On Emptiness
Receding
(For The Dead Inside)
0302.2025
You are receding—
falling into the horizon
like dusk devouring light.
I struggle saving you—
but even your shadow vanished.
When our thread tore,
it took the scent of spring—
the flowers had just begun
to color my smile
with the lie of joy.
Then came the light—
unforgiving,
unblinking—
dragging the dead
from my heart
into their graves,
and beneath time’s silence,
which keeps them
as captives.
They are like you:
a goodness,
a fragile fire,
burning out
and falling
into a lesson
inside a thousand
lessons.
I must be thankful somehow—
but the gratitude burns.
My eyes have turned to deserts.
The sun devours me.
The night drinks my life.
What goes unnamed
because you lied?
What am I to think,
now that I see—
the joke is me?
I will think:
Turn me into a bird,
so my wings break
from my hiding heart
and carry its sorrow
from night
into half-light.
At least.
I will think:
Turn me into dust,
so I forget
what I have learned
ten thousand times.
I will think:
Let spring
cover me.
Let summer
end this cold.
Let something bloom
in the ruin
of my garden.
m.c.f.
Photo, 2024, m.c.f.
Love Without Ego
I Still Do
(for no one, and you)
I love with a silence blooming in bones—
My love asks for nothing,
but still lights a lamp in the dark
in case you want to come home.
I love you like a prayer
when nobody is listening—
even when you vanish,
and the leaving is drowned in your absence.
I love you when your words turn to shadow,
or are lost on the air,
and your care stops calling my name.
You don’t have to earn it.
I never meant to give it.
It arrives like sun in the spring—
slow, warm, and impossible to refuse.
There are still pieces of you in my life—
the tone of your voice
curled around a word,
the way you linger
at the edge of your own heart.
You may never hold my heart in your hands again.
You may never say my name out loud.
I may never hear you.
But I hope,
when the noise grows quiet
and people around you forget to listen—
you remember how once,
you were deeply seen
and entirely loved
by a rose who asked for nothing.
I loved you.
Not to possess.
Not to be chosen.
But because some loves
arrive like stars—
brilliant, distant,
and mean to be carried,
not kept.
And I still do.
m.c.f.
Photo, 2024, m.c.f.
One Morning…
Aubade
0331.2025
A poem for the dawn that never softened.
For those who enter the light only to find the dark.
This morning’s heart awoke to death—
not a glorious flower
stretching its neck
to its own dawn,
but something gray,
unfinished—
a breath that never quite
found its warmth or reason.
No fragment of beauty,
no hint of song or
well-meaning hour
could lift the heaviness.
Even the air moves
like apology—
but not around me.
Everything is darker
in the light of day.
The voices wear tones
like weapons,
gentle only with each other.
I walk into their fire
and they lay the bullets.
They name me
before I speak—
a blur, a burden,
a failed warmth.
Not one of them asks
if I am broken
or just quiet.
(They assume I am
what they would be
if they were I)
And the cruelest part—
the mirror they mistake me for.
m.c.f.
Image 2024, m.c.f.
On Broken Thread
March 29, 2025
(The quiet severing.)
0330.2025
I let go with no spectacle,
no stage.
Just a whisper sent through wire
to say:
I saw what you could not give,
and I release you
to the wilderness
you chose.
m.c.f.
Transition Into…
Goodbye. Love.
0329.2025
Goodbye, wild and unnamed love—
Age, with its hush, unclasps
the trembling flower
that opened in my youth,
arrogant with need,
drenched in want.
It bloomed
like tuberose—too rich, too ready—
whenever a golden-limbed boy
bent his gaze toward mine.
I see the last of you now:
your face, a soft pomegranate,
those quiet, knowing eyes,
that mouth and those brows
etched in my own reflection.
And I think—
we were meant to live
as one body,
woven in peace.
But the saltwater spoke.
It told the truth:
this kind of love
requires building.
So I unfastened my hands
and let this kind of love drift.
And still,
I know—
something greater waits.
A love unnamed,
needing no mirror.
m.c.f.
On Quiet Surrender
Night’s Mercy
0328.2025
The night’s splendor
pours through the window—
its silver secret sends me off
upon a sleepy sea of sorrow…
and I surrender gently,
like petals drifting,
learning to float
where I’d drown.
