i write because your skies are filled with smoke
& you need a piece of this blue sky

i write because autumn’s leaves danced 
with me to the empty mailbox

because fire licks your distant horizons 
while one, contained & of purpose, warms my crisp night 

i write because my hand, not yours, brushes 
hair from my forehead

i write because the poem i finished last week
longs to touch you 

because i know no other way 
to be with you this night

• • • •

Published in Waymark Voices of the Valley, #16 2021
Photo by Zoltan Tasi on Unsplash

charting my course

i have learned the language 
of phlebotomy —
about butterfly needles,
how many breaths will take me 
through a 14-vial collection & the art of waiting.

i have come to expect 
the dispassionate demeanor 
of specialists, the sound of starched 
white coats, the chill of exam rooms. 

sterile interpretations of antigens,
antinuclear antibodies & sed rates
have expanded my vocabulary 
if not my horizons.

weather forecasts have become meaningless,
the shortest day of the year too long,
yet somehow days continue to begin 
& end in rush-hour traffic outside my window. 

absent reason, i travel hope.

• • • •

Published in Stirring, Spring 2021 (Volume 23, Edition 2)
Photo by Ryoji Iwata on Unsplash

life in zoom

For many the pandemic has created a new dimension; one in which we interact via Zoom. Now, interact may be stretching the definition. Yes, we see one another, we listen, and when not muted we can actually share. 

As a poet who has done many live readings, Zoom is entirely different. You won’t hear the ahs a particular line evokes or the enthusiastic clapping given when you finish a piece or a feature presentation. 

That said, when asked by Cobalt host Rick Lupert to feature for an upcoming Tuesday night i was honored (though i’d been on the Tuesdays for a few weeks i was relatively new to Cobalt). 

Along comes December 1, and it’s my night to feature. i’d prepared a list of poems and timed myself more than once to be sure i stayed within my allotted time. i’d invited several friends and family members to listen in. 

When i got on Zoom i was struck by how many folks were there. Many more than i’d ever seen on a Tuesday. A nice starting point for me. Rick is a fantastic host, always commenting on what a poet has shared, at times quoting lines, other times about the overall feel of a given piece. After some open mic it was my turn to read. i could see clapping (we use the silent hand wave used by folks in the deaf world), which is always nice. It all went well. When i was done, i saw loads of comments in the chat room – quotes of given lines, kudos for a given piece – more chat comments than i’d ever seen at Cobalt. i don’t share this to toot my own horn, but to explain my own reaction to the response: At the end of the night i felt high from it all. That lasted nearly 48 hours! 

Fortunately, a friend who attended, was up for talking on the phone (i really couldn’t see myself at home alone, bouncing off the walls), and we talked until after midnight. It helped. She’d never been to a Zoom reading and had loved so much about the entire evening. Well, other than the bomber who got in the chat room with horrible racist comments. Rick fixed that and we carried on. My thanks to all who attended the December 1 Cobalt reading. The open mic poets were great – the entire evening was great. And always, thanks to Rick for being a spectacular host. For anyone interested in experiencing the evening you can catch it here:

View the entire Tuesday, December 1, 2020 cobalt poets reading featuring cheryl latif (Facebook group)



Reborn in Starlight by Brad Burkhart

         for mom

flying above the clouds
watching sundown
more striking than any i’ve seen and
i know it’s you
making your way toward your last day 
and me 
not ready to say goodbye

brilliant sky splashed with the deepest
orange against blue and gray
how can i say what’s needed
how does one encapsulate
eight decades     and me witness 
to just six.

the mixture of sorrow and grace 
a new face given old beliefs 
searching for peace
an unknown road
a final link
from brilliance to darkness
or perhaps 
for you 
darkness to brilliance

• • • •

Published in Waymark Voices of the Valley, #14
Reborn in Starlight (sculpture) by Brad Burkhart

Public Art:
Exhibited in Pajaro Valley Arts Members Exhibit Online Gallery 2020

Many years ago, when both sculptor Brad Burkhart and i were San Diego residents, he invited several poets to participate in a collaboration where we would write a poem to be shown with a particular sculpture of his. i was honored to be among those chosen. More recently, he reached out to me, interested in seeing some newer work of mine and suggested a new collaboration. He sent me pictures of four of his newest sculptures, and one immediately spoke to me about a poem i’d written (the one above, titled sundown) upon the loss of my mother – somehow his sculpture reflected the hope in the last lines of my poem. i sent the poem to Brad and it was a go. Brad then asked me to name the sculpture, which was an added honor. This process brought two artist’s work together nearly seamlessly.

The title, Reborn in Starlight, reflects the beauty of Brad’s piece: stars tossed, raining down upon life below – human, animal, vegetation – leaves reaching up for the light of life.

