Poems by Greg Moglia


I give her the bouquet with what I dare to call a love
She takes it with a thanks, it’s lovely but then gets to work
Snips away the leaves, cuts back the stem 
Says the flowers now free to the water
Then into a vase and when I look I think
Colors for her, shades for her, shapes for her, bouquet for her
Fool, silly plan, all part of my need but now in the vase
I see my need  passed
How with her eyes, and then her fingers,
She went about her task to deliver a blossom clean
No need for a lover to direct her sight, hold her hand
There before us a greater beauty
Allowing me to be witness to love


Come over she says I’ll make you a tuna fish sandwich
Lunch and Mother who lives in black and white
Black – Brother Ado -Cheap bastard – money to him was everything
Black – her friend Nina banished -Sent her sister away to a nursing home

Those in black we’re dead but no tears only anger
About her whites she has an ease
Your father I kiss him once in the morning and once at night
Now, as I bite into her sandwich she comes closer…leans in

You know I never cry, not even when my father died
Me at a loss, what’s this Mom?  A mystery?
I never cry – An uncertainty? 
Self-righteous…rigid…but here a complexity?

And what if it meant she can’t  know, did she think
Here’s my son see what he says
Tell him of what I don’t understand
I with never a doubt about anything…ever?

And I think what a strange way
It would be to tell me
I love you
What a strange way?


The wintry day says gloves
Walk in the cold rain and it says gloves
Stop for lunch at the Tex Mex and it says
Gloves on the table to pencil my menu selection
The newspaper to read and it says to my spot by the window
The chicken, beans and rice plate and it says life is good

Time to go and where are my gloves?
On the table, in my briefcase, in my jacket and nothing
I look up and at the door a man in a sweatshirt holds gloves
Out the door he goes and doesn’t put them on
I see him walk down the block
They could be my gloves

I think I’m an old fool these days
I can’t chase him down the block
Maybe the gloves in a place I missed
Might even have left them home
No, he walks out with the gloves that say
Look here, left alone on the table

Left alone  and it’s not a steal
He couldn’t just call out – anyone here lose these
Yet I want some sort of answer
Someone at fault…
Someone at kindness

The man not quite a thief
Me not quite a victim


About the Author
Greg Moglia is a veteran of 27 years as Adjunct Professor of Philosophy of Education at N.Y.U and 37 years as a high school teacher of Physics and Psychology. His poems have been accepted in over 300 journals in the U.S., Canada England, India, Australia,Sweden and Austria as well as five anthologies.
He is 8 times a winner of an ALLEN GINSBERG Poetry Award sponsored by the poetry center at Passaic County Community College. He lives in Huntington, N.Y.