Category: Poetry



Inside my ears, and its fingers

Wrapped around my cranium like

An electric hairnet.

I can feel my pulse in my Occipital lobe,

A thundering base line to a  Klingon opera.

One drug. Two drugs. Three drugs.


To no relief. I beg the

Big guns…

Knife in my ear.

Sweet release.

Bash my brains in.

Sweet release.

Tase me. Tase me good. Tase me til i fall

to the ground and the pain

goes away.  Aah, sweet release.

But my hands cannot comply.

My head is swollen.

I cannot hear.

And my eyes beg for mercy with each lumen received.

Customer support sits in a Lucy stand

At the back of my brain and tells me

To reboot.

As if i haven’t thought of that.

That’s what the drugs were for.

But the pain continues and

I cannot take

The cage of nails surrounding my skull

Any more.

Any more.

No more.

Shaking and weak, i boil the water.

Eyes closed to block out light, i find the bag by memory.

I lift the bottle, its weight an anvil

Add the poison to my tea.

Sweet release, oh yes!

It lights a fire in my belly that competes

With the one in my head

And wins. My room is growing dark.

I cannot lift my head.

My body like lead.

Sweet release.

Thank God.

Sweet release.

A Matter of Kindness

They say that in the end

Only kindness matters.

Thank God

Since that’s all i have.

No wealth.

No face.

No stately grace.

But my heart and intentions

Are good.


In the depths of the Universe,

That counts for something.

I think.

I hope.

I hope against hope.

And still i hope some more

That i have the heart i want to have,

And not the one i likely do.

That i think of you

And not me.


They say that in the end

Only kindness matters.

And that is all i have.

But do i have enough to matter?


That is what matters to me.

Minstrel Memory

Speeding down the hill on my

Aluminum steed.

Wind in my face and

Petting my legs.

I won’t brake.

The thrill!

I won’t break.

The curb. It burns

Like a flaming front step

A caustic corridor to the

Land of Make Believe.

The gate,

A mountain of a rock where i

Mine pyrite.

Fool’s Gold.

And beyond… Sherwood Forest.

Its dark in there,



Neblous wood

Where the Merry Men gather

And make gay with the maidens.

At once, delight and delirium.

Blackened and blanched.

Incandescent and indecent.

This is my place.

These are my people.

Magic and misogyny.

Marian and Magdalene.

Meal and mirror.

At seven years.

Bad luck.





Fervid Prayer

Venus and Bastet.

Eros and Min.

Rati and Cliodhna.

Save me.

Saint Dymphna, hear my prayer.

The single woman’s lament.

No wishing. No filling.

No well at all.

An absent watershed in a state of


Lada, hear my cry.

Wave upon wave hit the breakwater

And recycle themselves like


Milady de Winter,

Keep your secret and the fire

Burning within.

Let me grow cold and ash.

Burnt offerings to Catherine the Great.

The indulgence of the other Mary.

I ask of you, Freyja,

Why must i suffer the scourge

When i come by it most honestly?

Weep for me, Turan.

Comfort me, Anahita.

Margaret, Audrey, Desdemona,

Leave me be.

Lilith, have mercy on me,

Your subject.

I beseech

And pound upon my chest.

Mea culpa.

Mea culpa.

Mea indigus cupidus culpa.


We Pass

Maybe all of life is

A Rorschach test.

Each event left

To the interpretation of its viewer.

Each meeting’s minutes

Inscribed differently to each participant.

The dimensions of life,

Either feast or famine,

Bane or blessing,

Ink blot or art,

To whoever’s eyes are are watching.

And so it is with humanity.

I am a human ink blot.

So are you.

And any of us can look at the other and see a totally different picture based on our past,

Our present,

Our own insecurities.

I see you

As a beautiful paisley,

Swirling into a complex and

Colorful universe.

Patterns repeating

And not.

Art from chaos.

You see you as an ink blot.

And tho i know we are both right,

I am righter.

In this,

I am righter.

I promise,

I am righter.


