Down by the river,
A sapling under the rock.
Spring is here at last

Down by the river,
A sapling under the rock.
Spring is here at last.

It is fall again;
Still she weeps at the altar
each Sunday morning.

Purple
storm clouds blown in
by the turbulent winds
haven’t enough rain to wash off
your pain.

They turn on the street
lamps to commemorate the
dying of each day.

It is quite strange how
I always run out of these
endless summer days.

naked feet submerged
in the freshly watered grass –
balmy summer breeze



the loud twirling fan –
last slice of watermelon
hesitating hands



lazy guilt dissolved
laundry postponed once again
excuse in the rain

Unzip your eyes,
A surprise waits,
Blue skies today.

Three withered brown leaves,
A trail of ants heading home.
The first drop of rain.

I ripped out my heart
and blew it out in a kiss
to him one rainy day.

He kept it for a while
then tossed it away
into the stormy sea.

If only I knew how to swim
I would have gone looking
into the ocean for it.

So to keep me from dying,
they had to stitch me up
with a heart of stone instead.

And that is why
now they call me
the girl with a heavy heart.

Head
hot, heavy
spinning, throbbing, aching
drinks, smoke, music, electric guitar
dancing, bumping, tapping
bruised, sore
toes.

Oh, to be a person, a place,
a smell, a taste,
a ****** of music,
a turn of phrase
that brings comfort,
and lilac-tinged peace;
a sense of security
buried inside a memory.

To travel in time feels sublime.
What a relief! We get to relive
those sweet sensations
like flipping through worn
pages of a favourite book.
Oh, to be the reason
for a smile, a fond look,
a happy sigh
reminiscing
the good times gone by.

Sometimes I feel as though I’m trapped;
Captive, in the prison walls of my mind.

I hold the right keys (which can set me free),
The right locks someday I hope to find.

A strange thing, perhaps the strangest of all -
Being a stranger to the desires that lie within.

How can I hope to finish the rest of my story
when I do not know where to begin?

There was a man, let us call him Mack
who always had the perfect comeback.
But he kept missing his cue.
So he decided to spew
random retorts to pick up the slack.

Strange winds blow sometimes
From strange lands to unravel
A dandelion

All it takes is a gust
Of the whispering wind
To breathe life into the wanderlust
Slumbering within me.

I pull on my leather boots
And slip away at dawn.
Don’t look for me in the morning
For I will be long gone.

People often think
I don’t believe in
eyelashes and dandelions,
candles, shooting stars,
fountains and wishing wells.

If only they knew,
some wishes should
never come true.
Once burned
twice shy,
I had a wish granted once
for a price far too high.

A sigh echoes across the chasm
of the sullen winter afternoon.
I dissolve daydreams with regret
in the cozy confines of my room.

I shall never understand
how time has passed me by
yet stretches ahead, yawning.
I am not alive; I cannot die.

The flowers wilt into dust,
the fruit hangs rotten.
Lost amid conjured trepidation
a promise slumbers forgotten.

Once upon a dulcet time
each path was ripe for the picking.
Dreams sour if they cannot cross
over to the land of the living.

I waste so much time
rueful of the time I wasted.
Every opportunity I missed,
each victory I never tasted.

The winter light warms my face
as I lie in bed, brooding.
The lump in my throat melts away;
my solitude turns soothing.

I savour the lightness of being
incomplete but whole.
If I can’t get that one epic win,
holistic hedonism is my goal.

Drop by drop, every tiny delight
I will use to fill this mighty ocean.
Whatever makes me happy,
I shall do with utmost devotion.

I smile and spring out of bed
as the sun dips below the horizon.
Stretch and switch on the lights
as I make my way to the kitchen.

The future is intangible –
the big picture I cannot yet see.
But today I shall take comfort
in woolly socks and hot coffee.

There is absolutely
nothing else
in the universe
that can fill my heart
so with joy,
nothing else
that I value more
than the quiet smile
that touches your lips
and the kindness
that softens your eyes
when you see
how hard I am trying
to be worthy.

There she stands,
by the kitchen window.
Copper curls bouncing,
winking in the afternoon sun,
molten doe eyes, her lips aquiver;
the carmine ribbons of her dress
coming undone.
So quiet, you can almost hear
the cogs turning in her pretty head.
As always she waits,
listening
for the sound of familiar footsteps.
Silence.
Not a peep.
Then, ever so slowly,
a chubby hand reaches up as  she whispers,
“Last cookie in the jar…
You’re mine!”