velvet cool, the moon and sky-stars our DJ

the coconut crabs our magicians redisappear

swallowing endless scarves of nighttime noise

on an island that knows that noise

is sound.

An aunt’s comment: In my day, nobody threw so much money

at a gluttonous grub of a baby girl

like you. Myself laughing, not afraid of her

disapproval for one flit-second. She’ll never know:

One hundred percent of the gift-loot sent

to the recycling plant: checks and dollar bills

burped back out as paper birds

with copper-lime eyes that fly over cities

and spread the word like pollen to nectar

-sweetened hearts:

Join us. Trash the life of trash. Treasure the ocean

Stop blinding. Start seeing. Start listening.


Little Red Riding Hood


she is silken, like the heather that bends under lovers’ feet running down to the warbling brook; she is white as candy and curl-headed as a thousand wedding rings strung together, and the final touch, a ruby melted to satin flows down her neck, down her back

he is coarse, like the rope that binds a sailor’s arms just before a knee in his back sends him off the plank and hands slashed free beneath the ship, flashing onward, gray as the space between night and day when time trembles in its cave and peeks out at the claw-striking, moon-swallowing, ear-splintering creatures, like himself, as he sniffs the forest air and finds in it something out of place: naked flesh, unfurred, unfettered

she is tumbling through the brush, winging along a birdsong of help, help me, help me somebody; she is star-split and laced with cuts from the branches that rip at her thighs, wanting to taste the rich vessels beneath the skin, reaching past the thin cotton dress, but barely tasting it and she’s again too far to touch, racing time

he is buckling and unrolling the earth in turns, chasing faster than a whisper from one dewdrop to a neighbor on the same grass blade; he is gaining on her, losing gaining losing in turns, letting a rain of anticipation nourish the dustbowl of his long pink tongue as it flags out of his mouth like a chemise on the clothes-line in the breeze: his first meal in weeks is the object of his chase, comes wrapped in ruby satin and a fear he has come to miss so much since the two-leggeds invented

the gun

is crowing, the air is splitting from the


stitch by stitch, button by ribbon

the planet is peeled like an open-eyed virgin

his skull is shattered, his brain is splashed

like warning posters against all the trees that do not flinch at the taste of gore:

after all, they have smelt it all before.


Image credits in order of appearance:

“Sylvie Grare loup.” By Ssl01 – Own work, Public Domain,

“The binding of Fenris by D Hardy.” Public Domain,

Pirates, Dragons and Cats

Curled up on your laptop

in a coffee colored swirl

whirls Scylla’s in-breath, taking inmates, namely

the sailboat of polystyrene

cupped in the hands of fate which ought to be

blue as gnashing jaws, the bottom of the sea

calls for some reason today in a pleasant tonality: the hint

of cinnamon spray, the billows of marshmallows stirred into your coffee –

pillows for sea-dragons’ dreams.

And if the sea came decked out in claws

and cloaked in a winter-tight field,

whose each dandelion bloom blows in the purring wind and the hobbit house

collapses into a pink-tongued yawn, you would hear the roar

of this particular

storm: the monster

who lives in your house and for whom you shovel litter

the beast inside awakens:

play with me

or face my wrath

asleep, atop

your digital shore.

cat on laptop drawing a seaworthy frigate

Langues en voie de disparition/ Endangered Languages

(version anglaise plus bas/English version below)


le français, mon ange,

les diablesses des mornes commencent à m’apeller

en lançant mon nom secret

au-dessus de toute l’étendue du bleu

jusqu’aux côtes dans mes yeux

les plus abandonnés de la planète.


le français, ma langue

jadis préférée,

les diablesses des grottes te font changer

de direction, en suivant les parfums titillants

d’un chocolat qui ne connaît pas de sucre,

d’un monstre des forêts qui ne se sait pas monstre

d’un écho libérée, bondissant de rocher en rocher

criant enchanté

sans qu’une seule oreille

soit là pour l’entendre et confirmer

le son avant qu’il ne s’accroche longuement

chez les clins d’œil et qu’il ne s’endorme.


