Echo’s Lament

Hello! New poem today, check out the blog on Saturday for the latest update of my story on Hagar and Ishmael in the desert.

For now this is based on the story of Echo and Narcissus. For back story, go here

Echo’s Lament

He sits down by
the smooth water,
staring and staring,
hoping to catch
his own porcelain
hand, or feel his lips
graze his own skin.
Though I wait for
his every word,
I cannot capture
his eyes or
his heart.

He and I are
bound by this
smooth mirror,
bound to repeat
bound to echo
through the hills
round and round,
bound never to
collide. How do
I end this twisted
dance of useless
sound, useless
longing? I am spent
on a dream half
spun,half a step
from living.

Thanks for reading! Thoughts, feedback always appreciated.


Rising from the Dead

Work has taken over my life…so naturally this fell to the side. Again, I’ll work it out, but it’s been a bit rough. Still able to be creative, which is good. But here are two poems (for now) and I promise more later

Winter Decays

winter decays
silently, quick
as ice
slithers down
jagged hills.
it moves histories,
and gives
new faces.

do not run in
embrace the
cold’s numbing
The sun always
returns, rolling
the past
off your aching

Decades Decay

Decades decay as
time passes, though
memory clings to the
faded light. Wasn’t it
yesterday you bought
your first record? how
awkwardly large it is
between your hands,
once, it was a perfect fit.

Time turns, though
memory sticks on
once bright moments.
All wallpaper peels
and fabric fades,
even your skin wilts
under the sun’s heavy
gaze.  But don’t
throw away the torn
paper or paint over
your face. Relish
this somber beauty,
hidden openly in decay.

The Dead of Cairo and Poetry

Happy Friday! I hope you are having a good day. I can’t say the same for all the people of Cairo. If you haven’t heard, there are violent clashes right now between the military and the muslim brotherhood. I can’t do the situation justice here, but check out NPR for great coverage. Listening to NPR last night inspired this poem for the dead.

This poem is specially formatted. For best visuals, please read on a full size screen (aka get off your smart phone!)

Warning: Deals with death. While not graphic, it may be triggering for some. 

Sweet Trash

Death smells sickly sweet,

democratically for all.

the same perfume for humans,

     for fruit,

          for meat,

               and the wide eyed fish.

No air freshener will hide it,

        no perfume will overpower it.

                                                                         Death lingers in all air.

Do the garbage men of Cairo

         remember work as they smell

the dead?

         Do their hands feel dirty

not from flesh

         but yesterday’s trash?

Who will remember these faces?

Not their li





but their lives: once full of

sweat and sugar,

blood and tobacco?

Or, will these memories

be forgotten,

faded       mental


Thanks for reading and I hope you have a fantastic weekend!

I’m Still Alive!

Sorry for the silence folks. I have just started a new job and with everything going on… I have been a bit neglectful.

But, I am still writing (amazingly, somehow I still find time for these things). Today we are back to ze poetry!

The Ringmaster

Rating: G

I watch you, tall
and full of life, the
crowds hypnotized
by your voice. Yet
I yearn to tear down
your gilded mask. How
do you speak in the
dark? Do you walk tall,
lost in a crowd? The
world has your many
acts, but I want you.


If you look can see me

If you look closely…you can see me


So…I Started Writing a Song

Hey it’s Wednesday! As I fall down the creativity rabbit hole, I find myself doing all sorts of things. I feel more and more like a dabbler, pulled in a million directions. But I’d like to come back a bit to my roots, aka poetry. And instead… I wrote a song. Muses. So willful.

Anywho, taking a break from the Bible, this is about Charon, the ferryman across the River Styx. He would carry across the dead in his boat. For more background on him go here.

Charon’s Song

Rating: G

Life is a Journey

I’m the river king,
lord of in between.
I’m the riverman,
to life no longer seen.

I’m the river guide,
I’ll carry you across.
I’m the river god,
descended from Chaos.

 I’ve carried them all,
saints and thieves.
I’m no angel or demon,
only a god few now believe,

Some come happy,
some come with tears,
some come resigned,
all come with fears.

I’m the river king,
lord of in between.
I’m the riverman,
to life no longer seen.

I’m the river guide
I’ll carry you across,
I’m the river god,
descended from Chaos.

You come to me with stories,
of happiness and loss.
You come to me with questions
(always leaving me cross).

I know only a parade of faces,
and the river running below.
Where you go next?
I will never know.

I’m the river king,
lord of in between.
I’m the riverman,
to life no longer seen.

I’m the river guide,
I’ll carry you across.
I’m the river god
descended from Chaos.

One day you’ll find me,
one day you’ll see,
the moon shining low,
the water passing quietly

Come to the edge,
with your coin in hand.
I’ll carry you across,
money, my only demand.

I’m the river king,
lord of in between.
I’m the riverman,
to life no longer seen.

I’m the river guide,
I’ll carry you across.
I’m the river god,
descended from Chaos.

The moon is setting,
and the tide is changing.
There’s no going back
no more abstaining.

It’s time to go now,
come pay your fee,
the river is moving
as you must be.

I’m the river king,
lord of in between.
I’m the riverman,
to life no longer seen.

I’m the river guide
I’ll carry you across,
I’m the river god
descended from Chaos.

Heatwaves and Poetry

Whew it is too hot outside these days. As much as I love nature, I am a wimp when it comes to heat. Then again, I am a ginger…

What have I been up to? Photography and poetry lately. Life’s been crazy and the muse needs time for longer fiction.


so hot… but still great light!

Today’s poem: Grief’s Labyrinth

Somewhere between
your synapses and neurons,
you hide, wrapped in grief,
a blanket so thick I
can’t see you. Perhaps
it’s selfish to feel
affected by your tragedy,
but I missed you even as
I slept next to you. Space
and silence have their
places, but so do the
comforts of words
and simple hands.

Please, come back. I
do not wish to force you
from your grief. I only
want to know where you
hide in the labyrinth of
emotions. I can’t find the
exit to this place, but I can
hold you for a moment,
giving you a part of my
strength, a moment’s rest,
time to find your way again.


I also really enjoy taking photos of strangers on the subway… Hopefully my creeping will improve so I can get face shots!

Happy Thursday y’all. New update of Hagar and Ishmael this Saturday!!

A Break from Our Usual Broadcast…

Ahh Monday. The life of the underemployed means I don’t work on Mondays. Which…is sort of nice. But for those of you back to the grind: I’m sorry. I hope to be just as mopey about it soon.

I realized I have inundated y’all with short stories of late. Muses never promise continuity or similarity. But, I wanted to change it up a bit. So here’s a poem to start your week with.

Note: this was inspired by another work, by another artist. I take no credit for their piece. And you can find them both on HitRecord (seriously y’all, it’s free to join, and there’s AMAZING people there. Hop on the bandwagon!)

Softest Heart
Rating: G
Inspired by:

Sometimes I miss
the things I left with
you: that soft red
shirt or my book of e.e.
cummings poetry. But
then I remember your
face when I said
goodbye: my man
of the woods
vanished that day,
your face thinned
into the finest glass.

I can hear your boys
telling you to get rid
of my things. Was it
wrong to leave them?
Perhaps. But, you
stood on the cusp
of breaking. Forgive
me? You always
said I had the
softest heart.