Archives For Poetry

Smokey Whispers

January 17, 2015 — 4 Comments

Smokey Whispers on a star-filled fall night,

reminding me of weekends on the shore and the smell of sun on our skin.

Smokey whispers with the deep red hues of italian wine

(you drank it from the glass and I tasted it on your lips).

Smokey whispers in my ear, as your hands found that spot that you loved to touch

Like the smoke once lifting from your lips, your smokey whispers

are frozen in the stillness of cold dark memories.

Smokey whispers from the past haunt me and sit alongside

the ghosts that came before you.

And now no cigarettes burn but the smoke fills my eyes

and their smoke can’t be washed from my fingertips.



January 17, 2015 — 2 Comments

hot tips led me to make bad investments in futures with italians artists academics and such
a spontaneous splurge with a seersucker suit one rainy summer night in soho bought me a third negroni and had me stripping down to my strapless wacol by midnight and doing the walk of shame past the guy in the hugo boss suit by sunrise

elegantly strewn across a dirty mattress alongside a homeless guy (both having had drunken evenings we were the same) as the sun rose over bleeker street

me in my crooked max&co shades and black h&m dress inside out minus the slim silver anne klein belt which was
accidentally left
behind in the seersucker’s hotel room carelessly tossed across… i should have gone back for the belt.
that belt went with everything

and now it goes with nothing

These Leaves

October 12, 2014 — Leave a comment

Today I went walking

and as I walked over a carpet of red and gold,

These lines came to me

So I wrote them down.

I thought,

These leaves, strewn across the ground

are nothing compared to the tears I’ve shed over you. 

And now I am done.

These leaves, now fallen from trees

shed themselves for a purpose;

empty, branches stand,

for a time,


for the inevitable

newness of spring.

Grand Illusion

March 12, 2014 — Leave a comment

In the beginning there was Grand Illusion at the Film Forum

I’d seen it before but never quite this way.

You were the expert, a Ph.D in film, your favorite scene:

Two free soldiers walking toward freedom in the vast whiteness…

How did it feel to pull the plug

to end the life that gave you yours?

How did it feel to break your own heart

and set yourself free all at once?  

Into the whiteness, there is freedom there,

Freedom you said you could not deal with

Drama in your life, a profession darling, 

Your specialization.  

You are an artist restricting an audience to your choosing.

From time to time I wonder, who’s in your audience now?

With whom do you present your Grand Illusions?

no smoking gun

March 12, 2014 — Leave a comment

there was no one thing you

said nothing I can point to you

said that could explain why you

why I

on the cliff teetering for months swaying in your

wake and you said you said you

said no smoking gun you


temporary spaces

September 8, 2013 — 3 Comments

they sit to the left and to the right filling the hollows of these spaces

frozen in their desire to release what they were meant to hold

unable to do so without some form of assistance

yet fearful of being left empty and without purpose

anticipating the big reveal when contents are ripped from wombs

and spilled in discord leaving behind collapsed shells

their insides are given over to adorn new spaces and fulfill their purpose


the once important cannot be identified from here

they sag and weaken with time and imposed weight of the other

and what lies there is second to outward appearances

yet there is perfection in the possibility of holding histories thoughts and words

(there is protection in this too of not revealing what’s inside)

the components which reside there have left the past behind

they make way for the future in these temporary spaces




The newness of you

The exploration

The discovery

The wondering

The surprises…


The sameness of me

The fleshy

The small

The hidden

The surprises…


The normalcy of we

The discovery

The small

The predictable

The surprises


The end of us

The discovery

The hidden

The surprises

The surprises


By: Maria McCabe

Poetic Interlude

April 14, 2013 — 2 Comments

Sunday Ritual

I drink cardamom coffee
alone now
on this sunny Sunday morning

I drink cardamom coffee
from my biggest mug
and fill it with memories
from Sundays with you…

I drink cardamom coffee
and with each sip
another tear falls
and lets loose another memory
of rumpled sheets
my wild hair
your blue blue eyes
that little boy smile of yours
and your mouth tasting of sex
and cigarettes
and cardamom coffee…

I drink cardamom coffee
alone now
and close my eyes and linger there tasting the memory…

And just when I can no longer bear it, I take another sip of
cardamom coffee
Which I now only drink

April 2013