Ben Passikoff

Age has changed my gardens.
Instead of opening roses, Matisse-
touched, heavy-headed blue,
I now grow lilies, waving white
to match the death of skin.

I toe dance between snowstrokes
with later feet. My love
and I, cold parallels,
will not meet in this world.
Euclid knew.

Everywhere cypress, scaping
streets where cherry
petals Apriled my minutes -
now winter-stripped fingers,
black, no longer busy with birds.

Grandmaster of three-card monte,
Death watches me, his eyes akimbo,
shifts fates with dishonest fingers
slick on the surface of an upended crate.
Each day is a doubt.

Candles weep their wax,
stutter around my urning.
My ash is average.
Halls fill with ritual friends
praising the end of hours.


Poetrybay seeks fine poetry, reviews, commentary and essays without restriction in form or content, and reserves first electronic copyright to all work published. All rights to published work revert to the author following publication. All Email submissions should be in body of email text.

To submit poems write to:

PO Box 114 
Northport NY 11768
or email us at

send comments to

first electronic copyright 2004 poetrybay. 
all rights revert to authors

website comments to