for a moment of joy or moments no one pays for, i give myself a ‘jornal’. this makes me rich. try it.

Spangled Seasons


Under hazed New York

spheres, spring sousing Riverside, earlier

cocooned in the Moor shedding off

mover’s trip, bundled molehills against

walls –once sparks we strung

onto a nebulae over

nights on Federal Hill—you and

I trudge on.


Trails we looped

between Chesapeake,

Susquehanna and

the Hudson, Venus sputtering

on Pennsylvania woods these,

too, we tucked abreast in

memory, if Manhattan

spares us.


Our cherry

noon-s have leaped into infinity

from finiteness; as well warbled

peace from cypress groves at

Inner Harbor, dandelions mirroring

our masquerade, a yucca spurting

by the window squirrels flying

a trapeze on pines mocked,


ends of days orioles

griped about—we plucked to

spangle our seasons. Soon mere

revenant: Baltimore winters we

skidded, wincing but

un-bruised.  I posed for you

that summer cicadas plunged

into passion deaths, smearing


wind shields Fells Point’s

mists we eluded fogged.

Tall suns now spear

mornings at the Moor, we flex

our years on West Broadway: summers

on a mountain lake maybe, a bowery at

Brooklyn Gardens in the fall, sunset

behind Grant’s tomb perhaps, or by


Shakespeare’s lagoon, divining

on its surface the play

of wind on our



Poet of the Week, Poetry Super Highway, Nov. 1-7, 2010


May 25, 2020 Posted by | Uncategorized | Leave a comment



Shredded blooms,

hair parted in the wind,

the pavement wavering—

my cane unwilling

to step with me.


Light shimmers ahead

I swear I am on solid land.

But the air has turned into water

and I suddenly shed tears—

but I’m not crying.


The girl behind me

races a breeze and she stumbles.

My cane falls but I remain

suspended between air

and water uncertain—


I think I’m flying,

flying with the sparrows:

could they be lost?

Or falling wingless like the moths

from a pink tree.


Oh, my cane tiptoes

back to me winged, its crook a hand,

growing fingers, prodding me

to rise. I rise, stilled                                           

between white air and water                           


—the ground at least, has

ceased spinning.


by Alegria Imperial (Canada)

Honorable Mention

Passager Poetry Contest, 2007


also featured at Charlotte diGregorio’s blog for writers

May 24, 2020 Posted by | Uncategorized | Leave a comment

“we do not bleed like nightingales when felled singing”

(four of thirty-one one-line poems in my recently published book, “we do not bleed like nightingales when felled singing”  at books)

a drizzle tinkling in parched pools

the wind-shaken birch piping old pains too late to replace

a cypress hedge nursing hoarseness since long ago

when the waning moon a pregnant sea receding in the swell


May 4, 2020 Posted by | Uncategorized | Leave a comment