Poems and Words

Trace back through the days
Find the phrases and the words
Shock at how beautiful
some of those words are.

It is as though
I am possessed by a muse.
Who writes these stories

I have no recollection of them.
I am an uninterested third party.

How strange a feeling it is.

Fly Birdy Fly

A little birdy told me-
Don't just let the world
pass you by

You must fly against the wind
Or else you'll
never know

your true strength.

Tip, tap, Tip, tap

Write little taps,
hurry little fingers
produce the words
before they flee!

Oh, how the words fly!
like birds before a storm-
How I long to capture them;
In a glass jar-

Then I'd have them at hand.
I'd pull one out when I had need;
No longer would I chase
the thoughts I oft lose.

Love Notes

I've written you before.
Told you how I need you.
Yet you never appear.
I begin to think you don't care.

My heart is not a toy.
Nor is it something to ignore.
Perhaps, the story is all wrong.
In truth, are you just a man-boy?

Farewell, to you who ignore me.
Farewell, to those who let me down.
Farewell, to the idiots who played me.
Farewell, to one and all.

I will not let you in- nor do I need you.
For that is misery I will not bear.
This note is less about you.
Love is not a gem I need or want.

Poetry Above and Below

Quick now,
Don't lag behind.
Hurry, hurry!

Or
Else
You
Will
Miss

The truth of beauty
Something we once lost.

The shadows fade
The sun shines

Except, I cannot get warm.
Where did you go?

Are you just a mystery?
A tale told to the broken?

Doth in a day

Doth one protest thy deepest fears
Or doth one forget them
to let the winds whisk uncertainty
as it whisks away last year's leaves

Thy hopes dashed as
one smashes the butt of a cigarette
into the tray to destroy
the lingering flame.

Fire, it doth run within
trapping the hopes of freedom
behind lies and fear.

My eyes doth drift towards blackness

The Epic Hope

Here is a story for the ages

One I hope you'll hear

And wish upon a star above

That maybe, this is more

than just an old wives' tale.

There was once a sea witch

Trapped in stone

Forever the object of scorn.

She caused the twenty years' war

The sailors swore.

As she silently pleaded with

those seafolk- who forgot.

The stories faded 

but she remained

A relic.

Of times no longer known.

Stories, just stories.

Always just stories.

Her one hope

Was that love existed.

That love would rescue her.

She had been deceived by sailor.

He promised her many things.

She gave him power 

Gave him strength.

He stole the throne 

and left her alone.

To suffer the rage 

of the cities.

They hunted her and 

planned to slaughter her

as her lover had slaughtered 

the ones they loved.

She swallowed a stone.

The mermaid sits on a pedestal.

Always watching for 

the love she craves to know

Hope keeps her heart beating.

Catapult

I.

Shot through the sky
Burning as though on fire.
I sung for a second; I burned so bright.

Then I was snuffed out.
Destroyed as one lets a sparkler
fizzle into the night.

II.

Dear heart of stone
Let me break you
That you might be rebuilt

Into a home for the homeless
Or a place of refuge
I need to hurt you, to heal you.

III.

I cannot feel anything.
The air, it chokes me.
All is lost

I was so stupid
To have hoped I was more-
than a king's pawn.

Love Lost

Some (not me) find love easy
to garner and hold.
Others (not me) find love challenging
but luck is there to give them hope.

Then there is me-
Luck's long gone
and love is lost.
Just a four letter word
That falls on deaf ears

That die to hear
the whispers of
a lover.

Thrice I knocked

One, Two, Three
The door was locked.
I stood upon the lintel
Hoping that I would find

The Rest I sought.

Instead the door
stood still against cold
drafty winds
raging against raw skin.

They said my love was here.
The joke's on me.
I guess I should have known
That I'd hoped in vain.

Writer's ill begotten hope

The rabbit hole is full of pitfalls
Vines that slice your skin
Fleshing eating roots
that call to your bones

Careful where you fall
Into the lake of acid
then you'll be eaten
sanity and all

The quicksand sucks
you dry of blood
There is no place safe
for the rabbit dines on flesh.

