Patricia Carragon









We stand on the edge,

Wait for elusive ships.

Small dreams grow into anxieties,

Minutes tick away into hours,

Hours clone themselves into days,

Days into years,

And yesterday was tomorrow.


Our ostrich necks stretch,

See phantom ships.

Fog plays tag with hindsight,

Clouds part

For reality to sail in.

We ask our watches for advice,

But time left for another port.



Published in Tamarind, October 2012






A painting’s still in progress—

Parisian life numbered for color.

People sit at an outdoor café,

Sip wine between conversations.

A man delivers his wares

In an ancient,

But sturdy wagon,

As long as his horse

Can be of service.


But the artist

Didn’t finish her piece.


She allowed age

To paint the edges—

Kept some areas devoid of color.

Inside her dented box,

Dried capsules

Have lost their oil.

Brushes lie unwashed—

Too brittle for use.

In the dust,

Inertia lives.

I wonder why,

But the artist isn’t here

To answer.



Published in Clockwise Cat Issue #19, 2010






The empty room pretends to be what it’s not—

A chamber full of exquisite possibilities.

Gordian knots keep it unfulfilled,

Yet an empty chair does exist,

Occupying space.


Does it occupy its purpose

For an empty person to seek solace

In a crowd of inner space?



From “Journey to The Center of My Mind”( Rogue Scholars Press, 2005)









if a woman is not a woman

until she looks like a model,

has a boyfriend, gives great sex,

marries before 30,

or has a few kids,

then how would you

describe one

who is





Coming home


If I came home,

Would I find

Our make-believe kids,

Our nonexistent pets,

Our thoughts,

Our passion,

Our past,

Our lives,



But when I did,

No one

Was at the stoop,

Or entrance,

Or in the hallway,

Or by the kitchen table,

Or near the bathroom sink,

Or sitting on the sofa,

Or resting on the bed,

Or standing by the shade.


But your absence was everywhere;

It even took over the lease.



First published in Lips Issue 34-35, April 2011






Can sex sell poetry?


A single poet reads,

strips words off pages,

entertains educated earlobes

in a darkened room.

Her words perform—

focused like thespians,

minus the monotones of most.


But is anyone listening

or would they

had she been




less flattering in figure,

less flexible with fingers,

had road maps sketched

on her face and legs?


Some smile,

some applaud—

courtesies returned

for wet dreams given.


She leaves the podium

and takes her seat.


Can sex sell poetry?

Only for the moment . . .



Published in Chanterelle’s Notebook Issue #13 August 2008












Patricia Carragon loves cupcakes, chocolate, cats, haiku, and the borough of Brooklyn. Her publication credits include Best Poem, BigCityLit, CLWN WR, Clockwise Cat, Danse Macabre, Inertia, Lips, The Long Island Quarterly, Marymark Press, Mad Hatters’ Review, The Toronto Quarterly, and others.  She is the author of Journey to the Center of My Mind (Rogue Scholars Press, 2005) and Urban Haiku and More (Fierce Grace Press, 2010). She hosts the Brooklyn-based Brownstone Poets and is the editor-in-chief of its annual anthology.  Patricia is a member of Brevitas, a group fiercely dedicated to short poems.  For more information, please check out her websites:


and at



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