Wednesday, December 29, 2010


The roads are 'wicked slippery'
on these last days of the year.
I traverse them in no flippery
lest I wind-up on my ear.

Yet, these conditions I endure
as a New Englander caste.
It is the home I endear
and this 'wicked slippery' shall pass.


Tuesday, December 28, 2010

HAIKU (12/28/10)

My Cacti sunning/
oblivious and peaceful/
silent Universe.

Monday, December 27, 2010

HAIKU (12/27/10)

Serene snow falling/
cacophonous snow blowing/
man, nature at odds.


Sunday, December 26, 2010

HAIKU (12/26/10)

I view the blizzard/
snow swirling around the tree/
words swirl in my mind.


Thursday, December 23, 2010


(sung to the tune of, ’Carol of the Bells’)

Signed the repeal/
no need to kneel/
we’re equal now/
we’ll dine at chow.

G I that’s out/
gays had the clout/
to get this done/
give me that gun.

Full of good cheer/
don’t call me queer/
I’ll don the green/
and make the scene.

Merry, merry, merry, merry Christmas
Merry, merry, merry, merry Christmas.


Thursday, December 16, 2010


A cold white light greets our day.
It is Christmas morning.

My lover and I awaken, and
‘don our gay apparel’
(actually P J’s).

We sit under the Christmas tree,
exchanging small gifts.

We see, hear and feel joy.
The joy of our intimacy,
enhanced by this special day.

We wish you the same.



SHADOW (Haiku)

floating eastward in the wind/
stealing my shadow.



I live in the shadows of rooms
viewing the world through
Palladium windows.

Sun, stars and storms pass by.
My shadows shield me,
from the wrath outside.

I seek a light, a ray, a hope
within my rooms.
I only encounter a glare.

I don’t hide in the shadows,
but, I can’t escape them.
They are warm.

I return to the womb.
And, as in a Dickinson poem,
I see my own tomb.



My shadow disappears
under a new moon,
only to re-appear
under artificial light,
taunting me
in a momentary circular dance.

My shadow in full moon
is soft and comforting,
a companion
on my nocturnal journeys.

In the sun my shadow
is stark and ominous
a dimensional figure in high relief,
leading or following me constantly
until I seek refuge in shade.

I create you,
my erstwhile companion,
to befriend me,
but you ignore my plea.

I am only left with dreams
of your presence.


Wednesday, December 1, 2010


I gave my middle finger to 'DADT',
so they could take my index finger.

My middle digit is symbolic,
my index digit is my trigger.

Tuesday, November 30, 2010


'Don't Ask, Don't Tell'.
What's the buzz this day?
Did I hear its death knell,
hey G I, all's O K.

Yes, my son, I know you're gay
and my lesbian daughter too.
Serve out in the sun's ray,
proudly for the red, white and blue.



Gone/Nuclear Family.

Gone/Army Buddies


Like a rogue Elephant,
solitary wanderer.

Copy right 2009: Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

Halloween Party (Ala GAAMC)

Dressed in orange and black
to be in this soiree,
hosted by GAAMC.
Isn’t that gay.

To prance and dance
behind a mask.
No straight fish-eyed glance.
Who’s that?
Don’t tell, don’t ask.

We all together join the fun
where no stress is seen.
With no agenda to run,
on this, Our Halloween.

We need not be paranoid,
on this our night-of-nights.
We leave behind factoids,
and just laugh-out, our frights.


Mal de mer ? (Tanka)

I sense the ocean/
although it is nowhere near/
surf-sounds in my ear.
I am swimming through the air/
with memories of La mer.

Copyright:2010/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.

Wednesday, October 20, 2010


Purple is a color odd
worn to mourn and pride.
For those who are with God
for being gay, chose suicide.

For being born, like I
with love for same.
For those choosing not to die,
for those choosing not to shame.

Copyright:2010/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.

Tuesday, October 5, 2010


I met a guy from Brasil
who played Polo for the thrill.

So, chukker by chukker
and pucker by pucker.

Time spent with
divots to fill.

Copyright:2010/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.

Sunday, October 3, 2010


I stand on loveless feet at the shore-line,
and watch grey waters.

Motionless, I move east to meet the sun,
whose rays warm me and
color the ocean blue.

I taste the salty foam, as surf spray
slaps me awake to a fresh day.

Caressed by surf, sand, and sun
re-born, as a new-found wave.

Copyright:2010/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.

Sunday, September 26, 2010


(a parody of the song ,’Gay Bar’, by Electric 6)

I want to go to a, Gay Bar/Gay Bar/Gay Bar
cause I don’t trust my, Gaydar.

I want to go to a, Gay Room/Gay Room/Gay Room
cause it will not be, Jejune.

I want to be, So Gay/So Gay/So Gay
I want to be in that, Soiree.

I want to meet that, Good Guy/Good Guy/Good Guy
I want it to be him, And I.

I want to drink my, Red Wine/Red Wine/Red Wine
I’ll ask him to, Be Mine.

We’ll fly-off in the, Sunset/Sunset/Sunset
we’ll be a gay, Duet.

We’ll be Out and, In View/In View/In View
as we bid our friends, Adieu.

Don’t dissect us with, Your Knife/Your Knife/Your Knife
we just want to live, Our Life.

Just leave us, ALONE/A Lone/alone.

Copyright 2010:Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.

Thursday, September 9, 2010


I represented a company in NYC in 2001, I sent this Email to my associates across the country, in October 2001. I found this Email amongst some business correspondence in 2009. I have not edited its contents, it is as written. The subject is labeled, WTC II, I must have sent a WTC I, but it is lost, the Roman numeral II, was not meant to be symbolic, but just used as a numbering sequence.


SUBJECT: WTC II (10/02/01)

I feel compelled to write this brief note.

I attended, on Monday (10/01), a breakfast meeting of the NYC Chamber of Commerce. The guest speaker was Senator Hillary Clinton, and the topic was, ‘Rebuilding NYC’. She spoke eloquently on the plight of NYC and the challenges facing the USA. She also had some unflinchingly tough words for the,’murderers’ who were involved with this ‘crime’.

