Archive for the ‘poems’ Category



I have been walking around with arms enflamed

My buzzing harks back to days past

Leave everything ragged

No one questions the start

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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



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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

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Read them, here.

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My copy of the January issue of Poetry Magazine came featuring three of my #GoT poems.


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Let us count that you regard

            and I regard


the changing of the tides

the sea of the last

            We are tenaciously taking the tides

            in favored abandons.


We are contempting the contemporary

            or co-tempting the contemporary

            into a kind of sin.


We are doing more than channeling

When we laugh

When we strategize

In-my-day, I was a believer

            In-my-day        in my day

            In-my-day        in my day


The dial-up had a certain purr

That ruffled my roost.

That’s lost, now.


Now, you, you, let alone with the golden.

Let the golden wilt and wild.

We can construct the past

Potshot the pristine


Here, coordinate my sprawlings

Together, this could  be  nostalgia

© Umansky 2013


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It All Translates to Prowl




There will be fat years and lean years,

but either way it’s going to rain.




There are men’s voices in our heads,

but every so often a woman goes to the top

every so often a woman takes two

stairs at a time                          two


Here’s an imperative: a reason to be.

This isn’t a slumber party.

I am not others.

I resend. I rescind. I recall.     I remind


                                    [what? I don’t

                                                …. recall]




Rounded. I am well-rounded.

Will I wear this box?

Will you?

Will you, with me?

Wear it with me.



© Umansky 2013

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“Love is just an advertisement that men made to sell advertising”


I want this. I must do thus to obtain this. I will hence do this. Ergo, I shall get what I want. Stupid girl. You will never win anyone through pity. You must create the right kind of dream, the sober, adult kind of magic: Illusion born from disillusion.

                                             The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath


It’s a madmadmadmad world.

Everything can be manufactured, sold and bought, but love, love is the mold.

You sure could have a lot of fun with this.

In the material world, objects are marked up from face value.

The confusion of client services is merely based on articles, like he and she.

You can find anything on the internet:  even beauty.

Advertising is based on happiness. Be happy.



© Umansky 2013

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The most important word is N-E-W !! And, in the face of optimism

It’s all about getting things done. You need to feel something –   

That’s what sells.   That’s what steals over you, across your face,

Down the back of your neck; into the flush. It’s the selling.

Some part wanders off and actually likes the remembering.

The remembering of being told what you like and what you don’t.

It is almost-precious the way the back of the head is both cushion and

Target  [and I’m aiming]. You can feel after it, but the reality of the sale

Is there: you want to be told.  Your personal territory is harvested

[Some would argue deforested] but  remember the feeling

Right before you put your finger on it; right before you knew

What it meant to want.  It was delicious.  It was savory.  It was:

Pure.     Now.     Quickly now.   Go brush away those crumbs –

That remembering.         [or are you saving those for later?]


© Umansky 2012


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