October 29, 2009

A Halloween Tale

This is a spooky little story poem I wrote in honor of Halloween. I hope you enjoy it!

I wandered lost upon some road,
A weary traveler far from home.
To come upon at daylights end,
A welcome sight to tired eyes.
A country inn, with windows bright.

“A fine place here to spend the night.”

I entered through the rough oak door,
But no one seemed to be about.
Just fire well laid, and on a plank
Fresh bread and cheese, with wine uncorked.
A note left in a spidery hand,

“Will return soon, please help yourself.”

“How strange?” I thought, but knowing not
The customs of this foreign place,
Sat down to rest, and to partake,
Near starved by my long trek abroad.
Yet, such quiet seemed an eerie thing.

"So odd to be here all alone."

No other travelers rested here,
But I soon was lost within my glass,
And nodded off with no more thought.
Then suddenly waking, oh so cold!
Rising up, I gazed about.

"What! Who's there? Be known to me!"

The fire out, the lantern dimmed,
And something not as it had been.
The table that had once been laid
With fine libations now lay bare,
And covered with a thin fine dust.

“I must be deep within my cups!”

Stumbling through the unlit rooms,
I found a bed to rest upon.
To lay my head, and gather thoughts,
And wait for morning’s saner light.
I barely closed my eyes when - there,

“That sound must mean the keeper’s back.”

The smallest footsteps, lightest rap,
A rustling movement overhead.
Slight scrabbling of small fingernails,
And then, much quieter came this plea,
A sigh so soft as whispering,

“Oh, please sir, won’t you let me in…”

My eyes flew open, and trembling,
Felt icy waves upon my back.
“Who’s there!” I begged, but no reply.
My heart beat wildly, then again,
That voice that brought on shivering.

“Come closer now and let me in…"

The rusted latch upon the door
Began to rattle, the wood to creak.
The curtain, caught by some faint wind,
Blew gossamer drifts in pale moonbeams.
And then much louder than before,

“You truly should have let me in!”

I felt quite faint, and stuck as stone,
Then patting pockets in wild array,
I scrambled for a match, to light
My mind, to reason on this night,
And bring some sense to what I felt.

“Where was this voice arising from?”

Finding but a candle stub,
A life vest to a drowning man,
I lit the wick and staring thus,
The bed that I had slept upon.
This room much different than before.

"This could only be a waking dream..."

In such disuse for many a year,
Cobwebs littered every spot.
With broken panes that now allowed
Dry brittle leaves upon the floor,
And droppings from some furry thing.

"This can't be true, I've gone insane!"

Shaking off my disbelief,
I knew I need make my escape
From something that was far from good.
An evil presence beguiling me, and
darkest happenings on this night.

“I must reach safety or surely die!”

I rushed headlong to reach the door,
Where once the latch had rattled so,
To find it gone, and in it’s stead
Rough nails to lock the door in place,
And every window boarded up!

"Lord, save me from this demon's grasp!"

I now reside within these walls.
No visitor here, but left to stay.
The “keeper” of sorts of some sad thing.
So, should you stumble by at night
Be sure to listen for my cry,

“Won’t someone please to LET ME OUT!”

October 20, 2009

Waterworld (RWP #97)

This experiment in "cut up technique" found poetry was interesting, but gave me a VERY rough draft. I do feel it was worthwhile as it allowed me to write something I may never have put on paper. Here is the finished product. At the end of the piece you will find a link that will show you where I "found" my muse. PS, I know it is a bit strange...

Dive overboard, this ship is not your friend,
the lighthouse but a dim reminder of the past.
Just relax, learn the waves.
Become one with the ocean,
as rain on shore falls gently, softly,
becoming one within the foam.
Float away, let down your guard.
Don’t envy solid ground,
with broken thoughts like jetsam,
reach out quickly -
away from all desire but the now.
Sink downward, let go,
towards the protection of the bottom.
-Yes, you’ll fight -
-hold your breath -
-break the surface-
Scream to flotsam and to space,
to midnight’s spinning stars.
Fight the absurd desire for life.
Give in to loss, then finally you can be free.
Dive, swim downward from all needs,
To the cold call of whales
and the squid's tentacled caress.
Allow your arms and legs
to take you to the end. Stop.

Click here to hear the song that inspired my piece.

October 19, 2009


This is a recent autobiographical work...a lot of my poetry dwells on the past and being able to overcome...

Held captive as a
trapped small mouse
Shivering, panicked,
Heart beating wildly,
searching vainly for escape.
Toyed with, tortured
by a hungry tiger,
Forced to give
emotional nourishment
While starved for sustenance.
learning to feed on detritus and bile
To absorb the ugliness,
swallowing in thick sharp clots,
a dry, chalky barium that spreads inside
illuminating each hollow,
every unfilled corner,
Hardening to a brittle chrysalis,
Where transformation can occur.
Now healed and breaking free,
clawing outward, to
spread fluttering wings,
not those of a fragile butterfly,
But an armored warrior,
Tough, leathery pinions,
Steely scales and razor claws.
strong and invincible.
I will never be broken.

October 13, 2009

Terminal Illness 1 & 2 (RWP #96)

For this week’s “Wordle” prompt I decided to cheat a bit and not even attempt to use all those offered words. Instead, picking just one word that spoke to me, (Chelation) and using it as a jumping off point. I wrote this piece first, then thought, “Why not take this same idea and write it as a sonnet?” The sonnet version is directly under this first bit.