After the meeting I was able to go down to ‘Ground Zero’, in lower Manhattan. I must tell you that tape/TV does not do the site justice (if justice is the right word). It was a total assault on the senses. To view the smoldering remains of the World Trade Center, and know that it is a tomb for 6000+ people, shakes you emotionally.

Your sense of sight, to see, but not believe; this must be an optical illusion.

Your sense of smell, when the wind blows in your direction, burning, sulphuric stench.

Your sense of hearing, not the normal traffic sounds, but those of trucks rumbling up and down Broadway, and horns replaced by sirens, and the work of cranes removing the remains from the site.

Maybe I know now, what the passengers on the Titanic felt, when told the ship was sinking: incredulity, this can’t happen.

To my friend Glenn:
Posted on a building on Broadway, approx. 2 short blocks from GZ, is a banner, about 3’Hx12’L, on top of the banner in bold letters, it reads, ’Prayers From San Antonio’. It is signed by the congregation of, ‘Oak Hills Church’, in SA. If in your travels you happen to pass-by this church, drop-in and tell them that your com-patriot in NYC, along with thousands of others, saw/read that heart-felt banner.

To my friend Mike:
A company out of Pittsburgh, ‘Matthews Int’l’, donated a larger-than-life bronze statue of a kneeling (in prayer) fireman. If you happen by that co., also let them know that your friend in NYC, along with thousands of others have seen that statue, be-decked with flowers, candles, and notes of condolences from all over.
Also, the HSBC building (formerly Marine Midland), covered in soot and seemingly abandoned. What a sight.

To my friend Hardy:
Who, after a hard day prospecting with me in NYC, decided to have ,’a couple of beers’, atop the WTC, in the restaurant, ‘Windows on the World’. Those memories are indelibly etched; viewing the NYC skyline and surrounding country-side at twi-light, from that vantage point.

They say that this is a ‘War’; well this section of NYC certainly looks like a ‘war-zone’. As I write this on Tues AM, I still can’t believe what I experienced yesterday. I will, however, always remember. Yet, when you are down there, you have the queasy feeling that you want to be somewhere else; that you do not want to experience this; yet there it is.

One quick story, to hi-light the resiliency of people, and how life goes-on. Outside the Barclays Bank building on Broadway, approx. 3 blocks north of GZ a group of people were gathered outside, obviously on ‘break’. They were wearing face masks covering their mouth and nose. Irony of ironies, they were all on a ‘smoke-break’, removing their masks to take a puff, every so often.
Go figure!


Regards, Tony

Tony Puma/MMX

Wednesday, September 8, 2010


A smile/
A kiss/
A brief encounter.

A photo/
A dream/
A gentle awakening.

A memory/
A yearning/
A pining from afar.

Copyright 2010/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.

Tuesday, July 20, 2010

World Cup Soccer (An American View)

So slow, I watch the grass grow
So quick, I miss a corner-kick.

Head skill; breaks the score Nil.
Drama Queens, by hits unseen.

Off-side play, that’s so Gay.
Unpronounceable names, on jerseys claim.

Cards of yellow, players bellow.
Cards of red, players dread.

Jabulani is in flight; Goalie fright.
Is ball in net? Is there a score yet?

Team USA seen; wait till 2014.
Can it be? Soccer played from, ‘sea-to –shining-sea’?

The French blew it; in an adieu fit.
The Italians, wow; beat a hasty ciao.

Our English friends; lost their Beckham bends.
The Germans scored like-mad; then met their Durbangrad.

Team Mexico; pronto adios.
South American teams, maybe? Hasta la vista baby!

Two Koreas came; oh, to see That game.
Nippon hot as fire, alas, sayonara.

An African venue; with teams that are new.
See, Nigeria, Ghana; hear Vuvuzela.

South Africa is a winner, in South hemisphere winter.
Apartheid, no; plays a historical side-show.

Republica Espana, soccer’s Top-Banana.
Holland, as such; were in Dutch.

The tourney ends; foes leave as friends.
Back in four; USA to roar!

Friday, July 9, 2010

The Woods Campground Memorial Grove (an Epitaph in a Poem)

A boulder lies beside the pathway.
The path open, beckons me,
Melancholy surrounds: gay lightness surrenders.
Quiet, and alone, I ponder the names,
I commune with the dead;
no ceremony, just the familiarity of
I come to reconcile my own life,

(The Woods Campground/Lehighton PA 7/4/10)

Tuesday, June 22, 2010

Mother's Day

I remember momma: she does not remember me.
She smiles at me, as I bring her coffee.

“Are you my husband?”
“You look like him.”
“No, you can’t be, he’s dead.”

Can’t say Ma anymore, it just upsets her.
That she forgot who I am.

Seconds later, back into her world.
Her mind a time-capsule,
as she remembers Elizabeth Street, 1936.

She is in that Purgatory,
between the reality of physical being
and the un-reality of her surroundings.

Wait, maybe this is the Paradise we seek.
Turning away from the world and its turmoil,
where nursing home angels attend to your needs,
where your peers float by on rubber legs,
where time has no meaning, and does not matter.

Where time has no meaning, and does not matter.

So, I visit, stay awhile, chit-chat.
Is all OK?
Then I leave.


Thursday, June 3, 2010

R U Gay?

I. If by that u mean:

I am a faggot, a homo, a queer, or a queen/
pederast, or pedophile/
transsexual, troll, transvestite, or a troglodyte/
a misogynist, social outcast, defrocked priest/
gay caballero, gauche cowboy/
a pansy in pastels.

Then my answer is NO, I am not gay.

II. If by that u mean:

I prefer and enjoy the company of men,
discuss sports and arts, a cold beer, a cool cigar,
a warm brandy.
A companion who echoes my body,
a lover who knows my body.
A strong shoulder to rest my head on,
a friend, buddy, pal; comfortable
in our own masculinity.
A deep love as old as time,
powerful and intense.

Then my answer is YES, I am gay.

Copyright:2010/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.

Wednesday, June 2, 2010


Shark (Limerick)

I met a shark in the bay
he nudged me, then swam away.

To the shore, I did swim
looking back for a fin.

T’was a dolphin, a shark that’s gay.


