Song of the Thorn Bird

Song of the Thorn Bird

Saturday, August 14, 2010


slow, synchronized to the beating of shared heart
side by side,
wrapped in sorrow’s heavy blanket
grasp the last stolen moment before it takes flight
each gazes into the depths of the other
       no more time
       no more forever

       no refusal
       no struggle
       no silent soliloquies.
       no secret prayers

tear-stained, caressed before gentle exit
all alone
forsaken to the world’s ugliness, emptiness once more
surrenders softly the last vestige of hope
solitary, locks away her heart
      no more time
      no more forever

Monday, July 12, 2010

Magpie Tales

 Summer Reverie

from the vine
in the splendor
     of youth and fullness
all in the name
    of want and satisfaction
by another

Post inspired by Magpie Tales. Go visit, read the "rules" and join in the fun for next week.

Thursday, July 1, 2010


His kiss
firecracker that bursts from the soul
upon his burning mouth
to her waiting, wanton lips
connecting two
     two bodies, two souls
Her rapture

Post inspired by Magpie Tales.  Go visit and join in the fun today.  This is my first post here in a month and I am so ready to get back into action!

Tuesday, June 29, 2010

Technology, Technology

Technology, technology
Can be a very good thing.
Explore inner universe,
Allow your soul to sing.

Technology, technology
Can be a maddening force
Break down, lock down
Loss of creativity's power source!

Technology, technology
Marvel and miracle, see?!
Chrysallis to butterfly
My soul once again free.

Ode to a broken down computer that took 29 days to get I might add by my brother-in-law who took pity on me! YAY! I am back!

Tuesday, June 1, 2010

Barefoot Summer

free, free at last
summer’s started
jump into it fast
ready, open-hearted

kick off those shoes
put on that tank
that’s what I choose
mind goes empty, blank

lounging lazily
pool of azure blue
raspberry tea
the soul to renew.

free, free at last
summer’s started
jump into it fast
ready, open-hearted

inspired by Magpie Tales.  jump into summer by joining the fun!

Friday, May 21, 2010

Catch, Release, and Go Fly a Falcon

“Honey, there are more fish in the sea. Throw that one back and find you a good one.”

Sure, that is what THEY say. You know the ones. Married for eleventy hundred years. Married back when naughty was boys pulling girls' pigtails, men were manly men, and the women cooked three squares a day…instead of opening three square boxes and heating them up (my favorite cooking style to date). And, you met your intended at a social and not via social networking. Married when marriage was truly forever and the photos to prove it were in sepia tone.

I am now nearly 42 and divorced for ten. Fishes my age don’t live too much longer and most don’t stay single that long….well the ones worth catching and keeping anyways. All the others flailing around are charter members of the Catch and Release Program (them being the ones released). There may be “more fish in the sea”, but at my age my sea has shrunk to a bracken fish-hatchery filled with nothing but in-bred options. All the keepers have already swum upstream snatched by all those “fly” fishermen. I am left with those too lazy and too weak to even bother swimming in the right direction out of the tank. Hell, the few that might have gotten caught in some unsuspecting net were tossed back quicker than it takes a fish to flop to his death in a fisherman’s basket.

Just in case you’re wondering, I don’t believe there are any good ones left in the sea…or the hell-hole, water hole I have been floundering in. So I think I might just stop fishing all together. I’m going to take up something more worthy of my time. Like falconry. Now that is something on which I can put my stamp of approval. Hint: in this fable, I am the keen-eyed falcon with the razor sharp talons….watch out my pretty little prey. Here comes the delusioned divorcee.
Sponsored by Willow at Magpie Tales.  Go on over and read a spell!


Temptation of forbidden fruit, lured to soul-catchers of Ceylon blue
Adonis with raven hair vies to consume completely

Should have been any other,
but not him
any other than him

Refusal to forsake, to turn away, to walk away, to run away
head held high, leaving well enough alone

Should have been any other,
but not him
anyone other than him

Weakness of spirit, caution swayed by the careless madness
longing for tender touch and impassioned embrace

Should have been any other,
but not him
any other than him

Surrender to most primal calling, inner stirrings erupt and unbridled
passion’s denouement, but for a brief and measured time

Should have been any other,
but not him
any other than him

Wreckage from the surrender, hearts shattered, lives razed to ruin
obliteration, all gladly given just for the touch of the youthful god

Should have been any other,
but not him
any other than him

Saturday, May 15, 2010


She was standing in a war zone that had once been a marriage. The tantrum was over and everything was lying in shambles. The china and crystal once gifted to a doe-eyed couple blinded by love. The promises and sacred vows shattered into a thousand shards, each ready to slice any hand trying to piece it all back together. The dream of their twilight years to rock on the veranda, reminiscing the past while surrounded by their future, all ten of them, russet-haired, hazel-eyed charmers. All of it gone, seemingly destroyed, except for a single china plate ensconced in her tight grasp.

After all the raging tears and a tirade of words vomited out in anger, a single remnant of hope remained. Her great-grandmother’s Chinese treasure had endured the Great Quake, the Great Depression, two World Wars, and 71 years of marriage to a cantankerous bastard, and, now it had survived this great quake and this great depression. Perhaps this was a divine sign that all had not been lost between them after all these years. But how could that be possible?

