They Won

She locks them down deep in her heart
The pains that are much to hard to bear
Not knowing pains are living things
They too have a need of air

She paces back and forth
As her soul rips at the seams
The pains try to find a voice
But she suppress the urge to scream

The pains search in vain
Desperate for way to be heard
But not computer, pen or paper
Is touched to give her pains words

But pains are a force of nature
Pains finds a way to succeed
As she picks up a straight razor
And in little cuts starts to bleed

And but for a short moment
The pains do ease inside
Covers the cuts in long sleeves
A whole new way to hide

For days, weeks, months, on end
She and her pains do this odd dance
She suppressing the cuts of evidence
As pains sneak out when they gets the chance

And all the lies rapidly collected
To give her scars a blame
Only cuts deeper than the physical cuts
That can’t quell her personal shame

She refused to reach out
To those offering her their hand
But she just wasn’t ready
Wasn’t prepared to understand

That to accept help was not a weakness
On the strong who reach out survive
But in her head only pains say she’s living
That only the pains keep her alive

Over a year on a late summer night
The clock ticks about a quarter to four
And finds that’s she’s still cutting
Alone on the bathroom floor

And for the first time she sees her arms
The crisscrossing along her inner thighs
The fresh blood trickling from her wrist
And for the first time she truly cries

The avoided mirror reflects all her hurts
Only as painful as the eyes can see
At last her pains have found a voice
And now owned will not let her be

It suddenly felt like so many hands were on her
More than what could possibly be real
It was heart reaching out to all who touched her
Desperate for a chance to finally heal

For the heart’s not made to hold pain for so long
And her pains no longer had the patience to wait
Freed at last it gushed through every avenue
She’d finally reached out, but it was too late

"THEY WON" carved into an arm.

Entered in:

Thursday Poets Rally – Week 65 

Poetry Picnic  – Week 30

Two Princes

Two New York princes on a subway train
Two different styles, two different manes
Mister Business so perfectly dressed
While Mr. Free Spirit’s so casually tressed
One baby bottom smooth as always
One hasn’t seen a razor in many days
Mr. Business is the model of all things materially
But it’s Mr. Free Spirit who captivates me
Is it the flip-flop sandals on his feet?
Or that reappearing dimple in his cheek
Head bopping in beat to his own tune
In a way Mr. Business’ would never swoon
Business is cool as in ice, Spirit’s cool as in fun
Maybe I’ll take the money under another sun
But for today Mr. Free Spirit is the one


Visit the rest of today’s Slices of Life over at Two Writing Teachers.

SOL - Slice of Life March Challenge 2012

Midnight Flute

I remember it was late
late in the night
I had just turned off
the bedroom light
Humming an old tune
I couldn’t remember the words
I just stopped
when a sound was heard
As sound that challenged
teased, taunted
So pretty, yet so alone
it seemed almost haunted
Standing in the darkness
I could feel it surround me
Bringing its presence
to everything around me
Reminding me of past evenings
serene and tame
Of fire and romance
when love was in flame
The memories of things
I still regret
Past happenings, mistakes
I wanted to forget
My knowledge of the moment
suddenly lost
The sounds turning my thoughts
to such utter chaos
It was a long time before my hands
touched the blinds
Seeking out whatever
I hoped to find
Which turned out to be
just an empty street
Quiet and deserted
not a soul to meet
Only the silent moments
that lingered on
Made me realize
the sounds were gone
Its chilling warmth
and heated cold
Newly arrived
yet centuries old
Leaving me to wonder
if ever again
Would I hear the warm sounds
of such a cold friend
Or was it an enemy
I’ll never get to know
With its once becoming sounds
now haunting me so


Entered in

Thursday Poets Rally Week 64 (March 22-28, 2012)

The Mystery Inside

Yes, enter this orchard of distinct cherry
I believe I am more than ready
To place all my trust in you to let
You handle this orchard’s precious get

Yes, I grant you access to my colorific wonders
But please, do not embark inside to plunder
You must be gentle, don’t brusquely grope
Slowly ferry your intent, along the brief slope

First press yourself against my door gently,
There will be a sound, which grants you entry.
Listen for the gasp between a moan and a sob
As you place your fingers on my mansion’s knob,

With a kiss as your token to be on queue
As I take you abreast for proper homage due
Wooing my passion with your tongue,
You’ll revel in just how my gem’s bell is rung

Being gentle does not mend to being meek
When I let you in to all that you seek,
You’ll find my resistance wearing thin,
As I deeply ache to let you in

Heat that cooks when you come in from the cold
Ancient sacred treasure, that somehow stays gold
The blaze of an epiphany, behind solid advice
Euphoria’s loss in a Fool’s Paradise

Access granted, you’ll find me a gregarious host
As you decide which lips you enjoy most
Exploring beauty redefined for the something I hide,
For my mystery changes each time you’re inside

