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


He came today
In memories
Awakened by the music.
He came…
And with him
Sadness came,
For what I thought we had,
For what I thought I’d lost…
For what I know is true…
He came today
And left again,
A shadow in my heart,
But not a pain.


Copyright 2015

(On Tuesday, June 30th, I will be retiring as a public school educator.   If I am ever asked to make a goodbye speech, this is what I’ll read.  Reading allows me to remain cool, and avoid tears.  I’m sneaky like that!  LOL!)

Let me begin with admissions.  I wasn’t the most organized supervisor in the world.  My forte was never administrivia.  I have two strengths, which served me well – I know how to teach, both students and teachers, and I know how to encourage them for success.  In exchange for administrivia done well and on time, I gave my students and teachers help to find their feet when they fell, and courage to fly when they stood tall.

I have never been a “Yes” woman.  My spirit is too free, my imagination to broad, my professionalism to strict, and my standards to high to permit me to blindly follow along with things that I did not see as in the best interests of students.   And frankly, I’m too old to be intimidated into “falling in line” like sheep being herded by the sheepdog.

I became a teacher because I wanted to share my love of learning, and specifically of learning English language and literature, with my students.  I understood, even if only intuitively way back when I was not quite twenty-one, that studying literature would open students’ minds to the world of imagination AND to the real world they inhabit.   It has always been my job as a proud English teacher to help them see how tales of dragons, demons, and magic were important for their growing, and how those tales, along with “true” and “true-to-life” stories, if read acutely, could help them learn who they are, what they care about and believe in, and how they are going to be in the world.

For me, education is about teaching students to be truly independent thinkers, to be critical, to question, to ask “Why?” Instead of “How high?” when they are told to jump.  Education is about raising individuals who will become accountable human beings, not about raising sheep.  I brought my own experiences as a student in Barbados and in Jamaica to bear on my practice and on my relationships both with students and teachers.  And I have not regretted any of it.  I was right…I AM right about who and what school is for.

Over these last thirty-four years, I have been blessed to work with a number of remarkable human beings, both younger and older.  And in the last fifteen years, I have been blessed to supervise and support some dedicated, learned, hardworking teachers whose care for students and love of their subject – whether English, a world language, music, art, or library media – I both respect and admire.  A few of them have become close and beloved friends.  So, I leave this first half of my life on a positive note, despite the cruel trials and professional sordidness of the last years.  Frank Sinatra said it best, so I’ll just quote his song, as the lyrics speak for me:

“Regrets?  I’ve had a few, but then again, too few to mention.  I did what I had to do, and saw it through without exemption.  I faced it all, and I stood tall… For what is a man?  What has he got?  If not himself, then he has naught!  To say the things he truly feels, and not the words of one who kneels.  The record shows I took the blows, and did it my way!”

Copyright 2015


It hurt.
Every unanswered message,
Every forgotten anniversary,
The unending silence
Of obvious rejection…
It hurt.

It hurt.
After time spent together,
After searing conversations,
The unbending silence
Of ultimate rejection…
It hurt.

It hurt.
Every shared intimacy nulled,
Every promise made voided
By the heart-stopping silence
Of infinite rejection…
It hurt.


Copyright 2015


White under the gray,
The moonish sun
Slips shyly behind black clouds
Gravid with rain,
The gift of life offered
With roars and grumbles,
And incisor-sharp flashes
Of jagged light.
The wipers can’t keep up,
And the goosebumps on my arm
Are Braille notes of delight.


Copyright 2014


She had always loved to see that particular action…the fingers grabbing the sheets, her beloved wrestling with total loss of control. Making love, having sex…fucking…should ALWAYS be like that, she thought, else why bother? To see a MAN grabbing the sheets…THAT was priceless! It meant his lover knew how to take him to the edges of his control, to strip it away from him, to leave him wanting, needing, hungering…lost in the moment.

THIS man was on his belly, his legs spread wide, his lover’s hands kneading his muscled flesh, cupping his tender sac, sending that finger just far enough to touch HIS special spot, a hungry tongue licking his sweating skin, teasing the crease between his tightly-muscled butt cheeks. She could almost hear the groan that tore from his throat, deep – a growl really – as he was tortured and tormented and exquisitely loved. She could hear his hisses as his lover worked his prostate, winding him up, building the scream he soon would not be able to contain, as his ball sac tightened, and he felt the orgasm building and raging up his spine, filling his aching cock which he fought to stop himself from grinding into the soft sheets under him.

She closed her eyes for just a moment, to savor the sexual high that she felt building in her own blood at the sight before her, and then opened them as he began to shout out his climax. His ecstasy was excruciatingly beautiful, wild, sensual, driving her own need to have him. She watched his fingers tighten on the sheets, saw his eyes close in tortured pleasure, heard him call her name. That was always her cue to take over, to take him, to make him hers…again.

She turned to look at the one who had thus prepared him for her, and with an almost imperceptible nod, relieved her proxy lover.

“Turn over,” she ordered him, her voice hoarse with the strength of her own arousal.

She loved this game that he let her play with him, and she knew that he loved it too, because it pleased her. He did anything she asked, because he wanted to please her. And when she was pleased, he was pleasured beyond anything he could possibly imagine. Today, after she rode him to her own first climax, she would show him the depth and strength of her love for him. He had no idea how well loved he would be today, and from now on.

Her proxy watched as she straddled him.

“Keep your eyes closed, and your hands in the sheets, my love!” she whispered, because she couldn’t speak more loudly if her life depended on it.

When she slid her wet center down over his still raging erection, she saw the muscles of his belly clench, saw his fingers once more wrestle with the sheets, saw his eyes roll beneath the closed lids. and felt the jerk of his cock, a breath away from unloading his seed inside her.

“Hold on to me, now, lover mine, but don’t come till I say!”

She squeezed him inside her, trying at once to help him keep control, and to arouse him past fever pitch. His tormented groan rocked her, and his upward plunge shook her to her core. She leaned over and bit him hard where his neck joined his shoulder.

“Not until I give you leave, my love!” she said, her tone admonishing. “I promise, it will be soon!”

He gasped when she rocked herself on his hard rod. He growled when she raised herself almost completely off him. He groaned again when she slid back down his length, seating him inside her to his balls.

“Ah, fuck!” he said, his fingers tight in the sheets. She had had the foresight to use a stronger cloth this time, as the last time he had shredded the sheets with his bare hands.

She chuckled, a shaky sound at best, given her own aroused state, his cock jerking inside her.

“I’ll let you fuck me soon enough, my love! Let me fuck you now, okay?”

She leaned down to kiss him, sucking his tongue deep inside her hot mouth, and whispered,

“Look at me now, my love!”

He opened his eyes, and stared into hers, and the emotions she saw swirling in their depths almost unseated her.

“I love you too, my darling!” she answered his look. “With all of me!”

She began to move…


Copyright 2013

Ask Her Why

Ask her why she’s feeling
Numb, congealed,
And she will say
Filth clouds the senses,
Like mudslides over diamonds.

Ask her why she’s crying
Hot, unwelcome tears,
And she will say
Desire shreds the spirit
Like rabid claws on newborns.

Ask her why she’s keeping
Still, silent-hearted,
And she will say
Words leave needs unspoken
Like blood without plasma.

Copyright 2015

Lane Hayes

Leaning Into a Wish



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