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I wish I could be as a bird with clipped wings or bound by the bars of a cage

To fit in that proverbial box, where life and love all neatly arrange,

Held atop a pedestal and never fall

But my wings are wild and wide

My need to fly as great as an ocean’s tide

My spirit cannot survive if banded with gold

My heart cannot justify the love it withholds

And I am at a loss without reason to explain

Why I seek freedom the way others seek refrain


photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/48600090482@N01/298680933″>Wings</a&gt; via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a&gt; <a href=”https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/2.0/”>(license)</a&gt;

The Adventurous Ones


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Conjure your best scowl, wear it on the ferry

Dream of listless days when souls should be less weary

An undaunted passenger on a ride to who knows where

Destiny likes to tease, she’ll take you up on every dare

What you think you know becomes a simple mirage

And the entrance to your heart a Styrofoam façade

Little does the mind trust that beating fool

Before it follows suit and lets you break every rule


(photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/11248435@N04/9729898682″>Lead Me On, She Whispered</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a&gt; <a href=”https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/2.0/”>(license)</a&gt;)

The Roadtrip


I tasted dirt blowing in from the open window,

No rain in weeks and we were all thirsty now

Was a drought they said on the radio

The wheels were turning, turning like

Some old song I’d heard playing hours ago,

Before Sadie lost her lunch,

Before we’d made that last stop.

Wish we’d just stayed in the car but it’s too late now

We can’t undo what’s been done;

Brian is a big man and his legs are scrunched in

The backseat and we’re all thirsty


There’s no sign to show us what’s ahead,

But we all know where this road leads

They say the Devil’s in the details, but I

Say the Devil’s in the deeds

Again, some song reminded me of a childhood memory

I wish I were a kid again, that we’d just

Stayed in the car but it’s too late now

I’m not sure how far we’ve come but

But they’re telling me to throw out the gun

I tasted dirt blowing in from the open window

And thought of Brian telling us this was going to be fun


Words, like presumption, hung heavy in the air

I swallowed hard to push the guilt down into my belly

That man barely bled but he was still just as dead

Brian’s long legs stepped the fastest back to the car

He told us all to shut up and we did

Now I keep tasting dirt and we’re all thirsty

I think this drought will never leave us

Weeding the Bed


She stood in her flower garden and assessed the extensive job before her. Sweat rolled down her back and between her breasts. Her hair stuck to her head beneath her ballcap. Weeding, forever it seemed, and still she had a day’s work ahead of her. She’d let this job go for too long. Her hands hurt and even the gloves she wore didn’t stop soft blisters from forming.

“Celia, bring your mother some lemonade.”

“Celia, I need my medicine.”

Her mother’s constant requests and reminders echoed thru her mind. Three years she’d been at it, playing off-and-on assistant at first and as decline set in she served as part-time caretaker, along with a hired nurse until the money ran out. After that, she became the full-time, around-the-clock caretaker.

She stopped her work every few minutes to listen…Was that her mother calling or some trailing cry on the wind? She held her breath, one of only a hundred times she would in a day or a night, making sure she wasn’t being summoned. She waited…nothing…and she could breathe again.

A hospital bed was brought in and set up in the living room a month ago. ‘Any day now,” the people told her the first week. ‘Sometimes they linger when they still have things to say,’ in the second week. ‘She’s tougher than we thought,’ in the third week. ‘Call should something change,’ last Friday. And like that, the good death watchers left her alone, again.

She pulled at stubborn weeds, crowding out and growing taller than her turf lilies and columbines. She wondered if she should till the whole bed up and start over. It wouldn’t have gotten so bad if it weren’t for…As quickly as the thought came to her mind she pushed it away. Of course taking care of her mother was more important than flowerbeds or a man or a job or…she stopped and looked up.

The hoe leaning beside the front steps called to her to take a whack at a few of the more persistent grasses around the chrysanthemums.

Again, she paused, ever on guard…she heard only the call of some wild bird though, free to come and go at will. Somewhere in the distance was a dual between two roosters, crowing, it seemed, to disturb the silence.

The hoe offered better success and she was actually happy with her progress when she heard the cry, like pain caught in the throat unable to escape the body. Celia’s eyes widened as she saw the wriggling foot and the blood spurt. She dropped to her knees to see an open gash on the belly of a large toad that had been hiding beneath one of the weeds she’d been trying to uproot. Soft cries of agony escaped the suffering creature.

“Celia, Celia…I need my medicine.”

“Celia…where are you?”

Her mother needed her again. The toad struggled in the dirt. She had to help him.

“Celia?” She had to help her, too.

The weeds spread before her like a carpet being unrolled. Heat rose up her neck and face…she’d never finish this work.

Her body shuddered at the suffering before her. She knew she’d have to strike the toad to end his misery, one big blow to cut his head clean from his body.

“Celia?” Again, her mother cried out for her.

Coughing, rattling sounds, a gurgling noise. She gripped the hoe in her hands. Deep breath, no hesitation and there it was…silence, the agony over. It was easier than she thought, so she stepped off the porch and back to the spot where the little toad took labored breaths. With the hand of a newly-skilled expert, she made one simple swing of the blade and the toad, too, fell silent.

Dear Jane Letter…from writer to penner


I am currently taking a class called Yoga for Writers and the teacher, Deborah “Zenha” Adams has challenged us to write a Dear Jane/John letter to ourselves from the writer within about why we have abandoned our craft (for those of us who haven’t written much in a while)…and this is my attempt. We were to be honest and simply lay it all out there…

Dear Penner,

We have come to an impasse, you and I, as I no longer have faith in you to pen my words on the page. You have bargained and avoided. You have been complacent and angry. You have suffered long in matters that I have had no ability to assist you in, for you haven’t allowed me to help.

