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.


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?

Mornings: A Collection of Poems

What do mornings and New Years have in common? Both are over-used poetic metaphors for new beginnings. However, it is (weirdly enough) my favorite time of days. Here are a collection of poetry drabbles about Mornings.


Stone hilled statues

With sleepy, mossy eyes.


Of chiseled eternities,

Time measured

Not in days or years

But in the smooth

Trickle of water

Against rough rock.

Faster than seconds,

Lasting longer

than an era of kings.

The stones watch

slow, sedentary lives

all seeing.


In a purple-gray mist,

hardy goats leap

their cloven feet

clinging to crevices

cleverly embedded

in sheets of stone.

Dawn rises

Slowly with a yawn,

Her orange hair

Glowing like a messy


Around her

And the goats.


Birds repeat the same

morning songs

over and over again.

The chirp of their


A red-frocked, ribbon plaited

Innocence the world

heralds every morning.

Smelling of talcum powder

and rosy red cheeks.

It’s like the day

is new once more.


In a warm blanket embrace,

I fumble in the mornings.

To relentless cheer

I hear in my ears

But do not feel in my heart.

Underneath my neck

I can feel the softness

Of pillows still dreaming.

Yet further ‘neath

Is the insistent vibration

which won’t let me

close my eyes. Back

to another reality.

It tells me it’s time to leave

the blankets and their heat,

face the crisp cold

face the music

and the real world.


Mornings are quiet affairs.

With the world still dreaming

And you sipping your tea.

Pursing through papers

As you absent-mindedly

Note that much has changed

Since you woke and did

the Same thing Yesterday.


Jackal Enters: A Halloween Poem

Jackal Enters

I say it fast.
Syllables all running together.
Jack- A- Lent-Urn.
Jackal Enter.

Faces grin at me.
Carved out eyes.
Spilling out with
pumpkin flesh
and gooey guts
and bony seeds.

They glow at me.
With triangle eyes
and square pupils.
Little flames flickering
suspicious behind them.

“Hello, dear girl”
they whisper secretively.
“Is it Trick or Treat?”
Today they grin at me,
Sharp, toothy grins
illuminated within.

“Treat”, I whisper back.
My pulse skittering,
And my heart hammering
pulsing orange vitality,
and then the black
of deadened winter.

I’m dressed to scare tonight.
And I scare myself,
The neighbours who silently
hand over
nutty bars of chocolte
and red coloured, clear wrapped
boiled cavities.

But not the pumpkins.
I don’t, can’t scare them. The Jackal enters.
Laughing like a hyena.
“We’ll burn you.” They whisper again.

With shaking hands
I accept confectionaries.
With trembling ears
I hear eerie giggles.

When I tiptoe back home.
Pillow sack full of empty sugars.
Fingers sticking together,
numbed by cold.
I turn on the porch lights.
My hands are black not blue.

Black, black, black
like the hissing
fur on an inky cat.
Black, black, black
like the billowing
spider silk of a witches hat.
Black, black, black
like the steaming
of a coffee
no sweetener or cream.
Black, black,black
like the shrilling
ear piercing sound I scream.

“They burned me,” I whisper in
kerosene and smoke shadows.
“They burned me,” I disbelieve
shaking my foggy head.
“Those fucking Jackal enters!”

Evil: A Poem

Forehead pressed to the ground.

Smudging against the dirt.

Eyes blinded with floating dust,

Watering and tearing,

Against the injustice, the tragedy.

See no evil.


Lips muffled, making no sound,

Choking on the ashes of Earth.

Go down. Go down they must.

Choking and spitting,

Swallowing humanity.

Speak against no evil.


Eyes staying lowered down,

Lashes glued for all they’re worth.

Hoping, full of trust,

Is someone else rising?

Practising bravery?

Challenge no evil.


No one stands.

Knees, foreheads, lips, eyes.

All stuck by shame and fear.

When the evil’s no longer around,

Keep your eyes, lips,  forehead on the ground

Become an evil.

Lady of Marriage: A Poem

Lady of Marriage, is your title a taunt?

For the liberties that your husband does flaunt-

That the ribbons of fidelity do not dare to bind

As he sneaks out in full view from laws you ordained

To another woman’s heart and into her bed

Jealous Juno, doesn’t it make you see red?

And as you sit on your pretty peacock throne

In your court of the kingdom of skies alone

Your own children gossip loud and bold

That the reason he strays is because you’re cold

Unfeeling and unpassionate, filled with duty

And responsibilty instead of beauty.

And their half siblings flinch and cringe in fear

But as soon as the think you don’t hear

They go ahead and drag dirt through your name

To your utter and complete quiet shame

Flinging old news of your still fresh jealousy

Around like it’s interesting, maybe even funny.

When Jupite, a  better father than husband listens

To his unlovable bastard, illegitimate children

And once more the whole court whispers

Not even bothering to hide their whispers

As you fall out of favour with your lord husband

And he accepts another woman’s welcoming hand

At times like these, your title feels like a taunt.

1984 Once More: A Poem

Again, the clock strikes thirteen
And I’m reminded just who is watching.
The sky is gray. The ground is gray.
And even the trees are gray not green.
Yet the cameras and eyes behind them watching
fixedly, on the dreary gloom they stay.

I’m not a writer (nor have I ever been).
Not in this land o’ vigilant watching.
In this land of few words I hesitate to say
stuff that might make sense to more than teens;
Stifling thoughts that might be worth thinking;
Actions that might be more than whiling time away.

So, as the clock strikes thirteen once more
and I’m inundated in a lack of speech,
drowning in an overwhelming wave of txtspk,
I turn away from cameras, windows, door
-to the blind spot just barely out of reach-
from the chaotic commotion of simplistic txtspk.

Because I write, I am now a writer.
The only one who writes in desperate screech.
For no one else writes- doesn’t that sound bleak?
You’re typing away on tinky keyboards and you mutter.
Something unintelligible- definitely not speech
because you have drownt in a sea of txtspk