DADT (Don’t Ask-Don’t Tell)

I did not tell/
they did not ask.
I did not know/
it would be hell.

They would say/
“stop a bullet”.
That did not know/
straight from gay.

Copyright:2010/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.

Tuesday, May 25, 2010


Your War-My War (Tanka)

Last night Vietnam/
Iraq and Afghanistan/
humid difference.
I’m in a Roman Legion/
following foot-paths in time.


G.I. (Limerick)

I joined before DADT/
3 years in the U S Army.

You say; was the bullet straight or gay?/
that hit-me that day.

T’was a Gay bullet, the one with/
the pink tippy.


Eye Candy (Haiku)

Hard bodies in view/
enclosed in empty T-shirts/
quicken pace of pulse.



Copyright:2010/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.

Sunday, May 2, 2010


“Don’t get old, ye”,
my father told me.

Life is hard, we come to know,
the body creaks, and you’re in tow.

The trick is for the spirit to soar,
to places secret, and open doors.

So, I pass another year,
and wishes of birthday cheer.

I am not ready for Hell or Heaven,
and look forward to 2011.


Friday, April 30, 2010

FOUR Haiku

1.(Inspired by John Trause)
Ebony Merry-Go-Round

Crows in circle fly/
black Tau’s in cloudless sky/
carousel on high.


2.Japan Society (10,000 Fans)

Ten thousand blossoms/
reflecting sunlight in mind/
petals of knowledge.


3.Ice sculpture

Sidewalk ice sculpture/
dies in watery grave/
resurrects as ice.



Quiet snow below/
full moon as snow ball above/
my mind in between.


copyright: 2010/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, versaes to be read’.

Thursday, April 29, 2010

Morning Snow

I awaken to a digital five A.M.,
my studio, still dressed in winter black ,
the ceiling a white bunting of
reflected street light.

The only sound is falling snow,
quiet and forlorn.
Like pen and paper to the poet.
Yes, and snow,
and all those symbols

Death, how sweet you are this morning.
In the solitude of my black room.
In the soft sound of white snow.

If i close my eyes and return to sleep,
and never to wake-
When would the moment be more right


Copyright:2010/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.


3 Gay Verse

Naoto’s Ogazumu (Haiku)

A cherry blossom/
erupting in a spring-time/
ecstatic petals.

Gay Gob (Limerick)

I met a young gob in a bar
I said I didn’t live far.

So without much ado
we hastily withdrew.

And so was I
transfixed by his spar.


There’s an Elephant
in the room, you say.
Is he Vodka white?

There’s an Elephant
in the room, you say
Is she ominous black?

There’s an Elephant
in the room, you say.
Oh, That Elephant,
yes, he’s Gay.

copyright:2010/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head/Verses to be read’.

Psychic Storm

Early morning rumble, a rude awakening,
a thunderstorm.

The ancients knew;
they weren’t burdened
by low-pressure systems.

The gods were speaking to them;
they reflected on the message.

My psyche conflicted as to
being the, ‘Master of the
Universe’, or just another
fauna form, no more, no less.

Now, all room lights out except for Nature’s
occasional radiance.
Where room becomes a ‘Warner Brothers’ haunted
castle scene.

Storm stay, I am enraptured,
captivated, and enchanted,
by your force majeure.

I thank Zeus and subordinates
for these moments.

The storm has moved on,
clichéd rainbow on horizon.


Copyright:2009/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

Moon light in Vermont (DADT Version)





Gay Army singer/ ICY FINGER WAVES.

Soldier, olive-green fatigues/ SKI TRAILS ON A MOUNTAINSIDE.

Hand-on-hip swivel/ SNOW LIGHT IN VERMONT.

Bleached blonde Faggot, everyone knew in beer-soaked room/

Tolerant of my buddy James/ AND TRAVEL EACH BEND IN THE ROAD.

Torch-boy singer/PEOPLE WHO MEET.

Army boys sit and listen/ IN THIS ROMANTIC SETTING.

Macho, nervous laughter/ ARE SO HYPNOTIZED BY.

Latent feelings aroused/THE EVENING SUMMER BREEZE.

My boot in closet door ajar/THE WARBLING OF A MEADOWLARK.

Medical Discharge/JUNE NIGHT IN VERMONT.

James, keep donning your Gay apparel, where ever you are/


Copyright:2009/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.

(with apologies to the composers)

Friday, April 16, 2010

Tennis, Anyone?

The earth moved.
“Yeah, right”.
No, really it moved.

Not under me as passion
or tremor.
It moved east.

The sun moored in the sky,
a maple tree dressed in new leaf.

Like a tennis racket,
the maple tree moved
toward the orange sun.
I sensed the movement.
I wanted to hold on to something.

You must experience this
universal high.
Have you ever felt it?

Game, set, match.


Copyright:2010/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

David Dropping-Out (Rap)

Stay in skool.
Be a kool gabagool.
4 U S C/will always be,
the place that learned you how to see.

The world’s your oyster, to swallow whole.
And you graduate in the role,
of whom ever you want to emulate or imitate,
as you follow your own fate.

Take the road less-travelled
and never unravel.
So you say ‘F’, then ‘WTF’
but never bereft.

Of what you know from sweat and tears
in those years.
Be the Man they say who can,
do his thing, between flings.
Go the extra mile, and still smile.

What a guy, not too shy.
It all started in that skool,
an engineer who’s really kool.

A dapper, sapper, rapper.

Copyright 2010/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.

Monday, April 5, 2010

B-Day for J.K. (Regrets)

Oh, what a Bummer
I missed Joe’s blast.

But, I’ll make-it a point
to be at his future repasts.

Pics of the gang at UC
with Peter and Yo-Yo.

Look at what I missed;
at the Birthday of Joe Koh.

Copyright:2010/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.

Friday, April 2, 2010

Momentary Nothingness

After we said, ‘good-byes’,
I returned to my studio and the
of inanimate objects.

In solitude, I write.
In loneliness, I’m left,
with out words.

No words, no poems,
no passion, no life (for me).

I would have embraced
the prick of Death
at that moment.
Leaving earthly torment for eternal


Copyright:2010/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.

Thursday, March 25, 2010

Joe B. (Limerick)

There once was a VP named Joe,
who never spoke very slow.