At my Fingertips

When everything is just there
Just there in front of me
I pause and try to create
the words I need to say
To create something
To find the answer
That is lost in oblivion

Somehow,
In a sleepless trance
I lose what I find
and I cry tears for nothing
For I cannot find what I seek
The ocean takes my last breath.

Dangerous

The knives hide behind thin fabric
The hem of the summer skirt
tickle smooth calves
False smiles and pleasantries

Fragile and followed
by eyes young and old
Calculating the weak spots
She limps a tad
eyes zero in.

Night wraps around her
as she rushes down the deserted street
heavy footsteps behind
sound louder and louder
her smile grows wider and wider.

Rough hands grab her arm
she fails fruitlessly
she's pulled down a side alley
Her shriek is cut off by a rough hand
 She wriggles like a fish out of water

His laughter tickles her ear
Then the knives appear
She whirls in his grasp
gutting him like a pig
His labored breathing echoes in the night.

Little Words

Little words don't always say much
when they do
they leave
so much more than their
physical presence.

What to say?
What to create.
Oh so many doors
with white walled entry ways.

Dream

Epic poetry.
Let me tell you a secret.
Or perhaps it is the dream of an imaginer.
I dream of creating stories
Of paying the bills by letting my imagination go wild.

Yet, the wings of imagination are bound tightly to my back.
I cannot seem to cut the leather cords
I am falling and falling.
I dream of writing stories.

Of happily ever after
yet, I laugh at those beliefs.
Why do I believe that happily ever after isn't for me?
Why do I believe that miracles don't exist.
Will never exist.

How I dream of chance meetings.
Of having an agent seem me writing in this library
and of having someone say
you have talent.

You have potential.
Let me hone your skills.
Let me show you the way to finding your dreams
Instead I muddle through a peat bog
Swallow the stagnant water
and gag as a corpse stares up at me

The corpse is me.

Seasons

Hide behind the truth
Let the moments of your hope
Fall into nothingness.

Introvert.

Not good enough.
How I write and write and write only
to have nothing to show.
A folder on my laptop
labelled writing portfolio

Truth is none of it is good enough.
I am trapped by the beginning-
the end refuses to surface.

No rhyme scheme.
No source of happiness.
Only the shadowed death
of this hope of new beginnings

A chameleon that wants to stay
one color.
One being.
The seasons change
and so does her skin.

Cards

Free formed words created instead of letting go.
Rejection is this palatable sourness in my mouth.
It rolls up my throat and traps all of what I want to say.

Oh how I wish these thoughts would fade away.
Rejection-
Not good enough.
No one would ever like you.
No, you are ugly.

All float in my head.
They are rotting water
full of diseased flesh.

The remnants of memories covered
by ill formed scars.
Rub the wound just a bit
the blood is foul
and smells of death.

Still it will not heal.
Rejection is a noose around my neck.
Choking me; I am four years old again.
Only ugly girls have this happen to them.

Shhh...
I cannot begin to explain the confusion I am standing in.
The house of cards is not cards
but mirrors that reflect a thousand faces and none of them are mine.
Who am I?
When did I disappear?

Gossamer

Little did I know that this hope dies
Faster than it can be renewed.

Oh, how I dream of things
better left unthought.

Can you unthink something?
Can you erase a belief, a hope?

Nay, in truth
thou is nothing but a ragwort
of pain and suffering
doth not thou see what thou hath done?

Created gossamer hope
wisps of yesteryear
only to destroy it all
with that one memory
Rejection.

Focus

Focus or not
The question is well,,
maybe it is an answer.

Memories rush up and swallow me
like an ancient octopus.

Immortal and unknown it wraps
around my neck, choking.

Shakespeare

Shakespeare
Oh where for out thou Shakespeare.
Thee who doth writ so plainly
Or doth thou laugh at my platry attempts
to appease the muses that sent you
to the maddness
Called creativity.

I attempt to create beauty
yet beauty is imperfection and flaws
I do not change what was writ
For I dream of creating sonnets,
works of fiction that
bring forth what was once lost.