— m.c.f.
The Stars
Us, Astrologically, Astronomically
on elemental opposites
0328.2025
You come in quiet—
air and earth,
cool head,
measured thoughts,
a voice that waits
before it speaks.
I arrive as flame—
fast,
bold,
without warning.
I light what I feel
and walk through it.
You watch the flames.
I move with them.
Still—
my Venus
knows your rising,
calls to you
without sound.
We orbit close—
fire fed by wind,
truth held in silence,
closeness
without need.
Opposite signs,
but something fits—
a click,
a spark,
a pull that says:
don’t change,
just be close.
m.c.f.
A Study In Goodbye
Soft Exit Tactic
0328.2025
You don’t vanish—
you drift.
A pause lengthens,
warmth thins,
messages arrive late—
their meaning lost.
You choose silence
like chiffon—
folded neatly,
placed just so.
The silent cut,
of unsaid words.
You ask to meet
knowing I can’t,
as though forgetting
is easier
than refusing.
(Maybe for you, true.)
I’ve read the script—
at first,
the slow retreat,
the soft descent,
the affection turns static
without a storm.
You’d rather fade
than fall,
slip the tether
without warning
or respect.
No reckoning,
nor flame—
Just distance
disguised as time.
But I feel you
exiting the room
while you smile.
I know
how goodbye sounds
when it tries
not to be heard.
m.c.f.
On Some Bonds
The Red Thread
0328.2025
You once took a photo—
of two needles pierced,
a single red thread
running through their bodies.
I imagine the needles are us—
and the thread,
the binding of our hearts and heads.
(It makes sense.
I’ve often felt
we share blood.)
But then something broke—
and now you’re gone.
When the thread snapped
from the house of my heart,
I learned
how sorrow can be stitched.
No one loves you enough
to see how the knots
hold us tighter
than clean seams can.
(Woe.)
Your life pulses in mine.
Your lessons linger.
The love I hold
is now something else—
I lost you
and understood:
what I desire
cannot be held
in time’s fist.
And so I love the world—
most of all,
you—
freely,
with enough peace
to let your heart unfold
its wings and wander.
Without hope—
but for the little seed
hidden in winter soil,
hoping she’s strong enough
to rise and open
when love’s voice
calls her home.
I carry you still,
and pray too much—
it’s your voice I hear
when the thaw begins.
m.c.f.
Another Level Of Knowing
The Poetics Of A Truth
0324.2025
There is no such thing as spirituality.
Only scaffolding made of breath and panic,
held together by trembling hands.
We dream up gods in the fog,
hammer our fear into folklore,
make shrines from rot.
It’s theater.
Not beauty.
Not truth.
The most exquisite, unbearable freedom
is knowing there’s nothing behind the curtain.
And if something is there—
we’ll meet it when our mouths go slack
and the light in our heads gutters out.
The fairytales harm more than help—
Chewing at the edge of reason,
keep us looking up instead of at us.
We are compost and calcium.
We are the tantrum of a star
pressed into meat.
We are brief.
We are breakable.
And because of that,
we should be kind,
but kindness is too quiet a religion for most.
Nobody wants to sit in the dark
long enough to see what’s real.
They want halos and handbooks.
They want their own dread
wrapped in gold.
So they keep making believe—
stories with teeth and wings,
the heavens with rules,
hells to burn us all in—
because creating solutions
requires admitting the house is on fire
and always has been—
that we’re all arsonists
and the only way out
is to put the match down
and rebuild.
But that takes nerve.
That takes stillness.
That takes looking directly into the unknown
and realizing it doesn’t belong to anyone.
(It never did.)
And what a sick, glorious thought:
that maybe the only sacred thing
is how ruin
keeps handing us
a hammer.
m.c.f.
On Differences
Two Languages
0324.2025
I talk in storms
so the truth can rain.
You speak in safety,
and seek the storm’s shelter.
(I can’t hear whenever you call out.)
And my much is much too fast,
too alive to be placed neatly
into the quiet rooms
you live in.
You call it chaos—
but it’s just another truth,
burning and raw,
the way a soul burns
when it connects.
And yet,
I learned some stillness,
the measured replies,
your way of caring without words.
I learned to whisper when I wanted to sing.
I learned your language.
You wanted the echo,
but not my voice.
