My Head Was in the Clouds All Right

Dream-filled balloons sailed away that day.
I noticed that you forgot

to tie a note on the end
of each string.
How will they know what to do
when they reach their destination?
How will I ever reconnect
with the prophecy that fills each one
with such hope?

How could you turn your back

on my dreams? It seems
silly that I even have to ask.

Dancing in the clouds
without a care in the world;
high on hopes and hopes on high.
The sky’s the limit
(for the harm they may find along the way).

Pillow-talk: one’s been pierced
by Cupid’s bolt.
It's said that the fool’s bolt is soon spent.
Those Heartsease spread like wildfire, you know;
consuming everything in their path –
and that’s just for afternoon sport.

What will become of the one
sitting within the belly of the whale
shaped cloud? Will rebellion
reign or submission sustain?
An abortion? Birthed before its time?

There’s the one that got sucked into the right
wing engine fan at the wrong time.
It’s said that it was skinned beyond recognition,
save the shiny red string that to this day
flies at attention during every run.
A confetti still dancing

as it never got the note that the party’s over.

What about the others? I suppose I’ll never know.
I never dreamed I’d need a forwarding address
the day I felt so high
with my head in the clouds,
waving at my beautiful balloons as they traveled
away from me–

floating into someone else’s reality.

Table for One

She bought a bus ticket goin’ anywhere
Nighttime’s always the loneliest time

Walking the boulevard; she’s a shadow within the shadows
Blending into the darkness, she hopes to dull the awkwardness
Streetlights mock the nightlife just across the street
Happy faces headed toward intimate places;
their breadcrumb trail disintegrates
before it can illuminate the way

She ducks into the corner diner. “Table for one.”
Empathy’s out of fashion; the hostess rolls her eyes
Pulling out a book, she hopes to dull the awkwardness
Formalities skipped, the tension fills the air
Without a second to spare, the waitress jots the order
and retreats back to where the air isn’t so stale

One act down, the street envelops the shadow again
Any lounge will do: worn red carpet wins tonight
With a few drinks in her, she hopes to dull the awkwardness
The dance floor’s full, she knows she’ll blend in enough
So much time passes. The loneliness cuts like a knife
Licking her wounds, she’s about to call it a night

when she feels the warmth of a taker within reach
He tests the boundaries, at first without his hands
The exploration begins. Hands, lips, tongues inflame
Back rooms, back alleys: What’s the difference?
They’re all the same. Just another dark place of hiding
serving a higher power for hit-and-run relations

In an instant it’s over; she and her shadow reunite
Filled once again with emptiness, she’s hollow
All she ever wanted was to be loved
She boards the bus more broken than when she arrived
The darkness sinks his teeth in, releasing
bone-chilling venom that seeps deep
into the new cracks and settles in for the night

It’s Always Winter Here

Bursting at the seams 

Exvibranimate 

Yet, it’s always winter here 

Buds of passion test the forecast 

Dorpeekmant 

While axis orbit skips another beat 

Shards of glass soil window-box garden 

Compermafrost 

The Snow Queen and her snow bees’ never ending rein 

Dying to bloom in due season 

Birdeath 

As frozen time and space paint
the smile on Jadis’ face 

A spark of hope that drop does make 

Isothermalite 

Yet day's short while bright; all’s cloaked in night

Sonnet 10: Restless Spirit Roams

My mind is cleared. My soul is not at rest.

An empty mind is tempted with this test:

What will you fill me up with once I’m cleared?

Will you replace the clutter with what’s feared?

Or be sparked by Prometheus’ veiled fires

     and stock it with the things of heart’s desires?

Perhaps it’s time to build on solid ground

     with truths and tribulations proved most sound.

Selection is a process, not a task;

     it's not a time to form another mask.

Importance should be placed on choosing wise

     and balanced thoughts – not fantasies or lies.

I’m standing at the door; I’m looking in.

I’m really still not sure where to begin.

Alone Space in this Cold Place - To be Published in the BAC Street Journal

This daily grind is wearing to the bone:

My wheels are spinning while I run in place.

How many times do I have to be told

to guard my heart from growing hard and cold,

and bite my tongue or find myself alone?

I’m blowing out hot air in empty space.

My mind’s a mess; I’m orbiting in space.

Just floating out there, chilling to the bone;

I’m going nowhere, feeling all alone.

