1. I have a new website, check it out, here and sign up for the newsletter.

  2. Three of my Game of Thrones poems have been published in the January issue of  Poetry Magazine.  Read them here.

To This


Sometimes the thing is to keep the worth to stave-away, flaunted, and to kind what is uncertain. Sometimes the nave of a barrier is wrapped in story; the vice of what seems innocent is easily imitated and horned. Sometimes vestments are just barricades; careless wounds are just applied sadness. The afternoons are just wide-losses. The pleasure of what we see with our eyes is brief and the love we want is in the boughs. Sometimes the gathering of delight is seething and we are born into this too late.  Sometimes time is a trick;  the trick is time, or the trick is to not think about time. Sometimes we feel we have come too far already. Sometimes is a long word. Days feel moved. What is cast, is netted.  I want a sea-wind to roam in; a call to send me home.  Sometimes I show the last-times to my heart. I hold the wide-open with prongs. I want to free the crimson that hovers. Sometimes, I sing to the very end. I change the legend.  Sometimes, I am the legend. Sometimes, the legend becomes this.


© Umansky 2014


Jon Snow Is Mine

and this is not about the line of duty,

but the bloodline within the heart.

In love, there is a bleeding over,

a letting out, or letting in.


Let me in on this, Snow, for six feet from the heart

is better than six feet below.


Below this un-handed world,

life is a myth: words are re-imagined,

into a rigorous tease and a learned dark.


You know, there is more blast, here, in the heart.

My world is strange enough with its ifs and its elses


The eager wild is what awards us.

The musted love anews.


Don’t let the tender, doom.



© Umansky 2014


I will be wide-flung in the next







there will be no need for signing in


I just want to grace it.  I want to swing heads blind. I want to de-clutter the expectation. I want to objectify the past. I want to cast the plunge.  I want to sun the hours. I want to courage the empty and then, scat away.        




Love slips


This would cause an end, or broaden waters, but the moment                    passes.



I am not seen in what turns.



I am one of yours


                                    and yours


            and yours.




We can share the filth.



I’ll lift              

You’ll lift,        

                        till, we lift off.



The stone of a moment  is a foot beneath    


© Umansky 2014


My Way

Don has the authority and Peggy has the emotion, but that’s in the past. She wears the pants and Don is crying alone in his apartment. Peggy lives in the not-knowing, each breath a gasp. Don lives “in the now” and “the know.”

His failures are a ladder, and she climbs it wrung by wrung.  Her hands reach up but her feet hesitate to follow.

They are two parts of a stumbling whole. Their pasts, a splintered truth.

One small tear at an ankle, could bring them to their knees.


When Peggy needs Don, he is glad to be needed, but it is the needing that desires, not the work.  The needing is a haunt

Peggy asks, “what do I know about motherhood” and Don takes a moment.  He simmers in their intellects.  He lets her stew.

She looks at him:  “you love this,” and he does, but not in that way.

He loves what she is capable of.  She is Manhattan. She is growing and growing. Her arms are pulsing with the blood of the next century.

When they dance to Sinatra, it is like every childhood memory  they wish they had, except she is not a child and Don is not her father. 

There is a tenderness there, in their package of equals. 

Their sale is not dependent on their cleverness.

Their sale is not dependent on their skill.

Their sale is dependent on their love.


And when Peggy puts her head on Don’s shoulder, and the moon outside is wide-brimmed, their love is pinned in the stars of the city.  Their love is based on their independence.  They both only know one way, my way.


© Umansky 2014

Khaleesi Says (2)


I will fight injustice with justice, she says.

and,  I bring you a choice.

But what if she said,  you will obey me?


That pride is a pit

and Khaleesi is no peach.

Brute. Burden Beast

She is Bullied, Brazen and Bare.


She has scrabbled with man, horse and spirit.


What is fire-born can be fire-ridden,

for, one hand has five fingers

One digit could lead the others astray


This hand is reaching up

as she is of the air.


She says, I will see each of their faces

When she says each, she means all.

What if,  in the moment that she leans in close

to the lens, there is a smear of sap

What then of womanhood?


A mother of dragons

is still a mother.

Her stare is blue:

a fire, not catching.  

a stunted sun

a contorted kiss

a vein left turned


this hand gives allegiance

and this hand,  the heart.

and this heart  beats


with the roar of a wingspan

so big it could cover us all

in darkness.


© Umansky 2014


small girls dream awhile

the most are slipped graces

and many graces are slipped,

Yes. There would come a rope


or a lady who takes heartbreaks

or a lady who saddles ill-lucks


all storms since you, have given in


I have been operating from nothing,

without no thing in hand, but these.


As a shelving of moving moss,

I am ever on the lookout for

a gorgeous sentence gone


any gorgeous thing


no glancing


mine is not one common.


©Umansky 2014


Tyrion Says   ( inspired by Game of Thrones)


I wish I was the monster you all thought I was,

Tyrion says,

and I think, how we all return to our places.

you can see the gods clutch,  as he waits for a low sky,

for a cornered hope

            ….I’ve been on trial my whole life, he says…

and nails the iron tip on the tooth


I think: Jury,  is a slug more slant for its slurp?

The earthworm, less for having more?


A sleeping evil, though dumb on night, is still an evil,

but Tyrion is no heathen, though he is slight.


He says, I wish I had killed him

but even the dark has its blossoms,

and his are green-tipped and tart


This is the law of the land, my friend,

of fathers,

of men

of words


The saw cuts right though an ugly thing

blood is ugly but pure

blood lets

blood congeals

blood reveals

[doesn’t it?]


I saved you all from a monster, he says,


[and he did, but that’s another matter]


Tyrion is another kind of monster,

a kinder monster.


This one is sore-footed;

this one is lion-hearted;

this one is high-watered in good.


I want to say, this will soon be a time long ago,

so, play on,





© Umansky2014


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