AMOR VINCIT OMNIA (VIA NJ)

From Closter to Cape May
and exit to exit between.
We want to be married-gay,
and enjoy the legal scene.

“Love knows no bounds,”
and is gender neutral.
Call-off the hounds
let’s just have mutual

respect for each other
as part of our existence.
I am, after all, your brother,
so understand this insistence.

To be a couple, and post our Banns
to be a Jerseyan, full-measure.
To walk down the aisle, holding hands,
“be still my heart”, for this pleasure.

© T.Puma/MMXII

AUBADE

As I lay by your side
I am aware,
morning sunlight through
Astorian window.

Love consummated,
out of slumber, I stare,
at your face, reflected
in that golden glow.

The contours in that gleam
I want to trace,
but loathe to waken
repose ethereal.

Like being blind, my fingers
on your face,
for fear, I'm dreaming,
and this be not real.

Our bodies contrast and
compliment,
a companionship throughout
the night.
In colors, ecru and gold
pigment,
brought together in reaching
a height.

Glorious summer sun of New York,
where,
you bathe my love in your
warm glow.
But, my loves' gloss,
is now my glare,
how you do hasten me to go.

©T.Puma/MMX

J.C.

To be lost in
Jersey City
traversing
dark, empty
streets
leading nowhere.

My sense of geography
and humor
eludes me.

I blow my horn in frustration
pray for early dawn.

?Donde tunnel?
my ticket home.

TP/MMXII

VESPERS

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.


©T.Puma/MMXII

IL PESCATORE

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.


©T.Puma/MMXII

HAIKU (MOON OF TONIGHT)

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

©T. Puma MMXII

MIHAI ANTONESCU

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.

©TPuma/MMXI