Quite unprepared to dress for such a place,

I bundle up. “This world is very cold

and ruthless in its ways,” so I’ve been told.

So many times I wish I would have told

you how I feel about this stale airspace.

Then instead of leaving me out in the cold,

now and again you’d throw me a small bone

to satisfy me in this stagnant place,

you’d be with me. Yet here I am alone.

I have this fear of being all alone;

It’s bottled up with other things untold.

Trying to fit in, I’m out of place:

just like the odd stone in a herringbone

design; it’s cut to fit into the space,

and then once changed, emotions are acold.

You break my heart with cutting words so cold.

They break me down. Can’t you leave me alone?

How can you say these things? I have a bone

to pick with you; and once you have been told

my thoughts, my mind and heart will have the space

to fill the new uncluttered, empty place…

Can’t love take over bitter’s prior place?

Let freedom rule by purging all the cold

and dying things once hidden in that space.

“Life’s too short to go it all alone.”

These words of wisdom often I’ve been told,

but living by them takes more than backbone.

Within this space, I know my place:

I’ll bruise the bone; I’ll bear the cold.

I’m not alone is what I’m told.

Season Fade and So Do They

Here for a season, or so, they “come and go talking of Michelangelo.” [1]
Never rooting, just tilling – never planning for a harvest
Here today, gone tomorrow, leaving a breadcrumb trail of sorrow
Heartstrings snuggly connected. Were they not detected?
Over plucked cords are soon rejected. The grass is surely greener,
brighter, full of new life on the other side of the horizon
I guess there’s nothing more to say. Their words disappear,
picked up and carried away in the winds of yesterday
Why’d I look back? I’ve learned that lesson the hard way
Now rooted, a vibrant and healthy soul. Do I stay or do I go?
The cycle of rebuilding and starting again has grown old
It’s so cold without the comfort of their warmth. It’s so cold
The weeping willow shudders, folding in on her solitary darkness


[1] From Eliot's "The Love Song of Alfred Prufrock"

There for the Picking

The stem of eVery rose has a thorn
It’s a wonder I’ve survived so many pricks
A renewed wOund heals slowly, if at all
An empty souL is really full of spent blossoms
Trusting is scAry business, if it can even be done
To be safe: a Thing both desired and extinct
Willing...imagIning my no meaning no. Plucked; undone
Fallen petals On overgrown grass is this
disappointmeNt in its many forms of bloom

You Stopped that I’d Take Notice

Silver flash of light
     the sky’s in bloom today
How graceful in your flight
     a grey and white delight

Symbol of peace: blesséd watchful eye
     Purity. Sacred
     Spirit of love and hope

goddess of the Morning Star
     riding grace she calls her own
     The pet she can’t confine

You are mine, while I am yours
     A cageless soul-to-soul
     bond in realms unseen

So divine; your spirit fills the air
     your spirit is the air
I breathe you in and eat you with my eyes
     I am full. I see you, and I know
My eye’s on things above
     sweet spirit of the Dove

Room with a View (Within Glass Bubble revised)

Glass shards under nails
Shattered dreams
snow flakes make

Solitary fish cry [1]
dies
trapped in this glass
Fists held high
These walls run deep

Day draws nigh;
no sleep

Stagnant air;
breathe to sigh
Misty morning
waxes dry

Where to hide?
Small space:
old places, same faces

Tipped over, upside down;
flakes fall:
drown

Smile masks pain
Yet can’t
erase           yesterday, today,
tomorrow

Same small space:
rat race
Rancid pace preserves


[1] Taken from Wolfgang Borchert’s Do Stay, Giraffe

Vortex Portal

There’s an internal drawer
I’ve recently discovered
I can’t tell you where it is
that would be cheating
Its contents remain a mystery
The journey to its discovery
has left an interesting impression
I could tell you what’s in there
but where’s the fun in that?
You must find it on your own
if you dare
Only the adventurous need apply
The four-dimensional stuff
can be found near the front
The rest must have slid


to the back of the drawer.