And now,
I sit with a lost companion—
two friends who made something,
but couldn’t read the same page
without translating every line.
Still,
I wish you peace,
in your quiet house
of quiet love.
And I’ll keep speaking storms
to those who understand
thunder can be beautiful.
m.c.f.
A Taste
Instead of Saying It (A Taste Of Cherry)
0321.2025
He didn’t explain the man in the car.
He just said, watch this.
And I did.
Dust roads.
Dry silence.
One request:
bury me when I’m gone.
He never asked me to save him—
just showed me how the man moved,
how he slowed at the edge of nothing.
No love interest.
No woman waiting.
Just an old man,
and the story of the cherries—
a taste that made life stay.
He gave me that film
like a confession folded—
not addressed to me,
but still pressed into my hands.
Now he hearts my poems,
shares them without introduction,
and likes cherry shoes
on someone who’s not me.
But I remember the road,
the dust,
the hollowed voice asking,
will you bury me?
And I wonder—
did he think I was the one
who’d know where to dig?
m.c.f.
To Someone
Father
0514.2013
My mouth blooms like yours—
sharp-edged, it’s bloody full of
the things I should’ve swallowed.
Sometimes I think about
matching my eyes to yours—
the ones you gave to my face
and lit with defiant flames.
Then I’m freckled like you,
say god damn too much.
Piss and vinegar.
A little chaos.
A little poetry.
You gave me that, too.
I still can’t tuck my life into neat tidy corners.
But, you couldn’t either.
All my creations—
The paint, inks, and mess,
carry the weight of your absence
and your wild blood.
If there’s anything left of you out there—
on the wind,
in the chords of a song,
In the pluck of your strings,
in whatever heavenly body—
may you find my work,
and know your daughter by it.
m.c.f.
On Overthinking
Going Green
0510.2014
While snubbing my history,
all I see is green—overgrown
with too many possibilities—
and I think: these must be my salad days.
Terms set the distance
between me
and various mixtures of vegetables;
my tending’s broken down,
reconstructing the dish
one failure at a time.
Suddenly I’m breathing,
exhaling,
moving mountains—
metaphorically.
(Except mountains have a point.
The point is to be
quietly unmoving,
and sometimes mystifying.)
It’s not just the salad, though.
It’s my victory garden.
Sometimes, trying to make sense
means becoming the spiny vegetable—
all this bloody mess
just to survive,
just to be consumed.
And though there’s no more pain
than I allow,
and though some green things
don’t sustain life—but eat it—
and it grows faster
than I can see it coming,
I’m brandishing woodcutters,
just in case.
Really, I just want
to snub some history
(and maybe the present day),
especially at 4:40 a.m.
when all I can think of
is the alphabet,
language,
the chocolate pudding chill in the fridge,
and fading with the stars.
m.c.f.
For Veterans & The Patriotic
Ghost Of America
0321.2025
I’m a red, white, and blue pulse.
I bleed in silence for my home,
carry the weight it won’t shed,
and you turn away as if
my hands were never dirtied in ash.
But I have lived its grief,
and eaten the sin of its striving.
Don’t define me
as war-stitched denim,
a rusting wound,
or the shadow and the dark—
No, I am the doubt and the belief,
the fade and the flowering,
the exile and the homeland,
the cradle and the tomb.
m.c.f.
A Word About The Poetry
Some of my poems have taken nearly two decades to fully come into being. Many were first drafted in my thirties, then tucked away—revisited every few years with fresh eyes, adjusted gently, and returned to their quiet place among my files.
When I’m at ease, language often arrives effortlessly. The words flow, the rhythm settles, and I’m left only to decide whether the piece holds up—or quietly lets go.
Earlier this year, I unearthed several older poems and, over the past few months, felt called to revisit and reshape them. In their original form, they carried a more esoteric tone, sometimes messy, raw with emotion. I write politically, too, and I was struck by how some of those early works now feel oddly prophetic—though perhaps it’s less prophecy and more the quiet ache of how little truly changes. That thought unsettles me.
But my voice returned—full and fierce. Even my hands remembered. I’m now spending twelve-hour days immersed in my work again, and in many ways, it feels like I’ve come home.
I’ll be sharing several of these older pieces in the coming days. There’s still some organizing to do—tags to add, structure to build—but for now, I offer you the language of my heart. I hope something in it speaks to yours.