I have been there with you, in you, since you were a child, always the one you turned to in loneliness or confusion, always the one you allowed to revel in your joys and successes. I am your ultimate confidante and you have abandoned me for matters of livelihood and motherhood and relationships, apathy, and of all things, living.

You know I have knocked at the door of your soul when it has been battered, called to you in 2 a.m. whispers and you simply rolled over and went back to sleep. I am the one who feeds the hunger of the urgent beast to create…hell, I am the hunger and the beast.  I am the torture and the salvation. I am the voice that must be heard, whether anyone understands.

You feel the winding paths of prose coursing thru you…I know you still do. You still hear poetry in crowded conversations and city traffic.

I am your respite and I am still here. I am still within the confines of your mind, in the marrow of your bones. I sit with you at dinner and feel you quiver with every orgasm. I am still here, waiting for you.

I know you drift from time to time. I know you take other lovers in the form of activity and laziness and apathy. But I will not let you go, for we have more words to write, more stories to tell and for the love of God, all that fucking poetry to spill.






When it’s gray I still feel the sun,

Like a warmth that washes over me

Rays like golden fingers

Even when the day is done

Embraced in tender care

I’m reminded of the night

Piercing, almost, your rod of starburst light

Filtering thru windows shaded

Rolling thru a hazy vapor

Heating my flesh to heights

I never knew existed

Spent, like yesterday’s dollar,

Sweat pouring from my brow

The secrets of the Garden

Belong to me now


(photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/33143245@N02/15761596795″>Hawt Pink</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a&gt; <a href=”https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/”>(license)</a&gt;)

Roadside Attraction



He took her flesh, left her heart on the side of the road

She braced for the concussion, the reverb of her soul

Distance crawled out of every crevice, left her open

The stars aligned but the moon found the sun was stolen

Lovers turned and tossed in passionate waves

Detours abandoned to follow what each one craves

Thunderous applause called from a gray sky,

Her abandoned heart picked up by a passerby


(photo credit: <a href=”https://www.flickr.com/photos/stuckincustoms/3145980733/”>Stuck in Customs</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a&gt; <a href=”http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/2.0/”>cc</a&gt;)

Visiting the Ward, 1899



The clatter of the silverware, the wisps of flowing golden hair, so unjustly were the trays prepared that no one noticed we were there. In those halls where moans bellow like bulls showing off their fevered pride, the mindless and the asylum dolls traipse the corridors. You can ask but they’ll scarcely reply, for oft went reason behind the locks, and forward marching they’ll deny that any of them belong. So we stood, aghast at those in tattered and unkempt attire, as urine’s pungent aroma filled our nostrils full and we lacked the stomach to view them all. One young girl, not more than 9 played hopscotch with a baby doll, then shrieked and tore its head clean off; bit her fingers til they bled, and I was never more relieved to take our leave when soon enough we heard with dread that our stay had been extended and we’d not leave as we’d intended. This was no time for fear they said, lift the chins upon our heads, and to our rooms they soon led. I, for one, shall surely write to the physician in charge of our miserable plight, let him hear an ear from me, for this is no place for us to be. Mistake I yelled and turned to my friend, but found myself all alone and knew that she was not with me and knew this place was now my home.

Drifting, liquid, untamed thoughts surged from her mind onto the floor and no one came to rescue her as she banged her head upon the door, and her moans flowed into the others that echoed through the corridor.

(photo credit: <a href=”https://www.flickr.com/photos/funky64/4729890087/”>Funky64 (www.lucarossato.com)</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a&gt; <a href=”http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/”>cc</a&gt;)

Clipped Wings


Birds in Flight


Like a little parakeet, her body soft, her beauty sweet

She takes her water and her bread, never hungry before she’s fed

She sings a song that’s all her own within the cage that is her nest


Oh for freedom’s rarest gift, she’d forsake the safety

Of her wired home, to seek that which the wild bird knows

Light her feet upon sand or bruise her wings in foreign lands,


Enjoy the company of another to fly away before she smothered;

If destiny did not bound her to the sky, she’d seek the heavens for to fly,

Touch back down when need be, to remind herself that she is free


Perched upon a beaded swing, her world a little house so fine

Sings a tune pretty to every ear, but sad the melody of her mind



(photo credit: <a href=”https://www.flickr.com/photos/thomashawk/5581519819/”>Thomas Hawk</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a&gt; <a href=”http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/2.0/”>cc</a&gt;)

Lovers at a Crossroads





He wants to be free but doesn’t know how and the struggle is in the seeking, the suffering is in the now when he longs for the kiss of the woman he desires, but the shadow of another leaves him feeling like a liar. He’s a man living in the spaces between each breath, trying so hard to know himself, and no matter how much he wants another life, he’ll stay in this place that gives him such strife. He must resign himself now to the truth of this path, ‘tis as simple as a problem found in first-grade math.



She can’t be his plaything, for she’s a woman of flesh and bone, with a heart that beats pure behind a wall of solid stone. She’s a need for a man who knows how to break clean thru, expose her, make her vulnerable – none of which he cares to do. As sad as it makes her she’ll say goodbye, for she’s got to live her truth and not this battered lie. They both knew this moment would come anyway, may as well make it now, may as well be today.




photo credit: <a href=”https://www.flickr.com/photos/marcelyne/2515487161/”>marceline</a&gt; via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a&gt; <a href=”http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/”>cc</a&gt;