When Congress, his bill, passed it,
he went and busted a gasket.

And now he is under tow.



Pair of robins, in the field I saw,
red breasts, in the winter thaw.
They do foretell, in their dance,
another April renaissance.

Romantic poets of 18th Century,
are read again, to solve the mystery.
Of earthly spring and love,
blessed by heaven above.

Life is joy and bliss, we’re told;
How to believe in this fools gold?
It is the paradox of spring,
a perennial, but, temporary thing.

Copyright:2010/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

Is It Poetry Month Yet?

Came in like a lion/
the Ides of March.

Saint Patrick/Saint Joseph/praise/
Daylight saves.

Palm Sunday one/Passover days.

Goes out like a Paschal Lamb,
so April will be all Iamb.

Copyright:2010/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.

Miyuki, Sayonara

Miyuki, we for one, will miss you.
You came into my life, unexpectedly.
And now you depart, unforgettable.
You exit West, to enter East, once again.

You are like the Chrysanthemum,
with golden rays of joy.
The petal that falls away from,
and returns to, its blossom.

Miyuki, Sayonara.

Copyright: 2010/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.

Thursday, March 11, 2010

Red Voyage/Haiku/for Miyuki

Red balloon on string/
lifts you to places unknown/
poetic motion.

Copyright:2010/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’

Saturday, February 27, 2010

Accumulation (Tanka)

Quantum and quiet/
Stand on shoulders of others/
Snow-flakes rise to heights/
On chrystalline white layers/
Molecules fell the mighty.

Copyright:2010/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head,verses to be read;.

Friday, February 26, 2010

Love in a Bed Canopied

“Happy to be here”
Words whispered in dark/
“I’m happy you came”.

My Portuguese lover, and I/
a cold night, a magical bed.

Four phallic posts, surround/
above nylon and cotton.

Flush and fluffy, gently swaying/
Cumulonimbus, surreal.

Entwinement as one being/
as AM morphs into PM.

Emotion and intellect/
conflicted by farewells.

Oh, to have your eyes of black/
that secrete traits of aloofness.

Perhaps then, I could love, leave/
And move-on, as a non-chalant.


Copyright 2009/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.

Thursday, February 25, 2010


"Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me".
Emily Dickinson.

I am DEAD. Yes i am DEAD! How do i know i am DEAD?
Because the doctor in the ER does not seem to hear me.
He seems to be looking right through me.
I see them, the doctor and my lover Gary.
'Gary, can you hear me'? No, just a blank stare in response.

God-damn (I shouldn't use that phrase anymore),
simple procedure, my ass. Emergency/yes, OK,
Gary and i were looking for a medical solution,
not a final solution. I guess they gave Gary some
bull-shit explantion. Maybe i should never have
signed that DNR statement. Gary, how brave we were with
that document. The CREMATION, crap i forgot about that.
Scatter my ashes over the Atlantic off the Jersey shore
how poetic. I know Gary will respect my wishes.

But, wait, how can i think/see/hear/feel/
if i am DEAD?
Ah, you will never know, wait you will know one day.
And of course days won't matter either
Oh no, what if i have been dead for years,
and what i see is only the last image i saw before i DIED.

DEATH is eternal, so my love for Gary will be eternal.

Tony Puma/MMX

Tuesday, February 23, 2010


From: Andrew>
Subject: hi
TO: "Tony P"
Date: Saturday, February 20, 2010, 9:07 AM

Hi tony

andrew here. how are you? I’m sure you weren’t expecting to hear from me.
i do miss seeing you .it was great meeting you in person and you are great in bed. i do want to see you again.
but all i want is to have a physical thing with you. i don’t want to meet regularly but an occasional meeting, say every 2 weeks or longer. i don’t want to sleep over either. i just want to be able to touch you and cuddle with you and have you do the same to me. i don’t want the emotional attachment. am i asking too much?

if you think you could handle this and only meet every so often, i would love to see you again. but i would understand if you wouldn’t.

take care.


RE: hi
From: Tony>
To: Andrew>
Date: Saturday, February 20, 2010, 1:23 PM

U R right I did not expect to hear from u.
Yes, u r a good guy/and I enjoy your company.

But I am a passionate guy/passionate about my poetry and my relationships.

I am Disappointed in your wanting to come over every couple of weeks to enjoy me and feel good about yourself/as if I were your Whore.

I can have sex with most any guy I choose,
but I don’t because I want more than a BJ.

You obviously have a hang-up of getting close to someone.
I suggest you get some therapy/because it is a lousy
way to go through life.

I have conditioned myself to shed negative feelings and live my life to the fullest.
My passion may cause me some hurt in this life-style of mine.
But it is a whole lot better than being afraid to open-up
to another human being.

Do I like you, yes.
But in NO way will i enter into an arrangement where my partner
gets all the benefit of meeting me/when HE decides on some
random day off.

My Asian friends would NEVER ask of me what you have.
Maybe you are too American.


Sunday, February 14, 2010

Valentine for Adrianna

If we were straight/
what a couple/
we would be.

We would say things/
to each other like/
‘grow old with me’.

But you heed Sappho’s call/
And I the young male ball.

You are my sister and/
hope that you resist the/
impulse to hate my whim/
as I kiss you as kin.

We will be friends in poetry/
exchange our verse as pleasantries.
To be and see/to feel and hear/
emotions rampant/
in our own sphere.

As I end this ‘Hallmark’ rhyme/
and reflect on hurts in my time.
I wish to you less-hurt/
that life will send your way.
So as your Platonic friend:

Happy Valentine’s Day.

Copyright 2010/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.

Friday, February 12, 2010

San Gennaro/Mulberry Street (A festa e tutte effeste)

Grandiosa aperture della festa/
la banda suonera per le strade del rione.

A child watches from his aerie on –high/
this magic iron grate/the mystery below.

Grande processione con la statua/
del miracoloso San Gennaro/
che girera per le strade del rione.

The child in the crowd/
awed by the Saint/
miracle over myth.

Messa solenna che veria/
celebrata dal vescovo chiesa/
‘The Most Precious Blood’/
fara seguito la venerazione/
e processione con le relique di/
San Gennaro.

