Poetry Nowadays


Pathetic pandering to the same tired people,
Tongue tied they can only snap the same tune.
Clubbed to deaf with cliché, hypnotized blind
They…we are prey and predator, snake swallowing
Gorging on our behinds, entangled in our entrails.
What happened to living words, dancing sparks
the match to set off a forest fire of emotion
Shattering the dam, the walls and washing pain away
Where is the blood caressing pages like ink,
Tracing the cracks in shattered hearts so we can breath.
poetry nowadays needs mouth to mouth resuscitation
So let’s pick up pens, pencils and computer keyboards
Open our spirits and let the soul breath life unto the page


Give me Liberty or give me Death!


The night air was cool and calm with a breeze dancing gently across the surface of my skin. As I stood there and surveyed the sky I noticed that the moon was closer than normal and glowing softly through the clouds. I laughed sarcastically inside as I felt a tear trace its meandering path down my face and into my bosom, carving new pathways for the wind, now icy, to assault. The serenity of the night was the opposite of the stark battle raging within me. I swallowed, the sharp tang of vomit and fear stinging my throat. I swallowed again and forced my foot to move forward and hang over the edge. My body fought my every move, each muscle spasming as if to shout “Don’t do this!” But I had spent too many years hating and hurting this body to listen now. Determined I moved another foot forward and now my mind started rebelling. Whispering things and saying that maybe death isn’t the solution and maybe I should just conform. But this too was something I was used to and brushed it away. Give me liberty or give me death I roared within myself to drown the noise of my own protests. I cast myself forward into the night to be swallowed and absolved of my great lie. But just as my body was plunging forward, my dark hair absorbed by the darkness, a hand grabbed mine and pulled me back to the hospital roof. 

They Say Time Will Heal


They say time will heal, 

but what do they know?

The illusion of peace

time paints over the pieces

lasts till pressure is applied

and the cracks start to show


They say time will heal

But can they really feel?

this nagging needing

of my heart, tired of bleeding

though the wound is healed

the pain is only sealed


They say time will heal,

can I trust them?

Time ticks and tocks 

and my mind’s eye is blank

then memory madness flashes

and sudden sadness lashes

out and sinks me again

They say time will heal,

I am waiting.

I am dead.


I am dead. I understand this with clarity that can only be gained once the useless blood and muscle distractions have been shed. I exist as an entity, and expression of someone once living. But I am dead.  I don’t know when I died. Time is a mere abstraction in this space, this grey space of endless possibility. But within me there is an image. Flashes of color in a room and a sense of resignation and a warm body writhing where my lap would have been.  I remember her watching me. Or at least the sense of her watching me. Within this space my death is of no consequence. But yet something within me yearns for the knowledge of my demise. How did I lose my baggage? That lanky body that I loved and hated for 22 years of my sensory life. If I focused I can almost reach out and

“Wake up!” her voice oozed into my subconscious mind with the languid ease of water soaking into desert dry earth. I snapped awake, my eyes glaring around the room suspiciously, the sudden motion causing Trevor to jump of my lap and bark at me reproachfully.                                                                    “You had that dream again didn’t you?” she demanded, blocking the light from the dim light bulb as she leaned in and examined my face. Dazed both from the dream and from the heavenly scent of her perfume I could only blink up at her and work my mouth trying to make words. Snapping upright to her unimpressive height of 5’2 she folded her arms at her chest and flicked her hair back, the rippling length glowing auburn gold in the soft light. “You need to go and talk to someone about that, it can’t be healthy.”

I sighed, preparing to launch into the same reply I had made the last 23 times she had made that same statement but then he walked in. Bradley. Beautiful Bradley, perfect Ken doll Bradley. Boyfriend Bradley. I smiled at him, the only betrayal of my true feelings the tightness in my chest and the small yelp that Trevor made from the lap he had just climbed back unto.  “Hey, man” he said with his perfectly manly voice. “What do you need help with?” Desperately I tried to make eye contact with her, my eyes screaming at her to not say anything. But unfortunately humans haven’t yet started understanding body language and she turned to him, even the concern for me fading as her eyes lit up at the sight of Brad. She leaned in and sunk into his lips and they stood there, perfect and beautiful and I sat in my chair surrounded by fakes plants and some holiday decorations and holding a small mutt. The painting on the wall stared at me, accusing me as if it could read my thoughts and see my naked desire which in light of there kiss seemed like sacrilege. The moment lasted what seemed like an eternity. I shifted uncomfortably and the multi colored blanket my grandmother’s mother had hand-woven fell to the carpeted floor with a barely audible whisper of a thump. But even as quiet as it was the moment was broken.                                                           

“He dreams he is dead” she said, her voice still breathy with desire. “I don’t really understand it but I can tell cause he always jerks awake with this panicked look on his face. “  Bradley turn and looks at me and at that moment I know I am going to kill him. He looks at me with those same eyes. I hated those eyes as a child, that pity laced with disdain and self righteousness. Before he could open up his mouth and seal his sentence I quickly rose from the seat, upsetting Trevor for the second time.

“I am fine!” I demanded, my eyes flashing and my jaw clenched. The look of shock in her eyes showed that I had put more force that I had intended into my objection. Softening my voice I said “I don’t mean it like that, it’s just a weird thing I have. It’s not really a serious problem. It’s not like I’m killing people or something.” I choke out a laugh and look at them daring them to continue the discussion. An awkward silence ensues then Bradley joins me in the laughter and slaps my back and for a moment I love him for his kindness. The moment passes and again we are just people in a room and the feeling of death passes and I am alive.

“Let me go change and then I will be ready to go” I said my voice light and smooth, and I walked away from them each footstep echoing the beat of my heart. 



Life is but a journey to self,

A mission to conquer ego

And discover who we are

Our passion and our love

A quest for communion

We lust for acceptance

In bleak hopeless world

But we try again and again

Slamming against the brick wall

Often times it hurts

We cry

But failure is death

And death is not an option

So we claw our way to the top

For a brief moment we conquer

But our wax wings melt

And we shatter on the rock

We pick up the pieces

Duck tape heart leaking

And we search for ourselves

Try to tap into our power

But we are weak and drained

Our scarred heart beats still

We pick ourselves up and climb

Pushing our ego like Sisyphus

Flash Fiction: Bus-stop-100 words-Prose


The Bus-Stop Girl is there everyday at 6 on the far left of the time battered bench. Reading, head down, thick brown hair escaping the knitted cap she wore. Everyday I leave my house, 5:45, and jog around the block. I just happen to pass by as she sits down, settling her skirt and opening her book. 57

I slow as I pass and breathe “Hello”. She always hears. She, her delicate fingers capturing her escaped hair, looks up from “A Streetcar named Desire”, green eyes glowing and says “Hello”. We share a smile and I run into the night, waiting for tomorrows smile. 43



To destroy, perhaps to transform

creation, destruction

A soft collision of form and freedom

as shadows of images

pass, through one’s minds eye

because the change, the destruction



The color pours from ardent fingers

a dream, a hope, a regret.

The creator of the work.

Through it all, a silence

a reverence of the work done 

as it goes

as it swallows us and holds 

us immersed in it’s embrace

Intricacy and simplicity