After seeing this in print, it almost felt poetically entertaining

                                    Found Weekend To Do List

 1. Audit receivables to get hubby off back
 2. Reconcile bank statements to avoid further “banking fees”
 3. Take kid #1 to dermatologist to avoid being “the worst mom ever!”
 4. Remember to pick kid #2 up from second night sleepover
 5. Paint kid #1’s bedroom, after:
 6. Ride kid #3’s butt to get rest of crap out of old room
 7. Attack mountain of laundry that is now yelling back in disgust
 8. Prepare for Monday’s tax return appointment without panicking that
     books have been neglected since August
 9. Clear from great room the abandoned crap from kid #1’s old room
10. Go through two weeks worth of mail and try not to cry
11. Cleverly find funds to make minimum payments and mortgage on time
12. Work on homework and submissions
13. Remember to eat, and drinking might be a smart addition
14. Meet hubby’s needs and expectations
15. Random pile of patching and other tasks unforeseen
16. Keep optimism that there might be time left for me

***Note to self: soccer and softball practices start on Monday

Who does she think she is?

She knocks on the door;
       she wants to come in.

I say, “It’s unlocked.”
There’s silence again.

She makes my lids drop;
       she teases me so.

Oh, how I’m aroused,
       I sigh.

                  She knows.
She whispers to me,
       “I’ve called you by name.”
Then laughs in my ear.
       “Don’t you hear me dear?”

My eyes are burning;
       I want to let go.
Madness is churning,
       rattling me so.

“Silly little child,”
       she says in a trill voice.
“Isn’t it time?”

“Time,”
       I tell her,
“is the enemy beast.
So much of it goes by
       without reprieve,
I’m aghast.” 

                “I know.”
She smiles back;
       her grin has worn thin.
“With arms wide open,
       I’ve invited you in.”

                  “That’s such a lie!”
Now I’m mad. I’ve had it.
She’s really whacked.

Energized once more,
       she knocks on my door.

"Sparked" to Life

Out of the ashes (of something even tragic)
she finds her will
Crawling through the cruel dirt
she climbs that dark hill
A run for her life; she’s gotta find self
The waters of life are consuming;
she must breathe for herself
Do you know where you’ll be in an hour?
In a Day? A week? Even a year?
Run, darlin’, run
Felicitous spirit overcomes the fear
A cry for help;
they don’t even see her. Can't hear
or be bothered in their zombie state
She’s all alone,
but she has her spirit
She’s tired and cold
but she’s taken hold of her fate.

Inspired by:

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Within this glass bubble

Shards of glass under nails
Shattered
dreams
these snow flakes make

Fish cry
dies
Trapped
in this globe

Fists held high
These walls
run
deep

Day draws nigh,
no sleep

Stagnant air;
breathe to sigh
Misty morning
turns
dry cry

Where to hide?
Small spaces,
old places,
same faces

Tipped over,
upside down
New flakes
fall;
drown

Smile in place
masks
pain
from face
Yet can’t erase

Same small space
Rat race
sets
the rancid pace

Same bubble
Different Day

So He Has a Lamb

“Would you shut up already!” I say to the fiend.
If I close my eyes tight, maybe he’ll just leave.
“I can still hear you. I mean it: enough!”

“I’m just trying to help,” he explains in my ear.
His snickering scratches me, leaving a trail.
“Are you going to cower over a little fear?
I pegged you for stronger, my sweet little dear.”

I blink back a tear; my tongue has been tied.
Pulling the covers over my head, I just want to hide.
A moment of silence, the coast could be…

“So why aren’t you trying your very best?”
he mocks. “I mean, look at the rest;
some aren’t even writers and they pass the test.
Perhaps you should let that one sink in,”
he says with a grin.

Where is my voice? I want to respond.
How does he know so much about me?
What does he see that I cannot see?
Who does he think he is harassing me?
My thoughts are enraged; my eyes are inflamed.

“Cat got your tongue? That’s really a shame.
I had high hopes for you, my dear,” he says.

Those glistening eyes are a sight most vile.
If I could reach him, I'd rip them right out.
And that evil smile!

“Now look at that, I’ve really made you mad.
If you can’t stand the heat, you’d better think twice.
Take my advice; you’re wasting your time.
The ladder of success isn’t yours to climb.”

I’m starting to boil; I’m coming unglued.
Who the hell is this sinister dude?
Screw him! What does he know?
I’ve got a right to tell him exactly where to go.

“No one cares.” He throws his head back.
“Your words are in vain and they lack
a certain something,” is his smart alec crack.
“They fall on deaf ears if they fall on any at all.”

