Paper streamer portal: A Poem

I have a new poem, right in time for Halloween. Beware of the decorations, people.

A grey crepe paper streamer hangs

So low, you can feel its mouth rasp,

Whiskers on the skin of your nape.

Hear its wispy breaths and gasps.


You reach up to bat it away.

Fingers break cracking skin.

The tissue membrane sunders.

A ghastly world gushes in.


Crashing on the other side,

Rushing like water freshly undammed,

Spirits bellow, hollow and howling, 

Bright teeth glinting because they can.


They trample over your shoulders,

Scamper, claws digging into your spine.

A slither vice wrapping around your chest

Smelling of sulfur and putrid brine.


Now that paper’s not there to hinder,

You can hear their unsubtle whispers

“Dance. Bloody. Scavenge.” they screech

“It’s Halloween. We’re through the breach.”

If you want another Halloween poem, here’s one I wrote last year: Jackal Enters. It’s a spooky one about Trick-o-treating and Jack-O-Lantern’s.
Enjoy your candy.

The Spring Devil: A Poem

While you were sleeping,

I realized the world belongs to us.

It’s there for us to grab.

All we have to do is free it

From the scrouge that chills

The Otherworld.


Tell the truth,

You have a fire in you.

You want to take the key

And lock her up.

Throw the tears into prison.

Off with their heads!


Shame on the angels.

Watching coolly from above.

You want to fall, don’t you?

Is there a reason more noble

Than action, the muse of nightmares?


In a breath of fire, fly off the ice

Get off your frigid throne.

Meet the spring devil.

Let your song rise.

Because the thing about ice

Is it needs water to freeze.


Wake up!

Wake up!

Wake up!

People Watching: A Poem

I like to sit on sun-lit benches

In crowds full of people

But alone.


Nobody stays still. I watch them

Laugh, eat, run and linger

Watch them go.


I like to close my eyes and hear

Melting conversations

All mixed up.


“…merely inconsequential.”

“Ate pancakes till I threw-up…”



Sometimes I wonder who each one is.

I give them their own backstories.  

All made up.


A matador, running with bulls.

Royal princess in disguise.

Tired felon.  


Sometimes I see others sitting on benches.

Watching the whole world ebb and flow.

What do they see?

The Seat Next to Mine: A Poem

When I was 5 years old,
I walked into a classroom
Full of golden light and
giggling children.
I sat down on a rug that
spanned the alphabet.
on the letter “A”.

I watched you enter the room,
and plop your pink backpack
down in your cubby.
You stood uncertainly
like you wanted to sit
I hesitated….
Then I patted”B”.

For a year we sat together.
We made crowns of dandelions,
and tasted buttercups
at recess together.
Promising each other it
tasted like popcorn even
though we knew it didn’t.

I scowled at you when you
wouldn’t give me
the pink balloon
I really, really wanted
even though it was my birthday.
But when 7 year old Bryan,
grabbed it from you,
I yelled at him
“Give it back!”
because it was yours.

You left a couple weeks after
your dad got a new job.
I didn’t have your number,
your e-mail, your address
or even your last name.

I went on with my life.
I learned that buttercups
had nothing to with the food
and that dandelions were weeds.
I decided purple was a
much nicer color than pink.

12 years later, I walked into a room
filled with musty books
and the smell of coffee.
I look around the room
for a familiar face
and my gaze snags on yours.

I hesitate because I’m
not sure you are you.
But you pat the desk
in the spot next to yours.
And I sit next to you
One more time.

Music and Love: 3 poems

Heart strings

I like my body when it’s with your body.

Because when it’s not, it feels too tight

I feel like a rubber band, being slowly pulled.

Like I’ve been crumpled up, then stretched.

So that someone could twang me,

Draw some noise out of my taut self.

But my body is different with your body.

You don’t have to pluck me to play music.

Your slightest touch and I hum and vibrate.

A little more pressure; I practically sing.

Bells and Whistles

I hear church bells when you speak.

You know, as a reminder.

That even if you’re a terrible, terrible person-

You still happen to be a person.

And for that I owe you basic human kindness.

