smudged thumb print on the second last petal

imprint of a feeling that hungered

snap back with the stinging as the red shows

a wounded flower so pretty in its pose

still pretty with only one hope left

clinging to the base of its blossom with cloying grandeur

at least it thinks

at least it continues to define the whole

apart from the stem

the others sigh green

why always this one

always the last one born

so pretty can’t you see

its edges catch reflecting raindrops

with swirling smiles from the sun


and stars

it could command the galaxies this one

leaving four fingered prints on their lenses

making them so giddy they’d spill their soil

exposing all routes

there would be truth in that

a way at the very least

to make its detachment





Faced a world of clattering steel have I,

Kissed the horrors that couldn’t let me die,

Bonded with curses that pierced my roving eye,

Upon a powdery bed of bones my heart’s stifled cry,


I swing a dastardly weapon with a thirsty edge,

Wooing enemies with long toothed grins into my bed,

The sound of thunder and drums booms flirting with the end,

It was mine long before theirs oh if I could only smile and pretend,

And then?

Decimation would surely come,

The winged creatures would plummet from above,

Into the subliminal wilderness tumbling from my shove,

Lying in a shallow grave with the others I’ll lick my wounds when I’m done,

What of love?

A Cold Lonely Place

In a cold lonely place,

High up in the mountains just a few confessions below the heavens,

A forest, populated with the ancient forms of redwoods,

A stillness permeates everything, a stillness so precise,

So vast and so unintentional,

It makes the mind wonder beyond its own mechanism,

There in the nothingness lies a cottage,

Tucked away like an unspoken wish,


In a corner between the thatched roof and the stone wall,

A spider web glistens like seasonal adornments,

Betraying its purpose as it looks inviting,

Beautiful, still, undisturbed,

A fire burns intensely in the fire place,

Devouring logs with a sizzling enthusiasm,

The cottage is lit with a golden glow,

Illuminating the most obvious things while hiding others,

Cracks on the wall, dust on the floor, mist on the windows,

Like the whispered secrets of the ghosts of loved ones,

There is an otherness outside but an enchanted presence inside,

The skinned corpse of a rabbit hangs from the beams of the roof,

Still dripping the last scarlet drops of blood, metallic in smell,

Animated shadows dance softly in the gloom,

Making it seem like the rabbit still twitches,

With the last bit of life,

Lifeless it can only sway with the gentle breeze,

In the air another smell, wild herbs picked only that morning,

Baking bread in the oven,

With an all consuming aroma,

Like cherished memories, with the taste of forever,

Outside is another world,

Inside is a bizarrely pleasant peace,

An indescribable feeling, a powerful place…

Sinking Madness: Home at the Bottom of a Well

fallen long and far enough now and I have finally hit the surface of the water
at the bottom of the well. I have been in free fall for so long now that I was
starting to wonder if I would ever hit any water at all – at least something
that might be a bit of resistance against the awfulness of the fall. I have
been in free fall so long that I was no longer frightened of the fall itself
and so I had stopped swinging my limbs wildly and just lay still as I fell as
if I had nothing else to give. But now I hear the splash and its echoes that
hit the walls of the well, the echoes filled with tension, harsh laughter and
almost insane relief.

The tears
have finally come and I am able to cry after what has seemed like an eternity. There
are tears of relief at the fact that I can still connect with myself as in the
free fall I had become numb to myself allowing the hardness of undesired loneliness
to dictate its terms to me. There have been tears of sadness at what has
happened in the last months of this torrid year, tears that admit that it has
been rough and I have been at times almost helpless. And of course there are
also the tears of anger at what has transpired and how it has made me feel
while I have been a willing participant in it all.

As I sit
here and write this through my tears it feels like two worlds are about to come
colliding together splintering my veneer and sending shards of every part of my
very being in all directions. As the lonely year that I spend away from home
comes to an end and I prepare to return home I feel unstable as I do not know
what to anticipate, for I have changed and home has changed, making my concept of
home something quite ungraspable. Strangely enough, even though I don’t know
what to anticipate all I seem capable of thinking about are the negative things
that might await me once I leave here, this place that has been home while I wasn’t
thinking about home, until of course I started thinking of home.

The return
of nasty habits, the return to shady dealings with shifty characters and the
return to a murky world that I fought so bravely and for so long to overcome. That
was growing up, maturing, separating, becoming. I sense the pressure as it
builds within me clouding my judgement and confining me to ruins even before I have
done anything at all. I hear my own voices of destruction taunting me and
reminding me of how weak I am and how ill disciplined I am. I listen to them
conspire and condemn me to my own horrors, automations and desires, base and carnal.
“You ran from your home even when you still lived at home trying to find home
on the streets amongst friends and foes!” I hear them say, ii hear them true.

I have
been avoiding this for so long that it feels good to hear them all now, for do not
make the mistake to believe that I fear them. I accept that these abominations
of my being are part of who I am and I carry them wherever I go. I am happy
that I am paying attention again, that I am hearing them clearly and being
spurred into action by them. The action I take is not that they would wish me
to take. Instead I am galvanized to take action against that which doesn’t
serve to empower me and make me feel good about myself.

I feel
good about these tears because the mere fact that I am crying tells me that I am
listening to myself again, that I am connecting to myself again and that I am
indeed never quite alone. “Of course you are never alone you are here with us!”
The voices hiss. But I am not bothered for I know that my age is such that I know
I will overcome this for I have been here before – many times. And what time
teaches, nobody can take away from you, especially if you remain impartial to
your own truth. “Yes!” The voices all say in unison.

This is a
good cry, a rich cry like the sudden and unexpected splashes that occur from
unexpected movements in deep wells. I have gone under the surface in that deep
well and now I sink in the mysterious water and its great vastness. I am not
afraid. This is my water, my being, where I know and accept that I am eternally
alone. I embrace myself and am buoyed by my rediscovery of who I am. I will not
be broken. They say in chorus “You shall not be broken, we shall not be broken.”