A Catholic mass/
where language and rites/
overwhelm the child.
A child of descendent blood/
commingling with the/
symbolic blood of Christ/
and the Saints’ blood relic.

Sfilata con carri allegorici/
e bande con l’intervento di/
note personalita.

Oh, this is what the child/
was waiting for/
family gathered to celebrate.
Never ate food from the street.
(with the exception of Zeppole).

Concorso del palo/
della cuccagna.

Cousins, like monkeys/
shimmy up Grease Pole/
to reach prize on top/
heavens’ reward for/
good works.

What magic this child witnessed.

Copyright 2010/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.

Wednesday, February 10, 2010



I forgot your name
I forgot what you looked like.

Now we meet again in that
happy place.

The first time we met you were
dismissive of my poetry.

But I was drawn to you,
as you said you wrote verse.

We sat, and drank, and left
for a four-AM breakfast.
With no change in your
demeanor or attitude.

No good-byes, I walk-out
on you at diner,
while you intercede on behalf
of waitress arguing with manager.


You startle me by how hurt you were
when I left the diner.

It is only then that I realized,
I got through to your inner being,
and past that defensive outer shell.
That you are as lonely as I.

Leave happy place.
Diner re-dux/Uneventful/More insight.
To apartment/Reading poetry-prose.

My God, how you paint your
prose with evocative scenes
and people.

An eye for detail,
with a sensitive touch.
We are kindred spirits
in the written word.

Poetic smoke/Passionate fire.
Love/Nap/Love/Slumber/Love/AM to PM.

How passionate you are in action
as in your words.
How you return my love
in kind.
How in the afternoon we go out
Into a ‘Sunday Coming Down’
type of day'.


Copyright 2009

Tuesday, February 9, 2010


I should have thrown it away,
that orange floppy hat.
In my car, on floor, in rear,
great for rain or shine cover.

It is raining today.
Hat on my head, dry and warm,
melancholy memories.
What trick is this you play with me?

The hat I wore that day,
in the park with you.
As I wrote in the poem,
you made fuss about.

It made me look old.
It covered my eyes.
You took it off my head,
put it in your back pocket.

We had our love.
I lost your love.
Hurtful memory hat,
should throw it away.


Copyright 2009/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.

Monday, February 8, 2010

The Umbrellas of Bleeker Street

Raining on, ‘Our Lady of Pompeii’
bunting of cardinal colors,
muted by dull gray day.

Umbrellas bobbing up-and-down,
like waves above my head.
Veering from side-to-side to avoid
collision with others so armed.

Black umbrellas add a
somber tone to the day.
An Ingmar Bergman scene,
an ebony tumult.

Multi-colored umbrellas,
add a Fellini touch.
Jetsam and flotsam,
on an undulating sea.

If Our Lady of Pompeii,
looked down on this vision,
she surely would smile.

Umbrage rendered as homage.
Bouna Festa!

Copyright2009/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.

Friday, February 5, 2010

On the death of Janet-01/23/10


Thanks to my brother Moose
for their sympathy card and

Emily Dickenson wrote in one
of her famous poems:
“Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me”.

Death comes, and life goes on.
It is good to know I belong to
a brotherhood that acknowledges
the sting of death and the joy of life,
for its brother (and sister) members.

Thank you from the Puma family.

Tony, James, Mary, Anthony John,
Michael James and Adam Philip.



January seventeenth/
four-fifty-five PM/
east thirty-fifth street/
second floor office.

I on street below/
stop and spy, scene above/
woman walking past window/
white blouse, black skirt, orange file-folder/
Quo Vadis?

Are you a goddess on-high,
holding some mortal to task?
Your garments give me pause.
Are you Fortune or Discord?


Friday, January 22, 2010

Paul Taylor Dance Company

The dancers glide across the stage
on Mercurial wings.
Swirling tutus and muscular thighs
in suits of spandex and bare feet.

Young, athletic bodies, sensual
and fluid, whose arms and legs
are splayed in all directions.
A dichotomy of motions,
rushed and languid.

Like cats,
they leap above the stage,
float through the air,
quietly descend,
to leap again as,
multi-lived felines.

The contoured beauty of the body,
is choreographed,
to reveal a voice,
in pantomime,
that provokes mental images.

Terpsichore inspires the dancers,
and enchants the audience.


Copyright 2009:Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.

Happy Birthday Hal

A party birthday/
I answered the call.
Resondez sie vous plait/
Yes, I’ll bring wine from Gaul.

Pleased as invitee/
to this gay soiree.
I would not miss, prithee/
on this special day.

It’s nice to see/
one age so well.
That all of we/
can shout and yell.

Happy Birthday, Mr. Parker!/
and many more to pass.
I will be chief barker/
at this annual repast.

We few, we happy few/
we band of brothers, meet.

Where Bard and I agree,
in merriment, drink, eat/
toast Hal, from all and me.

So, again we say/
Happy Birthday.


Copyright 2009:Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.

My Presidents (+ Paul Harvey Haiku)

Dwight Eisenhower/To the future.
John F. Kennedy/Too brief.
Lyndon Johnson/Too long.
Richard Nixon/Too sad.
Gerald Ford/To pardon.
Jimmy Carter/Too naïve.
Ronald Reagan/To Berlin.
George Bush/To Iraq.
Bill Clinton 1st term/Too Gay.
Bill Clinton 2nd term/Too straight.
GW Bush 1st term/Two World Trade Center.
GW Bush 2nd term/Two wars.
Barack Obama/To the future.



Paul Harvey

Paul Harvey is dead/
Now the rest of the story/
Only in repeats.


Copyright 2009:Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.


Each second an
Orgasmic event.
The spurtle unfolds as a
Halo and rainbow meet
The upstart new stream.

A collision of water
Defies and yields
To that certain
Natural downward spiral.

The fountain’s watery rhythm
Matches my aortic beat,
And I contemplate
my own time.

Each upstart new stream
Brings me,
one second closer
To my own,
downward spiral.


Copyright 2009/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.

NYU (For Frank)

Roses are red
Violets are blue
I would not be
caught dead
With a blue Violet
at NYU.

