Throwing Glass Slippers


She felt like Cinderella, before the evening

gown glittered or fairy godmother granted wishes.

Not the Cinderella with horse drawn carriage. Before

any tiara wrapped around that hard, hair sprayed up-do.

She felt like Cinderella, wrapped in rags

mopping grimy floors. Days spent on dreams, wishes.

Cinderelly, whom mice called mother. Slopping

soapy suds and handkerchief held hair.

The princess in house slippers. Worn, seams plucking

peaking bare toes. One true love

of laundry, heaping.


Canto XXIV


I took the last line of Dante’s Inferno, canto XXIV, line 151 “And I have told you this to make you grieve” and inserted it into the last line of my own poetic verse.

The scorching weld that burns

two souls together. Meant to be. Love,

knocking at an enormously shallow door.

It’s dark and echoes the cold, stone

hallways of my heart. The loneliest soul

when his name is called. Years pass,

and I have told you this to make you grieve.

Double Shot of Amnesia, Please


Most of the time he didn’t know who I was and most of that time, neither did I. My personality changed dependent upon where we were going and who we were going to see. He didn’t know me at all. I didn’t know me at all. It’s impossible to blame when you never gave yourself a chance to shine through.


Some people don’t believe in love, just like atheist don’t believe in God. They cant feel the super power of an upper being, they do not trust what they cannot see. They don’t understand the Christian love of Jesus, just as I don’t understand the word love. I understand love as the dying and unconditional love of one’s own flesh, pain and blood. That would never compare, but then again it will never compare.


There will always be a single parent, lonely, looking for the partnership and companionship of another, adult conversation in the least. The child taking care of his siblings in a shelter, waiting for it, for anyone to take them all together, that’s the least they could do.


Real Life Poetry. It Hurts.



Our Last Supper


I know he is leaving, though he sits here

across from me, in my dimly lit kitchen.

Which, once was ours. He leans

over the cracked pine table top

to sip from the last glass of red wine,

shared. He cannot stay, we know. Then

will he go to a dark, desolate bar?

To wait for someone else, anyone else

to take him home. A black dress, I suppose.

He eats-

the chicken pasta I have prepared,

breaking bread in silence.

My heart eats, dying moments

of our love. Blood shot eyes,

focus on the food. Only thin black hair

stares at me from across the table. The table

that seems to grow larger,

as our plates become bare.

He is leaving,

but we eat.