2024, Self Portrait
No Ego
The Transcendent Triptych
A Poem in Three Movements
0320.2025
⸻
I. The Whisper of Control
Control loves me in whispers,
in quiet omissions,
and in-between silences—
where a question is an answer.
I am the painting it leaves unhung—
a feeling it folds.
⸻
II. Refusal
Art can’t stand in for honesty,
as if I won’t notice
how far control’s warmth wanders.
I am not a figure
haunting the edge of another’s life.
Not an echo
where there’s no room for my voice.
I’m done with nothing
held at arm’s length
and calling itself care.
I’m done
being the
controlled.
⸻
III. To Release Without Breaking
Like petals falling
from a bloom past its season,
I carry no bitterness in my mouth—
only the lightness
of something I’ve set free.
Let all walk in peace.
Let all days be warm,
and all houses full of laughter
I no longer need to hear.
Love was never mine,
not truly—
only a mirror
I mistook for a doorway.
Now, I give it back
to the world—
with the stillness of trees,
the hush of evening fields,
the quiet dignity of flowers
that open,then release
their beauty to the wind.
Without need,
without shame,
without fear—
I move out of myself
with a quiet heart,
and a love that no longer begs—
only blesses,
then lets go.
m.c.f.
Loneliness
A Bird Alone
0319.2025
Don’t let loneliness crush you with its starkness
or the weight of all it never says.
Let it be a bird—
a restless thing lifting you higher.
When the arms that could hold you are gone,
when the voice of warmth has dimmed,
remember—
loneliness is nothing, truly nothing.
And in that nothing, space to breathe,
to move unshaped by anyone’s hands,
to stand beneath the sun,
bare,
unbound,
entirely your own—
You will find all life’s freedom.
m.c.f.
On Self Soothing
Between Love & Fallout
0317.2025
“There will be sex after death, we just won’t be able to feel it.”
— Lily Tomlin
In love and horny,
I know, it’s corny
But:
the leaves and the trees,
the birds and the bees,
the flora and the fauna,
the heat in a sauna,
(Somewhere in this world!)
The hormones are raging,
and the world keeps aging,
so, which is louder
and makes us prouder—
The nursing home closet,
where Harold misplaces it—
or the schoolyard dugout,
where they all make out?
Ah,
the wind and the rain,
the pleasure and the pain.
If there is a loss,
there’s more gain!
The oil and water
only work when it’s hotter.
The kiss and the care,
the undressing stare—
(Trying to put it together in a poem
I don’t even own.)
It’s too fucking funny and utterly depressing,
the sheer fact someone’s not undressing,
Doesn’t keep me from laughing, making it a joke,
but I’ll tell you what, man—
I think we’re soon beyond the stroke.
So, let’s turn our gaze to Mother Nature
and all the wild things she will conjugature—
And let us laugh and skip and dance for fun,
and think of love and lust, while galloping under the sun.
After all, the world is in flames, torn apart,
and doomsday is creeping up, like an ill-timed fart.
So let’s be gay and merry, and maddeningly free—
and revel in Mother Nature’s lunacy!
m.c.f.
Independence
Amusing Bitch (For All Bitches)
0317.2025
The first time they called you bitch,
you shrank, stunned—
then slipped into it like it was stitched for your skin.
You wore it down, wore it in,
licked the hand, nibbled the degrade,
bowed deeper, longer.
Sank into the sound,
drank its defiance
just so you could own it.
Then you exaggerated the bitchiness,
felt empowered—
but somehow, it didn’t,
and don’t.
Oh, you brilliant, innovative, tenacious,
captivating, and heroic woman—
Now, you turn the bitch on when you need it.
When you walk into a room,
and they quiet—
not for fear,
but because you are truth.
When you smile, knowing it bends the world
just a little more in your favor.
When you hold up the mirror so elegantly,
they mistake the reflection for a gift.
When you say no—
and don’t apologize.
When you don’t fold for comfort.
When you wear it proud.
Oh you—
B – Bold
I – Inspiring
T – Tenacious
C – Confident
H – Humane
Some of us have diamonds in our thighs,
yes—
but I?
I have bitchiness in my eyes.
And I carry the moon in my mouth.
m.c.f.