I’ve had enough! He’s plundered my voice.
Damn it already, where is my voice!
I want to scream, I want to shout. He's robbed me of choice.
I take a deep breath; I must get this out.
“Just shut up already. And while you're at it;
go to hell!” I manage to shout.

His boisterous laugh, so sardonic, it echoes.
Like the clink of a bell, it rings in my ears.
“Silly little lamb,” he shakes his head while he smirks.
“My sweet little dear, I am hell.”

Is it in the air?

This atmosphere is chilling to the bone;

a world of sorrow orbits all alone.

The air is heavy even though it’s dry.

The willow shudders, letting out a sigh.

Has Isothermal given up for good?

The ice is cracking where we both once stood.

I’m slipping as I’m also reaching out,

while chocking on the words I’d like to shout.

If things continue down this path of doom,

and emptiness leads pressure to consume,

what can be done to fill the empty air;

those pockets in between hope and despair?

I must breathe in and fill my lungs with hope.

A Century of Sonnets...Life in the Fast Lane: Sonnet 5

Longings Unfulfilled

These longings that I have go unfulfilled.

The pain runs deep; the scars won’t seem to heal.

Such mental grief; it makes me feel unskilled

and robs me of my peace and steals my zeal.

I wish I knew the magic of appeal,

or what it took to tell it where to go,

or how to work the sealing of the deal.

So many things I seek, yet still don’t know.

I spin my wheels but have nothing to show;

I put myself through torture – and for what?

The games that people play as if I’m slow

hurt the most; they breach the bonds of trust.

So here I stand alone and feeling lost,

still longing for while wondering at what cost?

A Century of Sonnets...Life in the Fast Lane: Sonnet 4

Enraptured

My soul is touched by melodies so sweet.

How intoxicating are those notes turned sound,

dancing through the air and all around,

while tickling each nerve with every beat,

and leaving in their wake a radiant heat.

Such passion from the artist when it’s found

can translate into powers most profound

even Apollo’s satyrs can’t defeat.

Each key turned note, each resonating tone

is spirit food; most needed nourishment.

Music comes in many forms and shapes:

Accompanied or handled all alone,

it’s wondrous ways behold such sentiment.

In my defense it’s how my mind escapes.

A Century of Sonnets...Life in the Fast Lane: Sonnet 2

Please Give Me a Simple Dream

I want to dream a simple dream so sweet
of flower fields ‘n pebble-bottomed streams,
where canopied trees offer a retreat,
and healthy rays of sun burst at the seams.
I had a dream that died a weary death.
No matter how I clung to it, it died.
While stealing the last laugh with its last breath,
it mocked me with a smile: Still I tried
to want it bad enough for both of us.
What a fool I’ve been to think of dreams at all!
While I wished, the rest went out of focus,
and left me feeling useless and quite small.
Where are You, my Rock and my Salvation,
in the hours of my greatest desperation?

My First Sestina

This daily grind is wearing to the bone:

My wheels are spinning while I run in place.

How many times do I have to be told
to guard my heart from growing hard and cold,
and bite my tongue or find myself alone;

just blowing out hot air in empty space?

Sometimes I feel I’m orbiting in space:

Somewhere out there; chilling to the bone;

Going nowhere; feeling all alone.

Quite unprepared to dress for such a place,

I bundle up. “This world is very cold

and ruthless in its ways,” so I’ve been told.

There are the times I wish I would have told

you how I feel about this stale airspace;

then instead of leaving me out in the cold,

now and again you’d throw me a small bone

to satisfy me in this stagnant place,

and make me feel as if I’m not alone.

I have this fear of being all alone;

it’s bottled up with other things untold.

Trying to fit in, I’m out of place:

just like the odd stone in a herringbone

design; it’s cut to fit into the space,

and then once changed, emotions are acold.

You break my heart with cutting words so cold.

Sometimes I wish you’d just leave me alone.

How can you say these things? I have a bone

to pick with you; and once you have been told

my thoughts, my mind and heart will have the space

to fill the new uncluttered, empty place…

Let love take over bitter’s prior place,

while freedom rules by purging all the cold

and dying things once hidden in that space.

“Life’s too short to go it all alone.”

These words of wisdom often I’ve been told,

yet living by them takes more than backbone.

Within this space, I know my place:

I’ll bruise the bone; I’ll bear the cold.

I’m not alone is what I’m told.