Scatting Cat

Black cat clad in green scats 

as he scampers in no hurry 

along the moss laden trail. 


He turns around a bend in the path, 

casts one last lingering glance –

his yellow eye sparks

as he turns.  


Never to be seen. 

Never to be heard from. 



His return I conjure, 

a sauntry strut, 

back in my direction. 

Rhythm and scats 

precedes his entry into view. 


Alas, it won’t be so. 

What ever happened?

To that green clad black cat. 

GD ’19


Willow Tree


Under Willow Tree lies she

In plain sight. 

Her eye spies a boy 

fishing for the radioactive 

catch of the day (!)

to peddle on the streets 

while Mom hides 

behind Oak Tree, 

spying in plain sight. 


Alone we crave. 

Finding nooks to breathe 

in the dull grey that beeps and squeals, 

high-pitched squeaks rustle behind her;

another pulse spying on she – 

animal rustling? 

It’s the fearful boy 

with a styrofoam cup 

hanging from the end of his line. 


Tears blurred by the weeping leaves. 

GD ’19


Shih Tzu Vogue


Rattling cacophony sugar coats the air.

Each brick layered in imperfect symmetry, 

like the jazz saxophonist upstairs. 


I whisper into the broken night, 

and it wails back at me. 

It curses me violently, 



I am undeterred. 


Above all else, 

it is fiercely loyal.  

Each crevice a juxtaposition 

of grit and glory. 


I turn right, eyes of despair meet mine; 

I turn left, a Shih Tzu has rain boots on. 


A jungle so concrete 

swallows laughter and human misery. 

I am enveloped in dust, no – 

It’s ashes of those 

so loyal, so shattered. 

GD ’19

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Eve’s Big Apple

Grime evolves, you know?

At first, it’s dust…

… like a powdered donut,

if not gobbled up it could fly away.

Then it becomes g r i t.

Endurance prevails at this stage.

It’s no Everest Peak, but HELL if I’d climb it!

You get the picture.

Timeless, evolutionary grime coats the walls of our great- great- great- grandfather’s bricks.

I can’t imagine the first settler in NYC.

Could he even fathom that his broom closet has now become a kitchen?

If Godliness is cleanliness, there is no God here, in the Big Apple.

(Pre-grime pictured)

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In Case You Ask

In case you ask. 

I want to trace the trail
of constellations that pepper your eyes
and dust [star]-dust
into the crevices of your soul;
the same crevice
I want to crawl into
To never emerge.
For there, shines sheer shivering brilliance,
a love unparalleled:
friendship, proportion, and faith.
Not a love that overthrows life,
or riots the heart;
but instead a map
built with stardust
revealing infinite paths
to the amber glow of this,
[whatever this is],
GD ’16

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New York, Nu Yolk.

A hush of marmalade ashh reaches;
rooftops swaddled in Steam’s grasp tremble terra-cotta tears

of [salt ‘n vinegar] chips
tumbling, with conviction, to an untimely


They watch, shingles shivering, breathing
life unto New York’s souls.

They, who watch wistfully, subliminally
remind of sea-faring mothers;
once forgotten.

She rides, floating, among the feathers of our birds;
fused upon decadence: the street-zel’s crown jewel.

Her legacy, culture if you will, emanates
in the alleys of her relentless rodents;
her mascot knows, sees, feels,


Her breath is the aroma of displaced decadencies,
perhaps this week’s trend, or my bleeding paper that holds

the scales upon which she resides.

“What’s for dinner?” they breathe…

“Home,” she replies.



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Ode to avocado

Shelled and eviscerated they lay
two shriveled avocado skins,
basking in the afterglow of devour.

Bequeathed nectar nourishes,
their job here is done.

Decadence envelopes my every whim as I sit
sun-slashed and shed reality’s
cruel desires.
A sharp intake of clarity reveals a truth long forgotten.

Decreed thee, Sir Adirondack:
Only the[e] sea holds the key
to my heart.

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Shame me
With your beady,

Slice me
With your shaming

Your gift is bountiful,
Mine remains

Lobotomized nuisance
Are we.

Thus we hollowly
Serve, your beadiness
With the sweat
Of our unrequited

Perishing an anguished
At the hands
Of our predecessors’

We lay flat,
Breathing shallowly.
A despairing song
Echoes in the hollowness
Of our minds
Reverberating weakly,
Muffled by the
Of your beady gaze.


I spy: Feminist Magazine: Let’s Talk About It

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Stafford Springs, muse: Emily Deford

Stafford Springs, muse: Emily Deford


Sometimes, the fire growls.
Glowing embers-
dull grey coats a sleepy spirit.
Live, fill everything and float…

Elated spirits come at a cost unbeknownst to no man it seems.
The weight of the world crushes,
filling spaces with gravel and sand.

Succumbing, floating-fleetingly
A memory vanished?
Why must it be that way!

Bare feet slap concrete in a glassy haste.
Clinking clavicles chime to the tune of a chilling reality.

Life: (n) a prescribed trajectory mindlessly fulfilling its fated assembly line.

Dreams of innovation cloud a dusty reality.
She weeps, for at midnight,
her carriage will sprout
and her mirage will have
in each

GD 2015

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