Photography, literature, pop culture and creature comforts
Poems by Grace Cavalieri



For Bryan Christopher
Awakened by daily light,
I moved through a map of sounds
into the fold of the future.
in the periphery of
friendship was a man standing in
light between the trees.
How does he enter my story,
his hand on my shoulder,
walking beside me
all these years,
making art so we cannot
be destroyed by its opposite.
I move in the periphery
of his friendship into the
folding light.
The spectrum of colors
carried in his pocket
are horizons that say
words I did not know before,
leading me by the hand.

Awards Day

She always wanted to make love to a clock so she’d know when to stop.
She always wanted to be standing in the limelight in a white satin dress,
no, make that a strapless dress. Now she was older and, no, make that
one with sleeves. She wanted to be a cat hiding in a tree to catch a bird.

(acknowledgment: Poets&Artists, 2012)

“Mama Didn’t Allow No Blues Or Jazz…”

Lorne Cress

The monkey trap is simply this
A coconut hollowed out
A sweet potato stuck inside
This is how a monkey can be caught
He puts his paw inside
And grabs his food
You say it’s dumb
Determined as hunger
Caught inside a shell like that
You say betrayal comes from just
Such needs as a monkey has
We do not know the source of sanity
How monkeys feel about hunger
But I think it’s better when holding on
From not letting go
I think it’s better to let go.

Morning Poem

Each of us has a pond. Mine is deep. I sleep beneath
the water in a silence so clear
the bloom of desire melts from me,
lightning turns fire to the water of pleasure.
Fish are jumping in my heart,
no, they are real fish dreaming of me,
no it is not a dream,
this is a real heart.


for painter Erick Jackson
A rhapsody encircles his walls
without interruption,

Fate and fortune are
in a drawer filled with light,

like a pair of gloves
illuminating the ideal room,

The wrought iron is overwrought,

A striped cushion comes to life
with an occasional song,

Good luck and prosperity are
knobs shaped like a single ball,

The closet is a black box
telling the latitude/longitude
when the bedroom
              crashes to earth,

sampling a door,
sampling a window,

The fundamental doubt of dark

blisters into

red, yellow, blue,

scribbling   testifying  signifying

lofty pleasures,

I had a tiny doll house once with little chairs,
How could a house so small hold so much  love?

How can the eye so small see so much of the world?

Alternate Theories

In answering my husband I say, “I only
wonder about ideas I can use in

poetry.” He says this is may be a waste
of wonder. Yes, I realize it is not a fair

market exchange, rationing my thoughts
this way. Here we are walking

in the woods - noticing fern. He says
he can make green herbs grow all

winter long in the kitchen -
the white receptacle by the window

the constancy of a blue
Glo-light - the waters of life dripped

in every day with care.
I say I like this. it’s  lighted

up until morning. Like the moon.
Finally something I can use,

helpful  to me - while writing in the dark -
as nothing can be seen exactly as we describe it.