Category Archives: Poems

Moonfall

Apollo 11 visor

I wrote this a while back for TechRevu, and did a reading of it at Readercon that year, whichever year it was. You might wonder: f we can put a man on the moon, why can’t we put a man on the moon? Well as Yogi says, it’s too crowded. Nobody goes there anymore.

A slight jar and we’re free,
Floating in the dark.
A hand touches the stick
And a shudder passes
Through the craft.

Stars wheel crazily
Until the gray white globe
Slides into view
Nine miles high
Face down, like a runner
Ready for the gun.

And flight says “go”
And the mains roar
Their silent outrage
And the ship shakes
And weight returns,
And the world flips about Continue reading

Years from Now

Medical workers aid injured people at the finish line of the 2013 Boston Marathon following an explosion in Boston, Monday, April 15, 2013. (AP Photo/Charles Krupa)

No act of hate or malice
can still the hearts
of those who test themselves
to find what strength lies within
and what courage they possess

Tomorrow we will see black cars
carry the fallen
in slow procession
and feel the strength drain
from our limbs
as we hit the wall
that separates us

All who run
afoot, or in life’s race
will hit a wall
beyond which they cannot
run on
and still they do

Years from now we will watch
a runner cross the finish
on prosthetic legs
And know that this tragedy
did not offer defeat
nor take from them victory
or diminish their spirit
or ours

Starlight, Starbright

Detail from NASA image PIA07137.jpg

Star light, star bright,

guiding shepherds and kings

on that distant night.

I wish I may, I wish I might,

follow your ancient

but unfading light,

to give my gift, this holy night,

neither spice, nor oil, nor even gold,

but just a promise, softly told,

to not forget the gift he gave,

and is giving still;

peace on Earth,

and to all good will.

In the Wilds

Open a cheap merlot
and fill an expensive glass
but only partway
if you just let it breathe
it will come into its own.

Put the ten inch sauté on
medium high and add
a pat of butter
in three minutes it foams
a little, but just enough. Continue reading

The Point of It, Actually

Poetry, you see
Is actually
A perverse form
Of humor

The point of which
Is to tell the joke
In terms so vague
That the listener
Is guaranteed
Not to get it

But to be left
With the exquisite
Torment
Of sensing a punchline
Just beyond their grasp

Else what’s a poem for?