Out of Reach

at times I wonder
if longing still clings to Those
long faded from this world —

we, left behind &
bound to sort through
in conflicting shapes & sizes, still
desperately trying to find a path
to Those
& never quite ready
to get there yet —

at times I wonder
how it would feel
to not look back at all.


Paper Skin

it is a fractured version of
fortitude that floats
to the surface;
neither bound nor held —
but ever straining
against the tides

my thoughts form pale flowers
born too soon —
not fated to survive
the cold Sun of March

one moment too long
is all it takes —
and then

you are gone.

Jiminy Cricket

and there you are, churning the soft earth
where we buried you
with all the dignity
we could muster

Jiminy Cricket wore your shoes for a while,
but your footsteps were too hard to follow —
so he missed a step &
got back on track,
for better or worse

I am sorry you are still lost —
but there is nothing left to say
when all the answers
are ash & bone
& broken, too.


sometimes I do not write about
the depth of my grandmother’s gaze,
the texture of wet sand beneath my feet,
or the way people weave through summer rain —

sometimes all I need to write about
is your murderous fart
and my fight for survival.

Where The Wild Roses Grow

Will you not meet me underneath the waves?
‘Cause there I lie; I fear the Shadow’s Son —
who gently sings the Broken to their graves.

I was the bearer of a searing sun —
when you burned bright, burned fiercely in my heart;
burnt to the very core, it mattered none.

They say I loved you from the very start —
and did not see when envy drowned the light;
when boiling storms just tore my heart apart.

Yet, here I float, in seas of darkest night —
soon to be bound to whom my soul enslaves;
the Shadow’s Son, who whispers songs of blight.

I seek the One whose heart the darkness braves…
Will you not meet me underneath the waves?

( Terza Rima Sonnet)


when your soul
from its socket
by a spliced hair,
it’s the hour of the wolf ~
and death
leaves its rotting breath
upon your cheek.

fear not, my love ~
for you will soon
leave all madness behind.

Touch of the Past (rewritten)

autumn’s gentle touch
mournful paths (i walk),
tears’ burdensome sting

rows upon rows ~
towering high, majestic
some small,
cracked and bruised
frail and broken

old, they whisper,
earthen beds
monuments in time

names, embedded,
moss-accentuated ~
i greet their faces,
the Long Gone
with beating heart
and open mind

oaks’ heavy boughs
pick my thoughts,
lift with ease, to join
trees’ misty heads ~
as if they weigh nothing

and in their company
i feel comforted,
for they know all ~
smile warmly,
never judge

and in their company
i find
my heart,
my voice,
my sweet solitude.

… much gratitude to the Iron Poets. You know who you are.



love across a bloody ocean
fateful struggle with the waves
great Charon, please grant us passage!
don’t leave us to mourn at graves

stretched, our hearts; almost to bursting
love across a bloody ocean
ferryman, we beg your mercy;
are you content with our notion?

love, so cruel when lost so sudden,
love, so tender once, so pure
love across a bloody ocean
love – eternal, absent cure.

only time will soothe our heartache
and we crumble, in devotion
held in life and doomed to suffer
love across a bloody ocean.

Susan Daniels and the Panda of the “Three Nuts and a Squirrel Crew” extended another challenge. This time we are to write a poem using Apostrophe (a figure of speech in which someone absent or dead or something nonhuman is addressed as if it were alive and present and was able to reply), the theme is Saudade (accommodates in one word the haunting desire for a lost love, or for an imaginary, impossible, never-to-be-experienced love), and it must include the line “love across a bloody ocean”.

I decided to address the Ferryman, Charon, directly (but as you can see, he’s a stubborn fella when it gets to whom he lets into his boat). I also felt the need to make a Quatern out of this (cheated only a little), since the provided line consisted of eight syllables… lucky me, I love Quaterns! Heh.

Also linked to dVerse’s OpenLinkNight… come join us at the bar!

photo credits: people.tribe.net

The Face of War

Opposing countrymen drawn to the field
each fighter clenching his gun
soldiers stand, silent and still
sweat beading from the midday sun

lust for battle, as demanded
screeching cold engulfs their hearts
icy stares; warped inner turmoil
and the sanity departs

Weapons raised against their brethren
Silence fills this place of war
Eyes fixed, downward the barrel
Death awaits, victory, and lore

to the call for death and glory
thunder bellows, born from steel
doom engraved in every bullet
forcing lives to bend and kneel

Powder and smoke fill the air
As the charging masses collide
Ground stained, the stench of iron
Fighting to turn the tide

determination; will takes over
bayonets drink up the Red
corpses mingle with the living
victory not far ahead

Flags wrap the fallen bodies
Deafened ears are absent to sound
Farmers that worked the nearby fields
Are gently placed in the ground

lives for justice, lives for freedom
a foundation built on deaths
those who fought will be remembered
those who paid with their last breaths.

a late night/early morning duet by Adam S. and myself. let’s see if you can find out who wrote which parts…

Calling Dylan Thomas

Over at dVerse Poets Pub, Victoria invited us to try the concept of literary allusion (reference to another literary work). I decided to turn to Dylan Thomas and his wonderful poem ‘And Death Shall Have No Dominion’ today.
This is what I came up with. Enjoy, if you will…

Dylan Thomas: And Death Shall Have No Dominion

Calling Dylan Thomas

years have passed
your lines
stand tall,
unbent ~
while death
is still
hard on our heels,
scatters lives
and presses on

we fight;
oh how we fight…
to stop the fighting,
to honor your words ~
death still
holds the world
in a death grip,
squeezing; its vivid juices
to evaporate beyond

take your words
and paint them
across the horizon
so we will not forget
your vision;
your rays…
your tendrils of hope.

photo credits: malepicture.blogspot.com

Hope, After All

bound to the grave of
mystery’s debt
glistening tears
of creeping mold
on the freshly stained body;
the sun lingers
to cook up the corpse; lurid
and lift its spirit
to innocent meadows beyond.