I am
The beginning of Autumn.
My leaves
Are just starting to turn,
Their fall
Still some way distant,
The breath
Of change still faintly warm
Upon my tongue.

I am
The yellowing, golding leaves,
Bright still
With the light of the midday sun,
Warm yet
With its noonday fire.
My change
Is heat and primal passion,
Beautiful and bold.

Copyright 2015

A useless walk at 3:00 a.m.
opens up a place
I had thought closed; and suddenly
shared moments, apparently forgotten,
strain the fabric of calm appearances.

Sometimes, it takes nothing
to trigger
a deluge of feeling,
a flood of tears,
an ocean of desolation.

The past becomes present,
the wound as raw
as when it first gaped open,
like the maw of Hell
inside my heart.

Absence becomes presence,
tearing away
at the flesh of memory,
leaving me exposed
and floundering in grief.


Copyright 2015

Autumn-themed Books

Searching through Goodreads to find ideas for this post, I noticed a trend.  There were horror stories, and then there was everything else.  Par for the course, I suppose, since this is the season of Halloween, with all its attendant ghouls, ghosts, and ghastly stories.  I was hard pressed to decide what to write about, or how, and finally, in an inspired moment, I decided that nine was a good, round, witchly (yes, I made that word up just this second!) number of books to share with you, in a mixture of horror and other, and in typical fashion, to make some kind of poem of them.  It’ll be silly, even stupid, at times…rhyming invariably brings out the wacko in me.  And my ideas of what constitutes “horror” are decidedly skewed, as you’ll see.  Wish me luck…and see if you can match the descriptions in the poem to the nine novels listed below.


September brings much more, you know,
than cooling Autumn breezes.
There’s Labor Day, and barbecues,
and final summer sneezes.

To keep your mind on other things
than the approaching Winter,
mayhap you should distract it with
light reading — get your printer!

A young boy learned to wield his wand,
two others saved their city;
an ancient vampire sought fresh blood;
a Creature’s not made pretty.

A woman loved a priest who left her
with a darling infant.
A vain young man did sell his soul
to keep old age well distant.

Ambition drove a warrior
to murder and deception.
A great physician “played with fire” —
it changed his whole reception.

There’s just one more — and different,
in quality and content –
A brighter color might have made
her stay, and give consent.


Copyright 2015

1.  Frankenstein by Mary Shelley
2.  The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde
3.  Fifty Shades of Grey by E. L. James
4.  The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne
5.  Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone by J. K. Rowling
6.  The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson
7.  Something Wicked This Way Comes by Ray Bradbury
8.  Macbeth by William Shakespeare
9.  Dracula by Bram Stoker


“To be running breathlessly, but not yet arrived…is itself delightful.”
~ Anne Carson

Running breathlessly,
chasing desire…

How to describe the edge
on which I often stand,
that sharp edge of fulfillment
just out of reach,
of early innocence
(just this instant passed),
of sultry need
just waiting to devour
the unwary passersby.

Running tirelessly,
Chasing bliss…

How to explain the drive
to move beyond mere thought,
way past the realm of words,
into the kingdom of deeds;
to break the bread of passion
with the ones who bring with them
the scent and taste
of their breathless hungers,
and of their unquenchable thirsts.

Running ceaselessly,
Chasing dreams…

How to explore the need
to push beyond the walls
that hold me back,
to follow on the trail
of self-discovery that opens wide
at every turn, and beckons me
to make haste to a destination
unexpected, unparalleled,
and as unattainable as air.


Copyright 2015

A September Sonnet

(Written in response to an ongoing September writing challenge…this is today’s prompt.)

I’m not much good at forms of poetry
That ask for or expect a certain style.
My forte is the careless artistry
Of free verse that breaks every rule on file.
Still, I must needs address the prompt herein
By writing verse of fourteen-line appeal;
The very least that I can do is pin
My poem to this star with sprightly zeal.
Which star, you ask? Why, one that lets me show
How very clever I can be when pressed.
The one that all us amateurs well know
Makes our work look less polished than the best.
September has begun, and so has school,
Where some will learn, and some will play the fool.


Copyright 2015

The Brand

(The following poem was written in response to the prompt below, a quotation by Pablo Neruda.)

As if you were on fire from within,
The moon lives in the lining of your skin.”

~ Pablo Neruda

This ache you hold inside,
Subsumed beneath the weight
Of good, of right, of just…
Suppressed under
The nobility of fidelity,
Of honor, of trust…
This ache is white hot,
Is unrelenting fire,
Is agony of heart,
Bright, searing,
Impossible to ignore.
This ache, passion’s brand,
Is tattooed in your flesh
And in your soul…
Moonlight in the sun,
Inevitable, invisible,


Copyright 2015


Thoughts skitter away from her,
Refusing to be gathered.
Inspiration has deserted her,
An empty well, and dark,
Dense with the heaviness
Of nothingness.
She drowns in abject terror
That the words have gone,
Deserted her,
Adopted a new host,
And moved beyond her reach.
She struggles to believe
That all that is lost
Is faith.
A cruel fate for one
Before so powerful,
To need that faith restored
In herself.
This exercise must show her
How it is to trust
In what one cannot hear,
Or see, or touch…
In what is absent.
And yet,
To have that boon restored —
The gift of words —
She must believe in things
That she cannot.


Copyright 2014

Writing as Acting

According to my VoiceOver tutor, acting is “living life truthfully under the given imaginary circumstances”. – Wayne Pyle

That resonates with me as a writer, because, if you think about it, that’s what we as writers do, those of us who want to do more than merely represent reality. It’s certainly what I aim for every time I touch a screen or pick up a pen or touch a keyboard. I want my writing to live life truthfully under the given imaginary circumstances.

Thank you, Wayne Pyle!

Copyright 2015


Is it better
To remain aloof,
To guard my heart,
Or to be abandoned,
And watch it break
Again and again?
Trust opens spaces
Where others can leave
Gouging wounds,
And maim me.
Will I some day lose
The pieces that remain?
If I do not trust,
Will I lose myself?


Copyright 2015

No beauty here but
Of the crepuscular sort,
A shadow of hope.

The way forward lies
Inside, where the light beckons
Winged wraiths to cavort.

Each pirouette and
Each unwieldy twirl a world
Of expectation.


Copyright 2015


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