The rain on the windowpane
blurs the girl standing out in the lane
or the face in the window of the train
and the poet would sit here and feign
to contemplate the world’s pain, then — halt
look to a raindrop as to a grain of salt.

Is it not a slight madness
that we take this prescription sadness?
Perhaps if we had had less
of this rain we’d be glad — yes
and not mourn the sky’s vastness, as though every cloud
were draping the world in the blackness of a shroud.

– E

Growing Up

Wouldn’t we all stay in Childhood if we could choose?

Instead we are trapped in reminisces, wishing

they hadn’t fooled us with the words they’d used

“growing up” for a person diminishing.


Sure, we are wiser, and not all adults are rotten,

but who doesn’t long for some previous self?

like we could step back into them, if only they hadn’t gotten

so maimed through the years

now sitting there

like shrunken skulls on a forgotten shelf

The False Poet

Stories were so much easier to write
when they had nothing to do with me
when sorrows were concocted to cast upon strangers
and I played Deity.

But even that writer god
must become tormented with age
and come to long for the days when she
extracted her pain from another´s page.

Oh for years she prayed and waited
for some occurrence to punctuate her listless days
but when that fateful moment came
she found that there was nothing to say.

How easy it was, that old false despair,
her voice of mimicry as beautiful as a bird´s;
how difficult now to cut a piece from her own self
send it on the wind, never to be heard.

There is no poetic justice in life
but here is a justice for sure:
all those false sorrows which she spawned
have now returned to become hers

And unless you had heard her before
you would not know of this:
that the silence she now devotedly sings
is the saddest sound to touch those lips.

– E

Happy Poem in Your Pocket Day!

On Co-writing

“Just write,” I said
but they looked at me with dread
before filling their cups with words
and then we poured
together our word-hoard
into something particularly absurd.

“Remember our goal,”
I cried to your hole from my hole,
“We can stitch it together later”
but this Frankenstein of ours
his face looks sour
and he’s got the eyes of a traitor.

Perhaps I’m too eager
to place the meager
words there on the page
but surely these words are proof — breath
ideas that’ve already been talked to death
like Lazarus returning to the stage.

– E

Sonnet I.

The moon, a pin on the night’s oily wing,
will smile — sunlike — as it braves endless night,
halfway there, a thumb, not a toenail — ring
nor crescent, but a king in his own right.
But what king ties himself to agony
or looks too closely at God and is blind?
Reflective surface — mirror Domini
your face is too bright now for one to find
the carvings that boldly adorned your head
markings that show where there once laid a crown
too worn — a thorn — where many men have tread
hanging in endless night — oh take him down!
Put the moon in a box with other lies
Hope alone rests in this: the sun will rise.


– E

Part Two: A Traditional Halloween Tale

Jack Alander was the first to arrive, and he resented Hal from the cuff of his pointy collar to the hem of his billowing cape for having had the forethought to show up late.
“You know, I really hate this stupid costume,” Jack muttered to Wendy.
“I do wish you’d try to enjoy yourself.”
“I don’t know why I’m here.”
“Because, you make a handsome vampire, Jack.”
Jack looked disinterested. “I think I’ll go for some more punch.” Continue reading