Ode to This Moment

16 Jun

I cut my teeth
on the excuses made
for lack of performance

I cut my tongue
on the words
I never took the chance to say

crystallized thoughts
fiberglass shards of words
difficult, even though

all I want to tell you is
always, forever, and again
your pain is my pain

your joy is my joy
my abounding enthusiasm
quivers in your hands

your hands
your hands
your hands


Morning Pages

26 Apr

Writing morning pages
is cream skimmed off the top of
my thoughts, or pond scum.

Writing morning pages
is the pool boy, whose long net
catches leaves and dead bugs.

Writing morning pages
is your hands cupping my face
your eyes deep in mine.

Writing morning pages
is the clack clack of these thoughts
Ding! then hard return.


A flock of haiku for the home stretch of National Poetry Month.

Ode to Sr. Mosto

14 Apr

My Algebra teacher
is 84 now, alone in the house
he grew up in, downtown
mother and sister long gone

I’d love to sit in his parlor
listen to him talk about
how 50 years of math
brought him purpose and joy

I’d rejoice at recalling his
infamous sayings, his booming voice,
weaker now, yet still resonant
with encouraging authority

And secretly, I’d hope for a pop quiz,
to prove to him I finally did learn
how to locate life’s unknown variables
only using x and y


My Algebra teacher, Sr. Mosto, with me (in the sweater) and two of my best friends in 1987.

32 years ago, my Dad informed our family that we were moving to Ecuador for two years. He had been recently hired to be the new Director General of the American School of Guayaquil. I had mixed feelings about going, and leaving my Jersey shore world, but then again, I was 12. I asked him what it was going to be like, going to a new school, with all my classes in Spanish. He said, “You are going to have Mr. Mosto as your math teacher. He is an excellent math teacher.” Honestly, at the time, those words didn’t exactly excite me 😉

He was absolutely right, though. Sr. Mosto had a very clear way of explaining math. I still remember the way he formed his numbers in chalk on the board. He had flair, he had presence, discipline, exactitude, authority, efficiency, and an absolute command of algebra. He rarely got angry, and could handle a classroom full of 50 junior high students (yes, 50) AND give them an excellent base in mathematics without ever having to raise his voice. He simply and kindly commanded respect. Although he never received any formal training in teaching, he was one of those people that were born to teach. He taught at the Colegio Americano for well over 40 years, only recently retiring in 2008.

Mr. Mosto never married, and lived with his mother until her death. Now he lives alone, and at the age of 84 has medical issues, but remains alert and lucid. He pretty much has everything taken care of as far as his physical needs go. I know this because just last week, a fellow ex-alum, Tzely Shalev, got in touch with him. As he spends most of his days alone, with a godson helping him around the house, Mr. Mosto told her that he would love to hear from his students, and maybe some could even come visit him. So, she started a Facebook group and within a day had 1,700 members. Barely a week has gone by and now the group has about 2,600 former students, just from our school alone (he also taught evenings at a few other private and public schools).

Mr. Mosto has received hundreds of messages- and best of all- visits from students! On Wednesday a group of friends from my graduating class visited him and even gave him a tablet with data service so he could see all of the messages we had posted on his Facebook group, and set him up with a Facebook account.

When I look back at the teachers I have had that truly formed my intellect and gave me time-tested tools, Mr. Mosto holds one of, if not THE highest spot.

The outpouring of love and sincere desires to help from so many of my fellow alums is absolutely beautiful. What I am most grateful for is that the opportunity to do this has happened while he is still with us, when he truly needs it the most. All of this has filled my heart with indescribable joy.

La Gringa

13 Apr

Mirame a los ojos y dime de donde vengo
quienes son mis padres y cual es mi nombre

Lupita Maria, me dices, bella como tu madre
pero disculpame, como diablo se pronuncia

el apellido de tu padre? y cuando
abres la boca nadie te entiende

People look at me and ask
where do you come from?

and I know there will never be
a simple answer to that question

my face does not match
my name does not match

my voice does not match
it’s a trifecta of confusion

you must be Native American
I say I am of the tribe of New Jersey

But you don’t have an accent,
what exit? they smirk

105 and 109, I reply
with authority and pride

So where did Lupe come from?
It’s my mother’s name

Is she Mexican?
No, she is Ecuadorean

Oh, that explains it
the Incan connection

your English is so good
I’ve been speaking it since birth

but their eyes have glazed over
and they will never really know

who I am, and most importantly
where I come from



12 Apr

En tus ojos nacen cielos
nos miras desde arriba

con tu dedo largo
dibujas sobre la tierra

trazas lineas vagas, garabatos
dando forma a tus ideas,

el desierto tu papel periodico
esta tierra tu cuaderno borrador

Y si al final estas satisfecho
solo basta una palabra: Nazca!


Líneas de Nazca, Nazca, Perú, 2015-07-29, DD 52

In your eyes skies are born
you watch us from above

with your long finger
you doodle on the earth

tracing haphazard lines, scribbles
giving form to your ideas

the desert is your newsprint
this land your sketch book

and if at last you are satisfied
only one word is necessary: Be born!


12 Apr


is an acquired taste, 16;
is the difference between dreaming and doing, 16;
means the same in French, 18;
not to be confused with aspiration, 18;
served her well, 26;
she had been accused of having too much, 21;
the perfume she wore, 19;
was her brand of courage; 28;
was her middle name, 35;
you can still see it in her eyes, 44.



a : intrepid boldness (Merriam-Webster)

Today’s prompt over at NaPoWriMo for Day 12 is to write an index poem. I invented mine, and included page numbers that actually reference certain points in my life, to add a little biographical flavor to it. My index is in alphabetical order.

Sevenling: Dances with words

10 Apr

I love the way you rub
parts of words together, the friction
of a tango, a waltz, a samba

It’s not so much
about the vowels, or the consonants,
but the implications in between

You spin me right round, baby, right round.


A Sevenling poem for Dverse. Just something new.



7 Apr

At twelve
my teacher said
“Your story has promise.”
I never forgot, her words fueled
my dream.


A cinquain that I wrote yesterday at a workshop with Yvette Hyater-Adams in Jacksonville, FL during the Jax Poetry Fest. This form is really interesting in that it uses 5 lines, with each line having a different syllable count. Generally, the form, which was devised by Adelaide Crapsey, encompasses a story arc, where the first line talks about beginnings, the second line is about pursuit of aspiration, the third line has a twist or a conflict, the fourth a resolution, and the fifth provides insight.


16 Mar

Thoughts of you are
warm sun rays through
wintry windows

I touch the glass
and my fingers flinch
at the cold pane.


14 Mar

The moon is a shy
smile, breaking into a blush
of velvet wanting


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