From collaborator, Brad Burkhart, Escultor del corazón
This year (2020), Pajaro Valley Arts created their annual Members Exhibit as an Online Gallery, and Brad Burkhart’s work appears, in collaboration with poet Cheryl Latif, alongside 58 members’ fine art creations. Brad says, “I previously collaborated with Cheryl in the year 2000 for my Poetry Book Project featuring my sculptures alongside the work of 20 San Diego poets. For the PVA exhibit this year, Cheryl chose to contribute a poem for a recent piece that spoke to her of hopefulness after the death of her mother. I also invited her to name the piece.” (Please visit these projects by clicking the links in the above text.)

finding myself between the lines

One poet’s journey writing a commissioned poem

In the Fall of 2002 i was commissioned by Temple Emek Shalom (Ashland, Oregon) to write a poem for the dedication of their new sanctuary. In fact, the congregation was building an entirely new campus from the ground up: offices, library, chapel, classrooms, sanctuary and gathering spaces. The dedication would culminate a 5-year planning, design and building process. 

As any artist will tell you, working on a commissioned piece slightly alters the creative process, which is, in many ways singular, even insular. At the same time, we strive to share our vision with others and find no greater joy than that of knowing we have touched another’s heart in a profound way, that we have spoken to the universality of the human condition.

When i took this commission, a friend wondered if the fact that i was not exactly a “practicing” Jew might make it a difficult task. But my spiritual life, which is rich and eclectic — if not traditional — informs much of my poetry, and i was confident it would serve me here. 

So i re-immersed myself in Judaic biblical history and became intimately familiar with the religious community for whom i was working. Thus began an enlightening creative — and personal — journey. 

The rabbi, as well as others at the temple, sent notes and photos. They shared with me their feelings and the feelings of congregants who toured the site during the building process. Many of the photos were striking. i could almost feel the crisp air of Oregon’s Rogue River Valley in the sweeping shots of the building against blue, nearly cloudless sky. The interior spaces were bathed in light. The warm, burnished wood of the ark nearly sang the shemah* in full baritone. The renderings and website updates from the stained glass artists illustrated a phenomenal marriage of Judaica and abstract art. Even i, sitting at a desk some 400 miles to the north, could feel the power of all that was being created.

My task then, was to take this power, this unnamable sense of God’s presence in every unfinished corner, unpaned window frame, mound of sod shoring up the tiny cedar and cypress trees surrounding the building, and craft stanzas to capture not just this moment or this dedication, but the all of this sacred place for every reader, every time my words were visited, giving to them not what i, the poet wishes, but what each reader seeks even as what s/he searches for remains unknown until that singular moment of discovery.

There were related rabbinical essays to read, transliterations to find and define, prayers and meditations during which i let my fingers reach what keys they would to piece together words, and those words other words, until there were lines and stanzas; a stream of consciousness wrapping itself around images and aspirations; a weaving together of a people’s journey, my people’s journey, spanning 5,000-plus years of struggle, oppression, revelation and redemption, enduring the horrors of man, finally to arrive, in faith, at a sacred house of worship nestled in the shadow of the Siskious.

There was a point when i was certain i’d tinkered with it too long. Pages upon pages of iterations spit from my computer, lines written and rewritten, stanzas moved and moved again. Of course, any poem worth writing (or, more to the point, worth reading) must be finely crafted. But this was no typical crafting process. i faced myself each day, poet and Jew, asking had i said enough, had i said too much, would my readers be able to make the transition from ancient history to the present? 

i longed to workshop the piece with colleagues. At the same time, i didn’t even have a version i could comfortably call the piece. And then, suddenly i did. With the deadline looming, just one person reviewed the poem prior to my reading it to the congregation at the dedication service. My brother Martin is not a poet. He is a reader, a literate man, and, as an ardent fan of my poetry, surely biased. But i knew he could help me see if i’d been true to my task. His comments were few but valuable; i knew i had the poem. 

In the end, many images went unused, while others were left folded deep within the pleats of the poem’s structure (not so different perhaps from the midrash* of Torah). 

Just days before i traveled south for the dedication, i received a fax with the temple’s Shabbat service schedule, listing each Torah topic. Ironically, i found that the poem’s title and the Torah portion to be read at the service were one and the same, makom.* Some poem titles come early, some late, some mid-process, some not at all. The title of this poem was the first word of it i wrote; it served as its anchor. This happy coincidence delighted me. i chose to look upon it as a sign.

i have been honored to read my work at college and university campuses, poetry festivals, community events, on the radio and at intimate community poetry readings. The opportunity to share one’s artistic vision is always satisfying, but none before has been for me as life-altering an experience. This shared journey with the congregation of Temple Emek Shalom reminded me again of who i am and from whom i come: A people with rich traditions, a people who have been forced to adapt, to find ways to observe their faith despite the risk that doing so might create, a people who have endured some of modern history’s darkest moments. 

Writing this poem, i revisited my roots, traveled back to the conservative Jewish home in which i was raised, where we welcomed each Sabbath with prayer and blessings. i remembered the bedroom where i said the shemah* each night before bed, my Sundays in Hebrew school, and my Bat Mitzvah. i remembered leaving home at 17. And perhaps the fact that the religious community in which i grew up never provided refuge from my troubled home, i left Judaism behind as well. 

Three years later, on the eve of the Munich Olympic games, eleven Israeli Olympians were taken hostage and killed. My response was visceral and unexpected. Suddenly thousands of years of collective consciousness surfaced within me. i was part of this. i felt this grief. But even then i did not fully reclaim my roots.