A loyal alum
Of Washington Square
Where guitarists
would strum
To no-ones aware.

With sheepskin in hand
In Latin no-less
I roamed this great land
Seeking success.

I did the school right
By making my mark
Never losing sight
Of my roots in New York.

With a look back nostalgic
In those rose colored glasses
With my school reunion clique
And wish I was back in classes.


Copyright 2009/Tony Puma
Voices in my head, verses to be read.

Thursday, January 21, 2010

Play Ball!

Gray rain pours down on/
Burgundy slate roof.

Red, white, blue, bunting on/
Emerald snack-bar hung.

Lemonade cold in/
Clear plastic bucket.

Orange bus on/
Black pavement, wet.

White lines criss-cross, run/
Red clay infield, mud.

Brown patches in/
Green grass outfield.

Golden sun waited-on by/
Purple-clad Little Leaguers.

Yellow rain-slick worn over/
Navy suited Umpire.

Play ball?

Copyright: Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.



The leaves gather in a
corner of the yard,
driven there by a
Dervish-like whirling,
until stopped by
the corner walls.

They lie still and quiet
imperceptive, until they
cannot be ignored,
a drab corner of the yard
made vibrant by a
flamboyant coalescence
of colors.

The chlorophyll canopy
that kept the yard in shade,
now takes refuge in that corner,
after one more frantic dance,
one last farewell,
to its parent-trees.


The branches wave
in the October breeze,
shaking lose its
and bidding a melancholic
to their children’s muddled

Bare branches looking
old and brittle,
the canopy now a
web of emptiness.


Copyright 2009:Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.

Wednesday, January 20, 2010

Peter W

You are the pupil who
excels his mentor.

You are the son who
outshines his father

You are the spark that
ignites the flame.

I am maestro.
I am paterfamilias.
I am a dying ember.


Copyright 2009/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.

Petar/Uncle Charlie's Host

On east forty-fifth
On second floor is/
Petar, man-boy gift
A Fleur-de-lis.

A sprite that waits
‘I Serve’, like Wales/
A princely gait
Tornado gale.

From portal-to-patio
Glides on Mercurial wings/
You await the god-boy
And his swivel-hip swings.

Floats on ocean-of-air
A Bulgar bliss/
With a unique flair
You don’t want to miss.

His eyes draw you in
Like horizontal gravity/
Once met, puts you in a spin
You look, and curse the brevity.

A tight body spun
Angelic face too/
You bite your mute tongue
For lack of words to woo.

Hello and a bright smile
In the darkened night/
You stay awhile
By that warm light.

Petar, ecstasy/
Charlie’s angel/
Eye-candy for thee.


Copyright 2009/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’

Monday, January 18, 2010

Wake-Up Call

Ha, so this is, ‘one-of those-days’.
5:19 digital awakening,
Slept through the night,
bad sign.

No wake-up thoughts for verse/
No dreams/No nightmares/
No one to hold onto.

I am only inspired by my own company.
No inspiration this morning.

I reflect:
A Hank Williams lonesome blue.
How can I write when my feelings
are numbed by loneliness

Is this the bane of the artist?
Ha, I call myself an Artist,
Solitary confinement delusions.

Where do I go from here?
Rambling-on about not being
able to ramble-on.

A Hanoi Hilton kind of day.

Copyright 2009: Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.


The Hawk is dead.
Johnny told me,
I should never have asked:
“Have you seen the Hawk?”

Johnny don’t tell me that,
Why did you tell me?
Why did I ask?
Your answer saddened me.

I am very sad and mad.
Waking-up knowing the Hawk is gone.
I feel like throwing my hot coffee
At my clean white shirt
Draped over chair.

Why, after all these years
I dreamed about the Hawk?
Why such a sad ending?
I was jolted awake.

Is this the end of the Hawk?
Did the Hawk really die?
Did I die?

I am spending another day
in reality
And my night bereft of a piece
of unreality.

My friend.
My buddy.
The Hawk.


Copyright:2009: Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.


The fog is lifting from the hills
Nature’s industrial smokestacks.

I can see through holes in the mist
The wet chlorophyll leaves
Reflecting spots of sun-light.

I know, given time and sun
The fog will be gone and
The hills clear and perfect.

The fog vanishes and I
Question the clarity
My own mind still in a fog.

Where is my clarity?

Copyright 2009: Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.


I pick the flowers in the garden
Yellow and pink and purple and blue.

Flowers to brighten my living-room
Same flowers that darken the parlor.

Contrasting exterior pigments
With interior colors.

Scents and colors reflecting moods
A back-drop to life around them.

I broke the vase.


Copyright Tony Puma/2009
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.

Visions of Wyoming

It came in a box of Cheerios.

A little replica of a
Wyoming license plate,
With a relief of a cowboy
Riding a bucking Bronco.

Along with other license plates
That I was collecting as a young boy
Only Wyoming remains,
Fixed as a photographic image
in my memory.

A documentary of
Yellowstone Park, on TV,
Jogged my memory, that as
A young boy in Brooklyn,
I yearned to be a cowboy
And roam the frontier.

I see Wyoming once again.

The tumble-weed on the mesa,
Dwarfed in valleys by the mountains,
Where the pastel greens and
Browns of the valley fade into
The grays and whites of the mountains.

I trod the ancient Americans’ pathways
With their gods above and beside me.

A sacred feather, a paw print,
The calm, the quiet,
I am alone and lost,
Lost in amazement and

I shout in the wilderness
that I am here;
A cowboy on the frontier.

Copyright 2009/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.

Friday, January 15, 2010


Laborers loitering
on street corners

Morning cold drizzle
T-shirts and hoodies.

America 1939?
America 2009!

No bombs strapped
to their bodies

No agendas
just work-boots.

Middle-aged men with
determined looks

Street-wise young men
with pretty looks.

No eye contact with
chicos bonitos.

Ola, Buenos Diaz.

Smiles greet my
lame Spanish

No, I am not your
salvation today.


I retreat to cafe
black coffee and poetry

Leaving the four corners
to hombres, who mutter:

"Ningun trabajo hoy".
(No work today).


Thursday, January 14, 2010

To My Existentialist Friend

Who are u
Who am i?
Who cares!

