The Widower

The shadow
in the house,
a sad glow,
clicking mouse
as the screen
flashes bright,
tears unseen
in the night.
while alone,
night-owl stare,
on his own,
empty room,
empty chair,
dusty broom,
stagnant air.
He breathes in,
he sighs out,
one more win,
joy dies out.
Home was built
for his bride,
now her quilt
lays aside,
all he wished,
all he willed
now is gone
like his youth,
like the dawn,
this is truth:
life is hard,
it’s a trick
of each card
we don’t pick
and death comes
to wound hearts,
nothing numbs
when grief starts.
New game now
and tears spread,
thinking how
life misled
him to think
they would be
link to link—
he to she.
The clock ticks,
moon descends,
finger clicks,
this game ends
and the night
grows more still,
misty flight
of wind’s chill,
a cold hand
on his face,
time and space,
old, lost ghosts
of far seas
and warm coasts
now adrift,
now alone,
now a rift,
Twilight Zone.
Life is strange,
life is loss
it has range
at a toss
of the cards,
of the glass,
of the shards
when lives pass.
Fist now bruised,
screen now cracked,
heart contused,
cards now stacked
against joy,
against peace,
must destroy
till surcease.
Broken mouse,
shattered life,
darkened house,
beloved wife.

Unfelt Rains

What is human grief
but rain on stone?
Whether long or brief,
it dries where strewn
without scarring rock,
or carving rune—
no such stain or pock
outlast the moon.
The tears always dry
and stones remain,
the years pass us by:
the cosmos reign—
they reign, unfeeling,
forgetting all,
the cold stones wheeling
while hot tears fall.


The trees danced lively with the wind,
pleased as a girl with princely courtships,
yet you stood quite still in the end
with a smirk twisting your scarlet lips,
and I knew, then, the truth of Love
and the truth of broken hearts and pain
as the thunder rumbled above
and the world was drowned in frigid rain.
The lightning cackled like a crone
and you left me in sleet-like silence,
unsheltered, wearied, all alone,
and so I would be for too long hence,
but I realized that this storm
existed always around your life
for you were the eye, calm and warm,
yet you were the storm, too, full of strife.


At the pinching snip of Love and Loss,
the intersection, that fateful criss-cross
of scissors cutting like conjoined knives
that separate, at length, two lovers’ lives—
Atropos and her unyielding blade
pressures us together, made and unmade,
the freshly cut edge, and the sharp ache,
that defines and destroys within its wake.