Note: ce poème tire de l’inspiration du roman Texaco de Patrick Chamoiseau ainsi que de l’heure actuelle où je me sens aveugle à la disparition des diverses langues du monde et donc, de la pensée facilitée par la connaissance d’une langue différente, une connaissance dont la disparition entrainera une réduction des pensées possibles aux humains vivants sans que l’on prenne l’action d’apprendre les langues rares de tout recoin du monde.


English Version

french, my angel,

the mountain devils begin to call me

throwing my secret name

over and across the entire blue

up to the coasts in my eyes

the most remote on the planet.


french, my language

formerly favorite,

the devils of the valleys make you change

direction, following the titillating scents

of a chocolate that knows no sugar

of a forest monster that knows no monster in itself

of a liberated echo, bounding from rock to rock

calling enchanted

without a single ear

present to hear and to confirm

the sound before it spreads its lanky body out

alongside the blinks of the eye, and falls to sleep.

Note: This poem is inspired by the book Texaco by Patrick Chamoiseau, as well as by the present day, in which I feel blind to the disappearance of the world’s diverse languages and thus, to the ways of thinking facilitated by knowing each different language, a knowledge whose disappearance will lead to a reduction of the number of possible thoughts for living humans unless we take action to learn the rare languages of every nook and cranny of the earth.



“Nama man giving us a lesson in the click language.” [see also Khoisan languages wikipedia] By Greg Willis from Denver, CO, usa – CC BY-SA 2.0,

“Mural a Argentona, El Maresme, Catalunya.” By No machine-readable author provided. 1997 assumed (based on copyright claims). – No machine-readable source provided. Own work assumed (based on copyright claims)., CC BY-SA 3.0,

“This manuscript from Nepal, in Newari and Sanskrit, dating from around 1900, contains a number of miscellaneous prayers and spells with illustrations on a long strip of stiff paper folded into a compact book. In addition to being a basis for the writing and painting, the yellow background may also be an insect repellent containing arsenic. Represented here are deities of the planets, who are propitiated to prevent the bad things their position in a horoscorpe may threaten. In the Indian system, there are nine planets, the seven visible ones plus the two “nodes” of the moon. Lunar and solar eclipses occur at the points of the moon’s orbit. (Text by Library of Congress at the URL stated [below]).” By Unknown – Library of Congress, Washington, D.C., USA (Southern Asian Collection, Asian Division) at Public Domain.

“Ink and pencil on paper copy of a damaged fish drawing originally on an ancient astrology book from Beyyage Beyya, Funaadu. Fua Mulaku, Maldives. Reconstructed section is in pencil.” By Xavier Romero-Frias – Own work, CC BY 3.0,

a fragment of driftwood


This is not a poem about

boys with glittered chestnut eyes that peter out like morning stars

or hopes;

not a poem about

crowds holding hands filing past neon blares and me

wondering why they no longer terrify

my throat as they once did;

not a poem about

Violence, Sex, Love, Fear, War, Justice, Odd Numbers

or anything of any real significance

but rather simply

a poem


the silent roar of lazuli seas,

rushing kissing ankles, thrushing back away

after hours of standing in the tide,

your soles stay rooted even when your body leaves

to heavy once again upon cement

every cell in your skin can still hear the ocean


chafing, swinging

louder in the


the eye of the storm

looks at you.


Image credits in order of appearance:

“Log on Mairangi Bay Beach. Mairangi Bay is a suburb of North Shore City, New Zealand.” By Peter Harrison – originally posted to Flickr as Beach Wood, CC BY 2.0,

Thomas Benjamin Kennington [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons


Time as it is not


This day ages

each creeping-closer minute

My mind rages

For being stuck within it.

If in these false pages, I find Paradise

I’ll pin it

To a digital wall, and soon enough

forget it.

This day lingers

each cripple-sigh of leaving

notes my fingers

are writing, playing, grieving

Each second bears a winter

That bars her from the others

Each second-born is cheered for

One sun-split-second at the crown of arms of mothers

before it is dropped. Who is next?

What’s your number? Tobacco, weed or something stronger?

This day slumbers

Lugubrious gets longer.

This day ages

each inching paining vertebrae

breaking minute

minute minute

This crone rages

as a child who’s caught within it.

Image credit:

“Time Marks on Stone Sundial.” By John Carmichael – Own work, Public Domain,