At first glance, the stone seemed an ordinary thing.
Its surface smoothed with age, the edges and geometric shape seemingly unerring.
It was neither square nor round nor pyramidal, but more closely resembling a trapezoidal figure.
It had lips and valleys, edges and crevices. It was, without further inspection, a simple dark rock.
But, this was no ordinary stone.
If scrutinized, it could be seen...
Millions of shining fragments just beneath the surface, disappearing and appearing, flickering in and out of sight when tilted different ways.
This too could be explained away.
It was only an unrefined piece of blue goldstone, right?
Not so, for it was only upon the closest investigation that its true nature could be seen: when intently inspected, when held in just the right light, it seemed to fill the entire room with stars.
In this light, you held an entire universe in the palm of your hand.

In the brisk morning air,
the forecast but fair,
we set our sails to sea.
A fisherman’s wage,
the crew half my age,
and we numbered ten and three.

We sailed east then north,
our normal course,
the sun not casting a shadow.
To catch our keep,
before we sleep.
and return a full ship’s hollow.

The day passed long,
through labour and song,
the last net a full bounty.
In the waning light,
a flash caught my sight,
and the skies were grey and cloudy.

Beneath moss and sand,
wrapped in a golden band,
a beautiful locket to see.
I opened with care,
and began to stare,
at the name of Lorelei.

Fishermen on sea and shore
know well the lore,
that surrounds the name of Lorelei.
She can do no wrong,
with her beautiful song,
the maiden Lorelei.

An enchanting mist,
a gentle kiss,
can forever this be?
Her luring call,
that entices all,
the maiden Lorelei.

Her breath a gale,
that filled the sails,
our ship against the sea.
A swirling pool,
a cast of fools,
to put our trust in thee!

The wind left our sails,
a melodic spell,
bound forever at sea.
She can do no wrong,
with her beautiful song,
the maiden Lorelei.


Lorelei is a feminine water spirit rumored to send sailors to their death with her beautiful singing voice.

I am not a rose

I am not delicate, I do not have thorns
I am not careful planted, tended, watered
I am not loved

I am a dandelion

I am not wanted, I do not grow where I'm told
I am random, sporadic, persistent
I am wild

I am not a rose*

I am not picked for beauty
Just to wilt
I am not chosen for love
Just to fade

I am a dandelion

I am picked to destroy me
But I will not die
I am killed to make me go away
But I will not fade

*I am not a rose
I am a dandelion

I am wild
I am free
And that is okay

My boat is my vessel,
with poets flag
blowing in the wind.

The open sea
my playground,
where words
gracefully move
on wavelets ready to ride.

Fish gather
with eyes like periods.
Seaweed drifts
as if pen green
gently brushing page.

Phases become mist
on deck
as self feels
the moisture of visions.

And on a quiet night,
when lighthouse in heart
guides poem to conclusion,
the wind carries self
to the dock of dreams.

I always thought
the forest green
on the train to your house
was of such a nice colour.

I drop the keys on the counter
and I am ready to tell you everything there ever was about me.

Things that flit through my mind so fast I only remember them
When my mind has nothing better to do
and still they are gone in an instant.

I can feel the muscles release in my body and as I lay here
With my mind numb from all the previous encounters I've had and I still only have one wish.

A wish I have desired ever since I was young and I think I will continue to do so when my bones are so old they are about to break
and that would be that I still wish there was a way to communicate a feeling through a feeling, without speaking a single word.

There are just some feelings you can't describe by words and some ways my brain can't form the sentences to tell you what I want to say.

Just wish you could feel this,
The exact way I feel it.

A ******* the train with witch's hair and dark eyes
Stared at me as if I was hiding a secret in the curve of my lip
Or the space between my eyebrows
Or in whirlpool-pupils
I wonder if there is something of the occult in the way I walk
Like a dead woman who adores the crows that pick at her bone marrow
Is there something in the hollows of my eyes that suggests
I am not afraid of the demons summoned to hunt me down
On my morning commute?