Behind closed eyes,

the monsters dwell-

and nighttime dark sees sorrow.

To stay awake,

would be to say,

“Come back again tomorrow.”

Yet, all the while

I play the game

of yearning for the waking.

Still, in the dark,

my Spirit thrives,

In spite of what it’s taking.


On the Roof

You caught me off-guard.
So I stumbled and fell.
And found myself on the roof-
Cigarette in-hand.

It wasn’t a moment we shared-
And somehow, it is now.

My anger subsided
And made room for peace.
But now, what is it?
Jealousy? Perhaps.

For all we have lost,
And all you have done,
Somehow it doesn’t seem to fit.
That you should receive this gift-
A gift that should be mine.

So when you caught me off-guard,
So I stumbled and fell-
And found myself on the roof,
You were with me.
You always are.
My travellin’ star.

Turn Around

Tell me- who are you?
And why’re you here-
Dressed as my demons-
As my countless fears?

How can I know you-
As you so know me?
The girl in the basket,
She yearns to be free.

And if I have known you
In some other life,
Why here? Why now,
In the midst of my strife?

You’re clawing and scraping
And aching to speak.
And I- I’m not listening.
My heart is too weak.

But maybe- just maybe-
I have the desire
To know all your flaws,
And fight fire with fire.

The Smallest of Things

An Autumn breeze is scarcely felt

by those who hold the warmth of the Sun.

And something has to be said of that-

Of the moment just after its setting.

Of the moment after a storm,

When the rain is falling, yet the sky is empty.

Of the first moment of hope,

The insuperable confidence-

The overwhelming joy.

Yet, once the moment passes-

In its prematurity-

The Sun is gone.

The rain is through.

Hope is defeated.

It starts with the smallest of things.

And ends with nothing less.

Familial Amendment

She finds her adolescent years

Clouded by a six-pack.

There was a time,

When she had come to know him

The way they say he used to be:

Passionate and diligent.

Loving and delightful.

Dauntless and full of adventure.

Then she saw him

Cold and drunk:

A pile of dirty laundry hugged

every inch of her body-

but he saw-

ripped away…

and carried her up the stairs

in his infamous stupor.

Her childhood drowned

in that bottle of Bud.

She cringes at the sound-

The alarm of the dogs’ bark


Glass against glass

Rattling lock

Few injuries scar her skin.

And you should know-

She was hardly touched.

An anchor landed on her life-

You hid.

You did not know.

Your room was your safe-haven

when everywhere else

was Hell.

Black Bird/ White Horse

Our lives keeping changing-
And thriving
And moving
And working

And you’re still not here.

But you were
My Abel.

Or were you my Cain?

My winter solstice
My black horse.
My badger- my raven-
My Elder tree.

My polar opposite.

“You’ve never loved truly until you’ve lost,” or something like that…

And I’ve lost.
I have.

But I wonder, now-
What have you gained?

If I’ve lost so much-
You must have to.

YOU’RE the one who ran.
YOU’RE the one who hid.
YOU’RE the one who left us here.

Do you miss me?
Do you think of me?
If you read this, would you still think I am being too emotional?

The point in all this shit I’m writing is-
How are you?
I miss you.
Happy birthday.
I love you.

And I hope that of all the ones
To get into your heart,
That maybe- just maybe-
I could be the start.

Your summer solstice.
Your white horse.
Your otter- your hawk-
Your oak tree.

Your sister.
Your sister.
Your sister.

On Coping with Writer’s Block

This is an amazing piece of work that I just have to share. As a writer going through almost a year of “writer’s block”, it is comforting to see that someone has some good, hard advice.

Black coffee and cigarettes

writing 2

I haven’t written for a very long time.

I joined a creative writing class a while ago to help me through my ‘writer’s block’ – can you call yourself a writer if you don’t write? – and I managed to produce a total of 500 words over the entire four-week course. A paltry amount by any standards, though the course itself was brilliant.

One of the suggestions from my fellow writers was to write about why I don’t write. I’ve been thinking a lot about the reasons I don’t write lately so this seemed as good a place to kick off my writing again as any. And also address why I call myself a writer in the first place – a hard sell in the writing void of the last few months.

In my professional life, I have been a public relations consultant, a journalist and now, an editor. Words…

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