What are u doing
What am i doing?
What does it matter!

Where are u going
Where do i go?
Where roads cross!

When do u end it
When do i end it?
When the time is right!

Why did u end it
Why did i end it?
Why not!


Copyright 2009

You & I

You are silent movie/
I am Opera.

You are East/
I am West.

You are Tiger/
I am Taurus.

You are Jade/
I am Emerald.

We were lovers.


Copyright 2009/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.

Bouna Natale

Bouna Natale.
My grandparents lived it
My parents spoke it.
I tolerated it.
My sons don’t
understand it.
Happy Holidays.


Copyright 2009/Tony Puma
“Voices in my head, verses to be read”.


The car is racing
away from me.
I am running after
this driver-less vehicle.
My old Pontiac Le Mans.

I am awakened from
this sub-conscious riddle.
Is Pontiac my Poetry?

If conscience,
'makes cowards of us all'.
Then my valiant sub-conscience
jolts me as to my
plight as an artist.

To pursue my goal;
Poetic verse as poetry.

I will keep running after
that car, my destiny.
When I catch car;
My goal or my death?


M & T

It’s 11:59 P.M.
We leave Happy place,
For a lovers rendezvous,
To a spot near to Heaven.

Traffic sounds float-up to Aerie,
Voices like vines ascend walls.
A homophony of white-noise,
Silenced, by our sweet murmurings.

No sleep for lovers first met.
No dreams, no rude awakenings.
Naps to replenish body,
Eyes meet, replenish spirit.

Tempus Fugit, I am gone.
Like a fledgling from the nest.
Spent, but exhilarated,
A new love and friend met.

Out onto Second Avenue.
A New York City country scene,
Yellow Jacket taxi’s buzzing
Cafe’s bedecked with greenery.

I smile to myself,
With this new view, and
Reflecting on our
Time spent together.

Ricordate Amore.
It’s 11:59 A.M.


Poetic Bench

I am alone on
Campus bench in June.
Flag on pole flapping,
Crows crackling,
Summer overture.

Poems by Frank O’Hara read
Channeling him aloud, and
Taking the rhythm of
His poetry in silence.

Squirrels visit, quizzical
As to why no victuals.
Ants too, looking for hand-out,
Fly taking aim at my head.

Frank, this is distracting, yet
Tolerate the intrusion.
I am not alone anymore
On campus bench in June.


Campgrounds:Late Summer

The sun’s rays are still hot.
Oak and maple trees keep
the cabin cool in shade.
Night-time breeze
accompanies Owl in a
nocturnal chorus.

Brown and green leaves quietly
fall to the forest floor.
The end of summer,
beginning of autumn.

It is that time again,
when the cabin
will be camouflaged
by flamboyant colors.

As the quiet green pigment
of summer, yields to the
loud gay palette
of autumn.


Copyright 2009/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.

Penis Envy

I masturbate; words.
I am a poet.

Poetry excites me.
I am passionate
About this art form.

That lobe embedded in my skull
Triggers emotional responses.
Spurred on by chemicals, Estrogen
Serotonin, Testosterone.

The petrol that energizes
My hand in Rhythmic motion,
To manipulate flaccid words,
Into a tumescent phrase.

The anticipation of the
poem as art.
The result of this entire psychic

I can’t finish too quickly,
No pre-mature endings.
Hold it:
What was Mickey Mantles batting
Average in 1963?

Get mind off work.
Relax, refresh,
Take a break.
Tantric poetry.

Words again flow rushing
Through my lobes.
Emotion to logic,
Left to right.

I come;
to the conclusion of the poem.
Is it art?
Only the reader can
Render that judgment.

Reader, please no false reactions,
Did you enjoy the poem?
Well, if I smoked I would surely
Light-up a film-noir cigarette.

It is after all masturbation.
Where I derive singular psychic
And physical pleasure,
A self-indulgence that
I want to share.

So, reader take comfort
In my masculine ways.
Where my orgasmic pleasure
Is only one poem at a time.

Dear reader, enjoy all the
As a multi-orgasmic treat.


Hard Rain

Dark and dreary/
Wet and weary.

Rain comes down/
Soaks my crown.

Wipers thump/
In mood funk.

Noah days/
Sans sun's rays.

Drops race down window/
Bet on win, place, show.

Warning of flood/
Garden of mud.

Wet ball field now/
No ‘Holy Cow’.

Flamboyant light/
Clouds rumble slight.

No beach for me/
With rain day three.

Since we rose from dust/
Nature plays with us.

3 inches top soil/
And hard labor toil.

3 inches rain/
Turns soil to grain.

Bread to eat/
From that wheat.

I love the rain.


Happy Ending

Two Sprites on stools in Happy place
They face each other, knees touching.
Drinks on bar, neglected for now,
Peaceful amidst chaos surround.

They are both animated and
Looking into each others’ eyes.
Smiling, and seemingly glad that
They are with each other tonight.

They both have that pretty-boy look,
Too pretty not to be Happy,
Boyish, almost Angelic scene;
Oh, to be that young and pretty.

Fortunate or fortuitous
That they found each other now.
In a life-style where loneliness
Dulls the Soul and questions Nature.

Their voices have a feminine lilt
Their gestures an Opra-esque tilt.
Yet voices and gestures seem
Natural to them and their setting.

Why do I find them so appealing?


Wet Woods

Campground gay/
Rainy day.

Watery spouts/
Water sprites out.

Smokey mist/
In pine forest.

Dark clouds/
Thunder loud.

A lightning strike;
Volleyball spike?

Drum beat/
On tin sheets.

Bogged mire/
Brown tires.

Eclipsed sun/
Pool no fun.

Walk ‘round pond/
Through wet fronds.

Pied noir like ink/
Pinot noir to drink.

T-shirts cling/
One last fling.

Tattoo on tent/
Mate, Heaven-sent.

Gay colors right/
Nature’s refracted light.

Portable Rainbow,
To go.


Copyright 2009/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.

Campground Stream

The stream pours
into the pond

the only sound
in a forest silent

as water runs
over rocks.

Along the path
I stop and ponder.

Hearing things
that evoke

solitary thoughts.


Copyright 2009/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.

