Reflection/Dear Self

Dear Self,

last night your tiny voice
played catch with moonbeams,
and in an instant of clarity,
your words rang true.

for too long i have buried you
under the stench of make-believe,
and waxen smiles, painted lipstick-red,
fastened lies to the surface.

it was the mirror of the moon
that thrust this bladed truth through prison’s flesh,
and feeble, makeshift lies flaked off my callused mind
to leave me bare & bathed in light.

i am sorry i failed you
for so long.
it is time for change.


Mary over at dVerse invites us to write an ‘epistolary poem’ for Poetics today – I wrote a letter-poem to myself. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect, thank you, Mary.
As I am going through some major changes in my life, I do not know how often I will be able to write over the next couple of weeks – time will tell. It will be quite a journey on my end, so bear with me…
I would like to say thank you to my wonderful readers and fellow poets… you never cease to amaze me.
See you soon!



4ever we see(k)
e(igh)ternity’s head stand
& ONE tied
to the 5-pointed star;


earth                      fire

 air            ether

is that really
all there is?

if 1and6 is me, i need another one of these ~
for 2getherwemake3,
but that’s a different story.

“What do you say, Valenzetti?
Are we Lost,
hitchhiking the Galaxy?”

… but the answer is always

… a rather cryptic one for Laurie Kolp’s prompt about numbers over at dVerse.
Hope you enjoy nonetheless!
What’s your number? Come and join us at the bar!
photo credits:


sometimes blue(s)
hides behind a kind gesture,
a curtain’s exhausted dance
or sticks
to an infant’s pioneering fingertips.

avert your eyes
and witness beauty,


– Miyelo 6, Viggo Mortensen

Tokša wanweglakin kte
Tokša wanweglakin kte
Nihun k’un he heye lo
Nihun k’un he heye lo

Later I shall see my own
Later I shall see my own
Your mother said it so
Your mother said it so

(Oglala Lakota Chant)


heartfire roots
grow beneath a crust of modern life
and struggle
not to be forgotten

what we don’t see
isn’t there
isn’t     there
i    s            n    o       t              t       h        e             r                  e
& we firmly grip the leash
on our minds’ journeys.

what we don’t see
isn’t there.
Isn’t there.

a blink,

is it there?

Claudia over at dVerse invites us to write about Fata Morganas and summer heat illusions for Poetics today. Grab a pen and join us at the bar!
photo credits: Viggo Mortensen

Left Behind

sometimes i wish
for an empty nest ~
winged thoughts
would soar to the skies;
would leave me with nothing but
abandoned feathers & reminiscent twigs

sometimes i wish
for an empty nest ~
a new dawn;
and a breath of precious silence.


knees scraped & bent
i cower
before “Thee” –
coins weigh my palms
for the sake of my soul;
submission equals holiness,
the Self is devil’s tool

& belief
gets trampled underfoot.

inspired by a piece i wrote earlier today – guess i’m not done with the subject yet.
(find it here if interested: Pay your religious fee… today!).


erase the moon
shed darkness ‘pon this rotting flesh
erase the moon
send vulture’s wings; take leave — ’cause soon
this famished soul will turn to ash
and still this heart – too bold, too rash
erase the moon

embrace the moon
shed light upon this sullen soul
embrace the moon
come, listen to her silver tune
to cleanse this heart of dust and coal —
your wounded spirit shall be whole
embrace the moon

… two Rondelets – written for dVerse’s ‘Form for All‘-Prompt… thank you so much for the introduction, Tony… this was a real brain teaser – such fun!

My Pages
i am
the binding

of this dust-covered book ~
the hows and whys
preserved; in fading ink

one day
i shall be brave enough
to confront the truth
of my
(most abandoned)
in Chapter 1 to 3 ~

i stare at the cover.

Written for a photo challenge between friends… It’s good to have you, my Partner in Ink… 😉 xx
Find her marvelous piece here – don’t miss it!

photo credits:

Dusk of Man

beneath modernization‘s impenetrable boot,
gets smeared across the pavement,
trickles down the drain,
to rot
in this culture’s sterile bowels.

angelic voices
grow utterly still.

when we bend our knees,
crusading thoughts turn robotic;
so we shall fill the ranks
of this undead army,

and words will sing no more.

photo credits:

Of Ghosts Past

play tag
in your grandmother’s gowns,
armed with memory-laden, blunt sticks ~
just one perfect poke
(at the perfect angle)
dims the brightness,
and contorts the colors
of a sunny day.

So close the curtains
and cut off the light;
witness the specters’ dance.

Sleep is overrated…

It has been a long, long while since I posted anything but poetry on this blog. I am already past my bedtime (my boss will love my grumpy face tomorrow morning), but I am happy I didn’t nod off – because I found a gem. Most of you know I rarely re-blog anything – but this is just too brilliant not to share.

Who stole all the color?