The defining moment came three years later, with the naming of my son. Mixing letters from his paternal grandmother’s and my maternal grandmother’s names, he is Iafay. Only later did i discover its Hebrew origins. The fact that i had turned away from my own faith and culture didn’t matter. In the deepest reaches of my subconscious it was there, available. i realized then that it was part of me even if i was not part of it and that the rich spiritual path i walk is made richer for this. 

All this i brought to the writing of this poem. In turn, i gained a deeper understanding of Torah, Haftorah, and Talmud; i learned about midrash* and mishnah* (both concepts i adore), and discovered aspects of the rich history of my faith that no Hebrew school ever taught me. And although this particular poem is about the Jewish experience, others with whom i have shared it have found something that speaks to them as well. 

The congregation of Temple Emek Shalom was deeply moved when i read this poem, more so than any audience for whom i have read in the past. Over and over they thanked me — and continue to thank me — for this profound gift. But i tell you it was i to whom the gift was given, for in the journey of this poem i rediscovered my makom.*

• • • •

shemah: Jewish prayer
midrash: an ancient commentary
makom: place
mishnah: the oral tradition of Jewish law forming the first part of the Talmud

• • • •

Read the poem makom (click the link)

framed print of the poem “makom”

duvall poetry

On June 5, i was the featured poet at the Duvall Library’s monthly event. Not far from Seattle miles-wise, but a good hour away (more when driving in late afternoon/rush hour traffic), i discovered a place i’d never been, very much like the countryside in some parts. i’d met the host of the reading, Mary Crane, nearly three years before when i featured at The Creekside, a retirement center. After my reading Mary asked if i’d be interested in reading in Duvall (and willing to make the trek). i gave her my card. As time went on we found ourselves co-featuring at Greenlake Library and at Tsunga Fine Art & Framing. We were well matched. Fast forward to getting booked. 

Having never been there before, i had no idea what to expect. The poetry room was full of attendees. i took a seat in the back and listened to the open mic readers. Then it was my time. The audience was incredibly receptive to my work. i was inspired by their enthusiasm. After my reading there was time for a bit more open mic. Then the ride home – easier than getting there.

i will fondly remember that reading and those who attended. i am always grateful to share my poetry though i rarely encounter an audience so welcoming. Below is the email i received the following day from Pamela Denchfield, Curator, Duvall Poetry Readings:

“Thank you for an outstanding reading last night at the Duvall Library! You truly mesmerized the audience as you shared your work with us. Here’s to more poetry!”


night and day i speak to the sky
crows line telephone wires
as if witness to this,
this reaching past cumulus clouds
this wish to be carried past pain
past the past pressed upon each day

at the shore of my pacific
sand shifts under my feet like fickle hearts
ever moving toward something new 
like you lost to me now
mere ripples of sound and motion
abacus beads
adding subtractions

bowed limbs
like question marks
punctuate the air
cleave the mystery of
paths harder to forge this 
muddied season

despair falls upon me like rain

• • • •

Published in San Diego Poetry Anthology, 2019-20
Photo by Chris Stenger on Unsplash


he walks under the bridge   destination uncharted

a strapped and zippered keeper of possessions
hunch his shoulders, yet it’s his gait
that speaks the weight he carries

come night he knows cold concrete
freedom in borderless dreams

until the cacophony
of morning traffic wakes him
& he walks another day   another day…

would that he stay in those dreams

• • • •

Part of Seattle Poetry Grid, a project developed by Washington State Poet Laureate, Claudia Castro Luna, 2018-2021
Photo by Ali Bakhtiari on Unsplash

maybe god rides a harley

for iafay

across night i travel to sterile rooms 
where crises play out under harsh fluorescence. 
where the aftermath of a single moment
is a staccato of scissors 
cutting clothes from torsos,
medics working in orchestrated chaos —
the stuff of late-night news.

a clock on the wall ticks
each moment a lifetime.

i pretend to read yesterday’s headlines 
set my shallow breath to sounds around me: 
knitting needles   coin-fed phones
street traffic dissected by automatic doors

a doctor’s footsteps…
i look up to read your fate on his face. 

• • • •

Published in Magee Park Poets Anthology, 2017
Photo by milan degraeve on Unsplash

night vision

the past keeps sending me inscribed invitations; 
i read them but never RSVP. it’s rude of me, i know, 
but between the lines i find irony in formica, linen & good china,

women who wear heels to garden parties,
heels that sink in soft summer grass. 

i was a child of university: grammar in my cereal bowl, 
syntax on the barbeque   publish-or-perish professors 
smoking pot in the back room while we splashed in the pool. 

behind the smiles & cigarettes   tomes of transgression 
tucked away like drafts of unfinished novels 
they thought i’d never see

there was a cottage on the beach 
where arguments might drown in the swells,
where night’s high tide would sweep
under the deck as if to return treasures taken
or wash away those charming 50s façades.

now there’s just sandpipers, 
the lagoon with its darting insects 
& memories in every tidepool 

brine is a fine preservative.

• • • •

Published in Waymark Voices of the Valley #5, 2015
Photo by Raquel Moss on Unsplash