Toga, Toga, Toga

The poster read:
Greek gaymes
followed by Toga
party @ 7pm.

Gay campground
Summer night.
Moon round
Male sprites.

Costumes varied
Wine white.
Some married
Stringed lights.

Music disco
Emotions wrought.
Some show
Repressed thoughts.

Finger food
Cold beer.
Good mood
Lesbians here.

Strangers meet
Disco dance.
Toga sheets
No pants.

Forest dark
Free egos.
Nature harks
Loose libidos.

Dionysus will
Eros too.
Known drill
With crew.

Urges satisfied
In a trance.
Glowing Fire-flies
Brief romance.

Pink ribbon
For Adonis.
Best hands-on
Body hottest.

Party ends
Ghosts alight.
All friends
In forest night.

Togas away
Till’ next August.
Same day
Or bust!


Copyright 2009/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’

Essay on Jack (Mad Life)

I read Kerouac
he loved mad people
those who were mad
about life and
lived life to the fullest.

No not Ginsberg, Burroughs
Ferlenghetti, or Corso
they did not speak to me
only your verse
influenced my
outlook on life.

So when I am
called Mad
too passionate
too emotional
I feel comforted.

Madly lived life
my verse reflecting style
alone and lonely and solitary
live life madly
my absurd views
inverted pyramids
life lived madly
persona not person
caricature of myself.

Writing now
not emulating
or imitating
but examining my
thoughts and emotions
through life experiences
via your inspiration.

progenitor of those
yellow Roman Candles
we Mad Bastards
in verse
know our Patron.


Copyright 2009/Tony Puma
Voices in my head, verses to be read.

I Want to be a poet

I want to be a poet.

There you see, I started my first line with my title, how unimaginative is that?, how boring, I already filled one line of a poem that will probably be as unimaginative and boring as the first line, filled with fragmented sentences, and wrong punctuations, too wordy, not enough verbs or nouns, written by my conscious being, not by my unconscious,
which gives me my best ideas,
I am constantly conflicted by my radical unconscious, and my too-too-Tory conscious being, this GD (see I use GD instead of spelling-out God-Damn), terminology and psychology, to try and clear-up and describe
how I feel and what I perceive that is holding me back in my poetry.

I have the vocabulary; I have the formal education, never-the-less,
(oh yea, never-the-less, another unimaginative phrase that gets me out of a pathetic paragraph),
my conscious being says to beware, my critics say I am too guarded, only my unconscious awakens me in the, ‘wee small hours of the morning’, (thanks Frank), and, ‘yells how it yells in my ear’, (thanks again Frank),
Write, Write, Write, about that Dream,
Nightmare, Visitation, Apparition,
that is dredged-up from my dark recesses,
tell all about who am I, what I am hiding,
what I am striving-for, my desires, my wants,
I will name my first book of poetry,
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’,
nice figurative title, and literally correct,
for example, my gender-neutral personal poems, written in a way to mask a life-style,
I bet you didn’t know that, (or even care),
what-a-life, how the hell did that happen?
I’m not Percy Dovetonsils, (thanks Ernie),
O K, screw-it, just enjoy the poems.

So, unconscious, I am afraid, you come to me and Taunt and Haunt and Torment me,
to reveal things that I do not want to share,
can’t I have secrets? why must I be so open?,
oh, to be a Poet, I must reveal and not hold-back, is this the price I must pay?
am I ready for that?
I am confronting this reality, as my poetry becomes more complex, and to be true to the form and myself, I must be able to look at others and not just write and reveal at 3 AM
in a lonely room where unconscious thoughts
rule those dark hours, with painful memories.

How the hell can you enjoy my poems?
When I am having a difficult time getting
past my ‘hang-ups’, (hang-ups, is that a 60’s bull-shit phrase?), my life has had its share of happiness and disappointments,
if I want to be a poet, I should use all of my life’s experiences (not to mention to clean-up my grammar),
to See, Hear, Taste, Feel, Be,
an observer of nature and people,
to put down those thoughts on paper
and express them, ’as-a-poet’,
those unique feelings, in a unique way,
oh, reader I will get there,
despite or because of these ramblings.

I want to be a poet.

Copyright 2009/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.

Ode to George Carlin

He passed, you know.
Are you joking?
You mean he's,
dead, died, death,
Grim Reaper, dust-to-dust,
next of kin, below ground.

Corps y/Cadaver/Deceased/
Defunct/Departed/Ex animate/
Pass e/Reposing/Spiritless.

Dead as a door nail
Went the way of all flesh.
Pushing up Daisies.
Gave-up the ghost.
Shuffled off his Mortal Coil.

Eternal sleep.
Extreme Unction.
Ave aqua Vale.

Rest in Peace.


Copyright 2009/Tony Puma
'Voices in my head, verses to be read'.

Love in the Age of Coleridge

You are the star I wish upon,
I embrace your cold-blue light.
Out of dark-matter, you came,
into my melancholy night.

Dawn ascends and jealous sun
sends you far-away,
I wander through
this hapless life,
and rue the hours
in the day.

Till I can see you once again,
to wish and to exclaim.
For you to be,
and share my love,
and want you to remain.

But you will leave, and my love will be:
Those cold-blue rays will fade, and I will be:

In solitude I search the night
to find you once again.
You are not there
(I know this to be true)
and I will bear the pain.

A crowd of fire-flies flicker
You are lost in that swarm,
and I have lost a love.

True to myself, I'll shun,
the narrow and the straight.
To seek My North Star
as guide to a happy fate.


Happy Birthday(to my Chinese lover)

TO: Pisces
FR: Taurus

May you possess wisdom
beyond your years
Your outer beauty in spite
of the years
Your inner sweetness throughout
the years
My love past, present and
future years.

Happy Birthday!


Year of the Ox (4707/2009)

TO: Tiger
FR: Dragon

To bring you good fortune
Lucky money in box.

In all phases of Moon
In the year of the Ox.

Happy New Year!


Year of the Tiger (4708/2010)

Chang'e blessings/
On Tiger's son.
Blue tides rise with/
Luna's white glow.

Have health and wealth/
And strength and peace.
When moons are new/
And tides are low.

Happy New Year!