Welcome to my poetry page! This is obviously where I’ll be posting poetry that I have written and either have performed or would like to perform. I’m hoping in time to gather all my poetry into a collection and publish it, but that’s not for a long way off. For now, please feel free to read it, examine it, criticize it, and you can even use it if you want. I’m not going to stop you. But it would be super cool (and also professional courtesy) if you cite me as the author. And, hey, maybe if you like what I do, consider visiting the donate page? Happy travels!


This One is Short, But It Means A Lot To Me (2015)

I would like you to judge me right now.


I hope it was kind.


The Low Note (2015)

Why must I always hold the low note?
Don’t get me wrong, now.
The low note is full and rich and smooth like coffee and cream, thick  like chocolate.
The low note is the root chakra, the chest voice, why it is the power  and the glory, Amen.
The low note is sexy and seductive and…so uncharacteristic for a  woman, is it not?
After all, we are meant to sing the high notes.
Oh, yes. The high notes.
The high notes are…
Delicate and whispy like mists in the morning cold.
They are light and carefree like butterflies.
They are…
Youth embodied, given form.
They are…
Laughing or shrieking, jubilation or ritual ecstasy.
Ok, I guess I like them.
But I like the low note, too.
I like it the way you like your favorite shirt.
It fits, it’s warm, and I’ve worn it my whole life.
But sometimes, you just plain want a new dress.
Just like anything else, it gets familiar and sometimes familiar means  boring.
Sometimes I just don’t want to sing the little boy anymore.
The little boy is lovely and fun, but only when I accept him and  embrace him,
Not when I’m thrust into his life by the multitudes of little girls I will  never be.
Have you ever had too much wine and chocolate?
I may have had too much wine and chocolate.
And before you say it, yes, I know my place.
I know what I was built for.
If you want to go the Aesop route, I know what my song sounds like.
But once, just once, I want to be the little girl, not the old maid.
The milkmaid, not the servant boy.
The princess, not the Evil Queen.
The fairy, not the witch.
But only once.
I couldn’t give up the magic for long.
Only once. That’s all I need.
Can’t someone, just one time, hold the low note for me?


A Letter From Your Mother (2014)

My darling, darling son.
Guess who it is it’s Maaahm.
I bet you don’t know why I’m writing.
Well, my God, if I don’t write, I’ll never hear from you!
You never call, you never write, don’t you love me?
But never mind, water under the bridge, fuggedaboudit.
There’s a five in the card, by the way.
Listen, there’s something I want to ask you, promise you won’t get        mad.
Do you hate me, son?
Quite a winter we had, huh? We sure weren’t expecting that one.
You see, I haven’t been that cold in a long time, and I wasn’t  expecting to be for some time more, and I just feel like…you know  what, never mind.
I can’t do this. I can’t talk about this. Never mind.
Happy Passover. Mom.

P.S. Listen, it’s really important. If you’ll just give me a minute.
I know you’re real busy with your new job and your new bride and la  la la.
But I figure this is worth some of your spare time.
Well, it’s just that, I’m sick.
No, don’t worry about it. I mean, worry if you want.
It’s just that, they say I have some kind of fever.
No, they can’t explain it. Or I guess that they can, but I don’t believe  them.
They say it has something to do with you. But that can’t be.
You love me. I’m your mother.
They say it’s because you forgot about me. You forgot about me a  long time ago.
But you love me. I’m your mother.
They say it’s because you’ve used and used and used me.
But you love me. I’m your mother.
They say it’s because you polluted my air, sucked my veins dry, and  dumped your poison in my oceans.
But you love me. I’m your mother.
They say it’s because no one ever taught you that I wouldn’t always  be here, because I didn’t raise you right, or provide for you.
But you love me. I’m your mother.
They even say that you can’t possibly love me. What child would so  thoroughly rape it’s mother if it didn’t harbor some form of malice  against her?
But that can’t be you. Not my boy. He loves me. I’m his mother.

I’ll see you at Chanukah. Bring your Rachel. And don’t forget to wear  my favorite sweater!

Love, always, Mom.


Untitled #1 (2013)

Let me stop you right there.
I know you don’t know me, but trust me when I say
You’re wrong about everything you know, especially everything you  know you know.
I’m running out of ink, so I’ll keep it brief.
I have eyes that see and ears that hear, but I can observe that yours  are none so proficient.
Not through any fault of your own, but who is really to say?
Not I, that’s for sure. Who am I? God? No, not yet.
I’ve been sent by that voice that lives deep in the darkness that  hovers in the cobwebs, way in the back of the space that lies  between your ears.
If that seems a bit intimate, you’re right and I agree, but we should  make the most of it while we’re here, don’t you think?
Oh, I see we have renewed markage, but I’ll keep my promise  anyway.
I am a man of my word trapped in a woman’s body.
But what, oh what, are you?
If you’re like me, you know but don’t really know.
I’ve been sent to tell you the unfortunate, unwelcome truth:
You were born to do simply what you were born to do.
To do anything else is mortal folly and you will lie weeping to do so.
Trust me, for I’ve been sent to tell you this.
Her hair, a bush of wisteria caught in a fall breeze, fragrant thick and  flowering, has no business settling around her perfect ears, but it  chooses to do so anyway.
We suffer that others might not suffer, but take a guess what others  decide to do.
You know what? Fuck “others.” She’s an ungrateful bitch anyway.
But before I go in a huff of charcoal-scented smoke, with a  mysterious hint of cherry blossom that no one can quite place…
I will force one last conveyance upon your unwilling ears:
Whatever gets you off, gets you going, or makes you smile
Is enough.
It is enough.
It is enough.
It is enough.
It is enough.
It is enough.
It is enough.
It is enough.
Dear God, it is enough.
And I ought to know.


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