In violent spasms the poison enters,
consuming completely each innocent cell,
settling deeply, darkly within the heart.
First euphoria trickling slowly, methodically
down familiar pathways, ending in
gut-wrenching pain, praying for death.
The only cure - complete chelation.
Searching out and destroying
each minute pathogen,
Cleansing the marrow, the soul, to return
life’s blood to a pure, whole self.
But the healing never lasts,
this illness too addictive, a drug
that feels so good, but dooms so quickly.
There is always
one more germ, one more virus,
To ruin the health and addle the mind.
Ah, love…..


In violent spasms that overtake,
A poisonous ailment we know so well.
It’s desire the mind and heart to break,
to thrust each victim into darkest hell.

Seeping within to our deepest marrow,
This deadliest germ of gut-wrenching pain
Leaving only tears, damp tracks of sorrow,
and craving addiction, left quite insane.

Thus the only hope for a healing cure,
Is cleansing the blood through strong chelation,
To leave each sufferer in his weakness, pure
finally free, in euphoric elation.

And yet to feel cast from heaven above,
Without this beast, the affliction called love.

October 08, 2009

A Double Dip of "Mash-Up" (RWP prompt #95)

I actually made two separate tries on this prompt, and am afraid neither one is a good example of what we were supposed to accomplish... In this first piece the un-italicized poem was written months ago, just added the other point of view to create a type of “mash-up”.

The Gift / I Thought

Long ago I gave you myself,
I thought it wasn’t serious.
Right off the showroom floor,
I thought I was ready.
The latest model with new car smell,
I thought I knew what I was getting into.
Shining and untouched.
I thought I was grown up.
Something you coveted, had to possess.
I thought I could handle responsibility.
Now, through rough and careless handling,
I thought everything would work out fine.
I’m worn out, scratched and dented,
I thought I wouldn’t have to be a man.
You began looking to trade me in.
I thought I could still be free.
To you I meant nothing,
I thought I could do what I wanted.
A cheap, used domestic model,
I thought you would forgive me.
A dead battery that just won’t turn over.
I thought you’d love me no matter what…
In this next piece (won’t really call it a poem) I took the prompt suggestion to a whole new level… The poem part is the beginning of every other line & the lines in BOLD are actual headlines.

I’ll Have Fries With That
Childhood Obesity at Highest level in US History

-Poisoned and bloated-
kool aid, skittles /high fructose corn syrup/ Ritalin Use Doubles in Last 10 Years coca-cola, yoohoo -Force-fed garbage and- “YOU DESERVE A BREAK TODAY” twinkies /sodium benzoate/ pop tarts, cup-a-noodles, twizzlers
-Mind-numbing lethargy-
Dietary Guidelines Allow Ketchup as Vegetable in School Lunches.”LEGO MY EGGO!“ cheetos

-An embarrassment of riches-
/partially hydrogenated vegetable oil/ popsicles "THE CHEESE THAT GOES GRUNCH"

-Hidden behind stupid choices-
/lucky charms, happy meals/artificial colors &flavorings/ "FINGER-LICKIN’ GOOD!“

-A nation of gluttons
- Type II Diabetes Epidemic Among Americans big mac /monosodium glutamate/ whopper,
-With little intelligence-
“MELT’S IN YOUR MOUTH, NOT IN YOUR HAND!“ spaghettios, deep fried gordita /sodium nitrite/

-Are killing the future-
Schools Cutting PE Across the Board stuffed crust, big gulp “CUCKOO FOR COCOA PUFFS”

October 06, 2009

Sonnet #1

(For the "New Formalism" group on RWP)

Last night in dreams I once again was free,
Afloat in heaven’s realm above man’s grasp.
The earth was naught but meaningless to me,
Unto my soul, abandon did I clasp.

To soar amongst the stars in darkest space,
To glide within cool oceans as a fish,
To run with stallions wild and give them chase,
To fly aloft on clouds would be my wish.

In sleep I break the bonds that hold me fast,
From everything belonging to the day.
The cloying rules and duties of the past,
I shrug off mighty chains and bound away.

At morning’s servitude and blazing light,
I lie and wait for magic in the night.

October 05, 2009


This is part of my "Regression Series" that I have been writing about my experience with regression therapy. Even if you think past-life experience is all hogwash, I hope you enjoy the poem just on it's own merit. This piece describes a woman from the 19th century in Ireland.

There is no peat, the stove is cold
and so the water will be like ice.
A sliver of soap is all that’s left, to scrub
the dirt from each small face.
Cold potatoes for some bare meal,
and each child fights for his own piece.
I’ve tried to teach them how to share,
and oh so many other things,
like God, their letters and ciphering.
But when I look into their eyes,
I see my husband’s dull, dark gaze.
He, who through his cloying ways
drew me into this ugly life of
Hopeless, endless, deprivation.

He’s now been gone three days, I’m sure
enthroned at the tavern, drunk on his pay.
The Great Man standing all his friends
another pint, while his family waits.
The priests council what they do not know,
to love, forgive, to acquiesce.
To wait for Heaven’s happiness, while
here is Hell on Earth, I know.
Hungry, cold, tired of the fight,
the children sleep in our lousy bed.
So blowing out the one small light,
I change my apron to one that’s clean
and shut the door upon my past.
I can’t save them but I can save myself.