The heart shuts,
The sea slides back,
The mirrors are sheeted.
-Sylvia Plath, "Contusion"


The job hunt is not going well:
wrong man in wrong city, no timing,
no luck - now I rise with worry

stuck inside my ribs, crouching
fat and cold where the heart was,
new clock flooding me with off-beats

so that I stumble in wrong-footed falls.
I'm fed by only sleep and steady rain:
all news, it turns out, is bad news.

Perhaps tomorrow the sun
will quit and I can take that job,
pacing to and fro, annihilating clouds,

handing things off to the night shift...
But no: I'll wake to indomitable silence,
a dread of mailmen, and ever-hungry cats.

grief was sharp when i lost her,
a knife that cut clean.
it hurt, but at least i knew why.
now the sadness has no name,
just a weight i can’t put down,
a dull ache that never leaves,
a quiet kind of drowning.
i don’t know what’s worse,
the pain that made me cry
or the emptiness that won’t let me feel.

There is no insight
In illusion of stories
Beclouding your universal mind
Machination excavates
The earth of character
Breaching tenor of vision
The burning candle weeps
Tears of unfulfilled sapience
In the stillness of night
The fabrication of perception
Disempowers awareness
Compromising clarity
It was yesterday
When roads were unpaved
The spirits untamed
Wise ones were held in high regard
The birds displayed the way
And the Earth rolled unfazed
But today
Today is the face of tomorrow
Promoting future's paradise
And demoting present's purview
Today is the remnant of yesterday's joy
And the prelude to tomorrow's ploy.

Leaden angry sky, why wear a sombre suit
dyed lantern grey to match the ocean’s roar
a shredded howling wind completes the set
it stings and sings a siren song outside my door,
be off, be off with you I say
go find a better attitude and temper
I do not like the mood you bring today

It does not follow
that I am weak
or timid,
shy,
or small

Your logic’s amiss
I’m not swallowing this

It does not follow
that I am cracked
or broken,
rough,
or torn

It’s flawed generation
from any foundation

It does not follow
that I am less
or nether,
base,
or low

I don’t care where we were
-what you try to infer
I prefer
You’d concur
These are non sequitur


©2025

The aspens quiver, brittle spines trembling,
a broken orchestra of gold and ache,
her feet carve the earth raw,
mud smears like confession,
the world swallows her,
skin slick with its wet approval.

Here, the sky does not accuse.
It hangs, mute and thick,
secrets buried beneath roots,
writhing like forgotten daughters.
Her smallness presses against the weight,
a quiet scream lodged in her ribs.

The ground hums its absolution,
a Eucharist of dust and decay.
She, unmothered, unfathered,
folds herself into the soil’s indifference,
her anger spilling like blood in the light.