Published: 20 November 2025

I’ve been robbed (of my heart)

Distracted by the irresistible,
misleading is how you stole my heart.
Not just sleight of hand, no, plenty of it.
Grand larceny I’ll never report. Nor admit.
I prefer to believe I’m worth stealing.
Not only worth stealing but worth keeping.
You and your magicians’ patter
treating me like a helpless audience of one
(oh, I’m helpless, I’m your audience of one.)
You whisper to me, in my ear, how personal!
“I have too many kisses, I blow them into the air
hoping they will find you, come closer,
wouldn’t you prefer to steal some from the source?”
And you bite me. On my ear. I’m your fool.

More Poetry:

Visit from the mother

Mother hummingbird,
pray perch on subtle twig of lilac,
wise to trust, or so I tell myself,
pirouette so I may admire electric green

River of paper

River of paper flows beneath my every word,
where would my thoughts be but for this substrate?

How Shall We Sing The Lord’s Song In A Strange Land?

variation on psalm 137, By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat
hands drumming on ribs, feet, the ground,
the mouths of pots and guns beckon,
the wind, the clouds, are the sight of sound
to the deaf, the foreign, the prisoner.
This bridge is the harp hung across
the tears of our sorrow. Each life

Everyone wants to love me

Everyone wants to fall in love with me.
I know it.
The guy in the lineup
who waved the cucumber at me
and said, I could hit you with this
was really saying he loves me.

what is it you don’t get?

based on psalm 83 ”Keep not thou silence, O God” KJV
if you don’t want to talk it’s not all right by me
I would really appreciate a moment of your time
as I am listening to more hatred, than those who
hate you can raise, lousy lizard heads, how they despise you

Related

How Shall We Sing The Lord’s Song In A Strange Land?

How Shall We Sing The Lord’s Song In A Strange Land?

variation on psalm 137, By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat
hands drumming on ribs, feet, the ground,
the mouths of pots and guns beckon,
the wind, the clouds, are the sight of sound
to the deaf, the foreign, the prisoner.
This bridge is the harp hung across
the tears of our sorrow. Each life

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