The Chanteuse

There were the songs she sang for lovers
There were the songs she sang for the souls departed
There were the songs she sang for dreamers
This is the song she sang for the brokenhearted
Joshua Kadison / Vanishing America – El Diablo Amor

She’ll parcel out her song as is her right
But they come to see her every night
To listen to her words in the smoky light
Audience of eight or a hundred and one
Captivated by whatever music is spun
For all the pain, all the joy she uncovers
With an opus of her choice
To the last trill of her voice
A soft lingering note that gently hovers

There were the songs she sang for lovers

With wail of discord or a comforting tune
Her voice shrieking notes high or the low of bassoon
Her words soft in true tribute or mocking lampoon
Be it last year, last week or just the other day
From the memories of love from those passed away
Full of the hope from sage’s last wisdom imparted
Whether the brief friendship or the closest of kin
A personal memorial from her to them
Who now walk paths only the heavens have charted 

There were the songs she sang for the souls departed

Just believe love will come all bright, shiny and new
Or your craziest wish will certainly come true
From her song, nothing is impossible to do
Twinkle with the moonbeams and become a new fish
Or savor the flavor of a favorite dish
From a childhood feast full of rambunctious screamers
We’ll have naught of ye olde stodgy civilities
Take a chance with infinite possibilities
Life is a parade complete with shiny streamers 

There were the songs she sang for dreamers

The audience’s mood takes a moment to gauge
Before setting a tempo designed to assuage
And all from the comfort of the dim, smoky stage
Whether an upbeat tempo or sad notes that swooned
Pure heartbreak is heard no matter what song is crooned
She always seems to know when love has been thwarted
Each table has candles lit in a glass that’s clear
Maybe the soft light glistened off my single tear
One look at my face and she knew that love had parted 

This is the song she sang for the brokenhearted


Glosa poetic form

The Glosa is a Spanish form that also works well in English.   Glosas open with a quatrain from another poet, called the cabeza, followed by four ten-line stanzas terminating with the lines of the initial cabeza in consecutive order.  The sixth and ninth lines of each stanza rhyme with the borrowed tenth line and is the only required rhyme of the poem. There is no set meter or syllable count for a Glosa, however, a good flow is always recommended.

Entered in:

Thursday Poets Rally Week 61 (January 25-Feb 3, 2012)

Poetry Picnic Week 23: New York Times Headline Topics
Inspired by NYT article: Sounds That Come From in the Head and on the Street

Even As

These stolen moments with you singe my lips
Even as I stand in the blaze of summer’s sweat
Even as I stand in the midst of winter’s onset
My need for you overrides my hardships
Caught in your haze, my resolve slips
As with each touch of you I love and regret
These stolen moments

Even as I know how your poison drips
Even as I know you’ll be my death yet
I stand here and light up another cigarette
I pray each day I’ll free of your grips
These stolen moments


 Thursdays Poets’ Rally Week 49
Thursdays Poets’ Rally Week 49 (July 28 – August 3, 2011)

Cold-Hearted Illusion

Painting by John Huggett: Woman in mirror smoking a cigarette.

She sits at her vanity in examination of her face
Wary of any unexplainable mar
And gently rubs away cooled wax from her breast
Grateful it will not leave a scar

Still she smiles at the dash of lusty memory
Of how it came to be there
Its reason kneeling down right in front of her
Blowing kisses in her hair

Her robe barely hampers his gift to her
As she combusts within
A contrast of wind from an open window
Cooling her hot skin

He comments on her luminescence
As he makes an invisible notch
She comments on his effervescence
As she hands him his watch

She warms at the sentimental kiss he gives her
Just before, he leaves
Out on business for a day
But he’ll be back the next eve

She’s actually feeling good until
He uses her stage name
And pollutes the mood of the moment
Closing the door on the love game

She knows his affection is not
In the way he holds or even kisses her hand
Her cold-hearted illusion of love
Is in the wad of emerald bills left on the nightstand



Perfect Poets Award – Week 59

Thank you so much! I nominate Life Between The Lines

First Feelings Part II (The Reality)

It was mine.

It was mine to give
to the one I chose.
Instead it was taken,
forever from my grasp.

Stole the most valuable item
That this fifteen year old possessed.

It was mine.
It was suppose to be a gift.

Somewhere out there
the potential recipient
knows not what was lost.

It was mine.
He stole my gift.

I had visions on how it
would one day be given.

It was mine.
He stole my dream.

For years what I gave
could never bring
me happiness.
It wasn’t The gift.

It was mine.
He stole my joy.

I should be able to reminisce
fondly when girl talk
falls to that time
but I remain quiet.

It was mine.
He stole my memories.

A stranger made himself familiar
in a place he should have never known.


dVerse Meeting the Bar ~ Symbolism