Thursday, January 12, 2012


Votive candles flicker in the apse
white flames shrouded in crimson jars.
Each one a restive soul whispering prayers
that only the saints can hear.

Mute saints, in various guises,
some glancing at the candles,
some heavenly,
seem to acknowledge
these sotto voce pleas.

As I light a candle,
for those close to me, departed:
I strain to hear their prayers,
(as though I’d be able.)

I whisper my own
in hope that my voice
would be heard.

I sit in the pew and stare
at the rows of Votives,
contemplating life,
not death.

All I can do for the dead,
is to light a candle
and give them a voice
for a brief time.



Knives stropped sharp.
Fish with teeth like needles,
and scales like razors.

Hands ever scarred.

Blood and entrails-stained apron
worn as a uniform.

Scale encrusted boots,
looking more like fins than feet.

It’s always cold and wet.
No matter.

I can carve you a banquet,
presented in yesterday’s newspaper.


Sunday, January 8, 2012


Konya no tsuki/
my senses in disarray/
I await the dawn.

©T. Puma MMXII


A moment before he was executed,
he nonchalantly tossed his fedora
behind the death-pole.

What manner of man has a concern
for his head piece when facing
a firing squad?

Was this a symbol of his disdain
for his executioners?

A cultural heritage, being polite,
when invited to a function?

Did he want to die in style?

He never said.

The coup de-grace was administered
to his bare head.