dating a writer
is like guessing the weather.
you think you know what you'll get,
but you never do.

you never know
because

she'll create a hero
from your weaknesses

and she'll write a great character,
from every last flaw.

she'll create a thousand plots  
from your worst nightmares.

she'll take every last thing you hate
and create something you'll love.

she'll turn your anger
into confessions of adoration,

and she'll make you,
everything you're not.

but worst of all,
she'll leave you wondering-
is it you she's in love with,
or things she's created from you?

but here's the beauty of it:

if you date a writer,
you'll never die.

A yellow fever burns with anger.
Mothers fill with a sense of danger.
As towns die and graveyards grow,
A carpenter’s child waits for snow.
Many lives this fever will take.
While others say this horror is fake.
This carpenters child is the only smart one.
For this fever only strikes on a hot days sun.
When winter comes and cools the air
the fever’s anger will disappear.
In the winter it hibernates.
So, dear child please wait.
In a land they is free
Yellow Fever struck in 1793.

Every New Years Eve
Since that first one
Where I admitted
To myself that I loved you
Has been invaded
By my own misery
My own tears
For you always were away
Never mine
And though you are now
Your there in your prison
And here I stay in my jail cell
Locked away
Still aching for you
At least this year
My resolution doesn't
Have to be to stop loving you
But to keep loving you
Well...
As long as you love me
This New Years Eve
I'll be sulking
But only because
The memories always invade
And at midnight if I am awake
I'll be wishing for your kiss
Because I've never been kissed on New Years.

Give in, let loose and
Let it bleed
Out and drain the
Pain into the gutters
That you have never
Slept in
Before

Ease the pain.
2 days from
A new year
Without a
New Years
Celebration

All these
Celebrations
And all their
Pain

I admire the greats
And deem my
Self doomed

Those who
Smile now
Hold the keys
To their own
Personal
*******
Happiness

That does not sit behind locked doors

While the hungover hate themselves
And wait out the end to a miserable
year

I felt the saddle’s movement;
I heard the horse’s snort;
Around my neck I felt the rope
Of my weight to soon support

Underneath a giant oak
I sat upon my steed
As I awaited punishment
For some malignant deed

I heard the creaking of the hemp
Against an oaken limb
‘T is Hell would I soon visit
… I was sitting on its’ rim.

I looked down, and all about:
Oaken acorns on the ground!
I urged to pick them up …
But … both my hands were bound.

My thoughts were all distorted
My vision was a blur
I tried so hard to scream
But … my words were just a slur

I felt the rope go taut -
Someone slapped my horses’ **** …
I heard the snapping of my neck
And felt the **** and bump!

Suddenly I was screaming
Sitting upright in my bed
Sweat was pouring off me
I was sure that I was dead!

Slowly did I realize
The nightmare had been a dream
All was calm and normal
… not at all like it had seemed.

Back down on my pillow
I lay my sweaty head
Smiling unto myself …
So glad I wasn’t dead.

I felt something on my pillow
… in the dim light did I stare …
Horror rushed back into me:
‘T was an acorn lying there!

The engine: Long and black
And sleek as she could be
She shook the earth in her approach
As her heraldry.

An atmosphere of steam and smoke
Expanding in her wake
The Queen-of-the-Rails speeds on
An arrival soon to make.

Massive is her presence
Enormity her design
Power is her excess
This Queen is so refined

Once she ruled with majesty
When o’er the rails she flew
But … now, this one last time,
The railway bids: “Adieu”.

Slowly when she comes to stop
We see she’s thoroughbred
When water, steel and hard, black coal
Within her there are wed.

Her regal-ness resplendent
In fittings’ shining bright
Commanding our respect
O’er the rails of her last flight.

Now sitting at the siding
She’s puffing rhythmic breath
The museum’s destination
Of her life commits its’ theft.

Photographs will mimic
Her image of today
But missing from those photos:
Glories of Yesterday

When o’er the steel she thundered
Demanding from all who saw
Respect for Her grand power
Which held them all in awe.

But Glory, she found, was fleeting
When “progress” came to call
Her future then was set in stone
In the writing on the wall.

Now we hear the brake release …
Her throttle then is moved …
She inches down the shiny track
Where the land with steel is grooved

Then as she gains her speed
And whistles out her “yell”
An announcement for all to hear:
“I know I’ve served you well!”

She’s journeyed through the ages
And a boy – an old man now -
Watches as she fades away -
He waves, then shouts out: “Ciao!”

But in his mind is yesteryear
With his dog there by his side
Watching near the railroad tracks
Where the Queen-of-the-Rails did ride.

And long from now whenever
He says: “Remember when …”
In those times of reverie,
She’ll come alive … again.

You were restless
it’s the nights the world
made you nervous-
where stars have exploded
within you
but now fade out-
it’s these nights which
agitated you the most.

You start running circles
around the moon
chasing light years
trying to get to tomorrow
ahead of schedule
contained and prepared for
the unknown terrifying
you so much.

“Put fairy lights around
your neck, and lets go
outside," I declare,
"and pretend you’re a star
so I can chase you
around the garden,
until you fill yourself
with fearless light
reminding you
where one star burns out
another one shines.”

Your eyes shimmer
in the moonlight
they pay allegiance
to the night.

“See that there,” I point.

"A thousand stars..."

I smile; "A thousand stars...
It’s the promise you
made to the Universe,”

“To never burn out,” you say

I smile, “Yes! To never burn out.”                                

© Sia Jane