They peal long and loud and low.

Don’t slap him. Don’t bitch at him. Don’t hurt him.

I wonder if you hear church bells

I hope you do.

The noise of silence

You have presence.

I always know when you’re here

Because you come with drums,

Guitar riffs and soft violin moans.

Like a one-man walking band.

You have presence.

I feel it when you’re gone.

In your absence, I hear silence.

Louder than a rock festival.

Babble: A Poem

Then tearlets returned

To the eye of the soul-broken.

It was a crystalline coup,

A stormy feat, the empirical heist

Of a golden century.


And then we danced along

On a path of books and dust

With our untimely deaths

Trailing behind us

On the gilded spokes of

Three broken crowns.


Cold smoke and glossy mirrors.

Burning tapestries and woven flames.

A cavernous time, of gaping glee

Running downhill, windswept

Into the midnight aerie.


Yet is it hard to believe

That once was a time

Where we wild swans

Struck by the light of moon

Never night, never might

Be afraid to give you the sun.


Longing: A Poem

I know what longing tastes like.

Like whipped cream and sugar

In a famine with no rain.

It tastes like light and glory

Everything that you can’t have.


Like the bardish story­tales

that I heard as a child,

Impotent dragons of old

With useless piles of gold

The shiny hoarded anyways.


Of black-teethed witches who lived in

stale­ pastry cottages

while good enough to lure

pimple poxed little children

but crumbled to graham dust

in the mouths of boiled witches.


It flickers like the Fool’s Gold

You see in Shamrock Hollows.

A shining illusion that disappears

As soon as a foot step comes near.

But to appear a few steps further.


I know what longing feels like.

Paper cuts from denial letters,

Ears watering from disappointment.

I know what longing feels like

And I know that it hurts.

Drowned Mermaid: A Poem

In the narrow blue straits

of dire uncertainty,

she hangs.

Limbs loose.

Neck bent at an awkward angle.

Dark strands of hair trailing behind her

pall-­bearers to witness tragedy.


She’s a mermaid with

Blowing coral lips,

A shiny top of scales.

She’s a drowned mermaid

Blue in the face,

Bloated corpse.

Washed up river trash

floated downstream like a barge.


Even the gutter rats

won’t claim her now.

She floats onward,

broken face staring up

through cracked irises,

at the painted sky


Image result for mermaid

To Sleep: A Poem


It’s the hour after midnight

And the rain tumbles down-

Just sounds in absence of light

Making sharp taps on the ground.


Somewhere in my achy knee

There’s a crick, an ugly bend.

That winces and protest painfully

that it’s just half alive, almost dead.


The only light that’s on is the dim

whitish-blue of the artificial screen.

I watch it with aching limbs

And straining eyes that need to see.


It’s the hour after midnight

And I should long be asleep

For the hours of the night

Have passed furiously, I grieve.


And yet, I can’t part my blood-shot

eyes rimmed red with exhaustation

from the flicker-dazzle lights that rot

my brain away with gleeful ministration,


I should close my eyes, let them rest.

Tip my neck back, stretch my knee.

Get out of this hellish crisscross nest,

soft blankets and screens smothering me.


…I know I should….So why haven’t I?

Together Hands: A Poem

We slipped out

Of each other’s grasp.

And the hands

that used to fast clasp

slid out in gradual

movements inch by inch

of skin slipping from skin.


First, it was the occasional

handshake with cool eyes,

As if those eyes never

learned how to telepath

secrets one iris to another.

Frigid smiles on frosted lips

As if these lips have never

laughed, joked, cried together.


Slipping. Slipping.

We kept slipping.

Away from each other and

the warm, warm hands

of forever friendship.

Now, we don’t touch.


I don’t know your palm

as well as I know mine.

I can’t trace your fortune,

in the lines carved into

your open, caring heart.


But the thing about hands

that have grown together

blistered with patterns of

matching callouses…


The thing about hands that

held each other with love

and with girlhood secrets…


The thing about such hands

is that they always find their

way back to one another.


And if I took your hand in

my own now withered one,

I’m willing to bet

we would still match.