Ten Granny Squares

If Life
Is what you make of it,
Then i ask you,
Will it ever be over?
How often we all
Start a new project and never complete it.
Closets full of half-pieced quilts.
Drawers of uncrossed cross stitch.
Journals and flash drives of unclimaxed novels.
Garages of blocked cars.
Sheds of unhammered plywood.
This is life.
Ideas begun
And ended without end.
The East says that life restarts until it is complete.
What incentive, have we, then, to finish?
Is the bare balsa wood schooner
On a card table in the attic
Assurance of another lifetime?
We repeat
And repeat
And repeat
Until we are finished.
If life
Is what we make of it,
And all we make are
Unfinished projects…
Are we immortal?
And if we choose that our time is up,
Do we simply put the last stroke on the canvas?
Then lay our head
In the knowledge
We are finished.
We are finished.
We are finished.
I wonder.

I Am Atlas

My eyelids weigh 1000 pounds.
Akin to Atlas, the world is my eyelids.

I went to bed last night hoping they would be lighter this morning, but it isn’t so.

Caffeine, the alcohol of fatigue, has failed to artificially convince them they are light and beautiful.

Lumps of clay, unable to be spun into any sort of vase or vessel or anything useful. Just big, gray, heavy blobs of clay.

It takes all my strength to hold them up. If all my efforts are keeping my eyes open, how do I get my tasks done? My life done? I am afraid to rest even one weary arm, sure that if I do, the lid will fall and stay closed forever.

That will not do.

It rains around me, and still I cannot let go. I hope the rain stops before I drown like this, holding my eyes open instead of treading water and staying afloat.

What a choice to have to make.

Drown or let the sun go down.
It’s true, the lifeguard may save me. It’s true, the sun may rise again tomorrow. On which shall I lay my hopes? Would that the gods Who have me holding this weight would tell me which cure will lighten the burden. I am without a clue.

For now, I keep my hands up, supporting the heavy gray masses. I watch the water rise and keep my chin up to breathe.

I believe I can hold it for

One more day.
One more hour.
One more minute.
I can do this.
I can do this.
I can do this.

Come On

(Another oldie of mine. )
I see the sun setting on the horizon, beyond the green fields and gardens ahead… Yes, hills and valleys and roses and weeds and both stepping stones and some slippery slopes along the way. I can see it all laid out before me.

In my gut, i know that sunset is my sunset. The glow of me as i become one again with the cosmos… And for the first time in my life, i see a clear path to that destination, and the path is wide enough for me to share with others. No longer am i winding alone on a narrow and hidden and sometimes scary path. This is open and airy and free… Free! And so much along the way…

I’ve never seen my sunset before. You’d think it’d be scary. But it isn’t. In fact, it has me in wide-eyed awe. It’s so warm and bright… I am not afraid, but not eager to meet it. I just am comfortable walking towards it… enjoying what i pass on the way. And knowing i’m sharing it with those who see the significance of the destination.

I am being called down this path. Called by an energy much bigger than i am. It comes from within the sunset itself. It’s telling me to come on. To take my time and pace myself, to really see the sights along the way, take the hands given me and use them for strength and comfort when the path gets slippery…. But come on. Come on. It’s time.

And so i go… i set out on this path with my eyes wide open, taking in the beauty around me and loving the glow that the setting sun casts on my path, and my companions, and, i know in my heart, on myself. Bask in the glow. Take all the time i need. Enjoy the walk. Come on. Come on.

Unique and Unique

November 17, 2009 at 8:21pm

glass shards
beveled edges
no rhyme or reason.
but i want to fit
no gaps, no cracks, no holes
angles and sides together seamlessly
seems unlikely
but i really want to fit

we weren’t carved by artisans
not cut with a template
colors not chosen to be complementary
so we can’t fit
molded by tides
worn by the weather
polished by harsh reality
so we can’t possibly fit

and yet…

sometimes we do
side to side, front to back, top to bottom
two sides, one coin
sometimes we fit

if we grind just a little and
use the glass dust for fill
be gentle with each other
maybe we can fit