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.


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?


I see his red and white striped shirt hanging against all the others left untouched by his breath. I say Thank You to that shirt for all the poetry readings and places, and also to the Navy Dress White for Angel’s wedding, I say Thank you to each one, following them down the rack talking  to a closet. Perhaps he wanted freedom from all these but I am still in the forest and wonder about the meals we’ve forgotten and the peaches once eaten—did they exist? That sounds like some do-good-seeking  philosophy. No. It is the quick cold snow of truth, biting and cold, gone as snow.

A Matter Of Record

I have never seen anyone die.
I have never seen the spirit leave the burnt body.
I do not know what sound is caught
from the throat, and I’m sure it’s not
one I would  want
to hear twice—
then the  stony heart,
a lack of beauty that comes to stay,
unattractive expedients,
vast disappointments.
More sadness fills the room-
enough to die of right there -
unless you believe that  
after Sundown, comes Sunrise.
After the Sunset,
as a matter of record, I am told,
it comes up gold.
Acknowledgement: Casa Menendez,
Sounds Like Something I Would Say