Once upon a blooming youth, she would look into his eyes only to be swept off her feet, into his heart and into his bed. As in any marriage, over time the chemistry waxed and waned with the seasons of life; the bills came, the children came, and the disappointments came, all as youth faded into the beige of the walls of a two-story house with the white picket fence. The eventual apathy that grew from routine and repetition was hard to endure. However, it was when mutual contempt took residence in their hearts that a silent war began.

No longer did either strive to edify the other or offer shelter when life’s tempests came. They would rather give the other the finger than to give a helping hand. One day, the pair simply woke up to find a gauntlet, deftly stitched with broken promises and unfulfilled dreams, had been thrown. For an entire decade, their marriage had become a series of petty battles and callous calculations. A line had been drawn. Someone was going to win with the other plummeting to absolute defeat, but with both lives in absolute ruin.

Or was this the only possible outcome? The plate in her arms was still intact. Perhaps just as this piece of fine china had survived destruction, death, and a lifetime of disappointment, so could the single thread that held these two souls together…

Probably not, so she just lets go…lets go of the plate and any hope with it.

Photo provided by and story inspired by Magpie Tales.

Wednesday, May 12, 2010

Quiet Moment

sultry sundress musings
breezes frolic, kiss the cheek
breathe in scent of sunshine
feet plunge into liquid azure
soul draped in pleasure

Thursday, May 6, 2010

Keep Your Eye on the Prize

Nadine turned to her half-wit, half-brother, chastising him with voice part sugary, southern kiss and part viper hiss, “Now, Darvis, when Momma told you to keep your eye on the future, she did not mean it literally. Put your goddamn glass eye back into that empty skull of yours. Lord knows you cannot afford to lose another thing up there after the accident. Frankly, that trick has gotten old after 8 years. This Van Gogh sketch is my future, my ticket out of here. Get your greasy fingers and piece of shit prosthetics off of it!”

Who would have thought that their weekly ritual of buying other people’s crap at the crack of dawn would have finally paid off? Who would have thought that a gaudy painting bought for $22 at the estate sale of some decrepit old hermit lady on Mortimer Lane was actually hiding an undiscovered Masterpiece behind it. Nadine may be the daughter of Mac and Merlene Hopkins, white trash Texas royalty, but she knew class and refinement, she knew art when she saw it. Nadine also could recognize a chance to escape “Armpit”, Texas once and for all. Now only if she could get rid of Darvis, her blood and her burden.

Inspired by Magpie Tales and the weekly photo prompt. 
Go on by and join in the fun!

Monday, May 3, 2010

Little Fish, Small Town (Mag 12)

Solid glass sphere, hand-blown in Europe, with a story patterned inside. Within its depths, Lauralye could feel the wrath of the lava-hand erupting into the center grasping to control its surroundings, grasping to control her. All the while, a tiny, delicate, solitary fish seeks only to live her life in peace and harmony.

The small-town girl grown to jaded woman twirls the blown glass memory in her hands. Like a rubbing a lantern to produce the genie with three wishes, staring into the moving glass trinket transports Lauralye to another time and place. The only time and place that allowed her respite from this two-traffic stop town. A spring long ago.

It’s May of 1999 and Lauralye was the only daughter of THE Hoods, as in the white-trash-on-the-wrong-side-of-the-tracks Hoods of Petitville. The raven-haired beauty had a plan to take her away from this small town and the even smaller minds determined to keep her here and in her place. Once she was out of here, it would be forever, even if that meant saying goodbye to Marshall Goldun, heir to Goldun Enterprises, the company that owned the town and her father’s soul. She wanted Marshall and the life he had, but not enough to delude herself that it would ever be allowed in this town with its modern, American caste system. No, Lauralye had a careful, thorough escape plan that did not include the Goldun Boy.

For the past two and a half years, Lauralye had worked at the local Dairy Cream every weekend, walking the 3.17 miles each way, come hell or high water. If she intended to flee this place, the plan did not include wasting money on gas, insurance payments, and upkeep on the crappy car her wages would allow her to have. She could endure anything or pay any price, knowing it would be the ticket out of this hell-hole. For that reason she put up with the out-dated, polyester uniforms of the Dairy Cream Darlins, the taunts and catcalls from Petitville’s Pretty People, and especially the humiliation of having him witness her degradation from his friends without his saying one damn thing to stop it.

But through it all, this dreamer held onto to the plan and ultimately onto nearly $10,000. Luckily Duke Hood, her father the sell-out and local drunk, was just ignorant enough with his 7th-grade education not to realize that she made enough money to help out with things around the house, while stock-piling every other dollar that would get her out of Duke’s house and this town’s smallness, both which conspired to keep her in Petitville.

Just four months earlier Lauralye sent off for her passport and all necessary travel papers to live and work in Paris. Just yesterday she bought her ticket and received confirmation for bed space at an “affordable” youth hostel in Montmartre, home of Sacre Coeur. In exactly 21 days, Lauralye would graduate from Petitville High and in 22 days she would forever shake the dust of this place from her heels. In 22 days, her life would begin, but not before she had said a proper good-bye to her Goldun Boy.

For two years, no matter how much her heart and physical yearnings begged for Marshall’s total embrace, she had always managed to pull away in time before she crossed a line that could not be uncrossed. It was one thing to be white trash and the daughter of the town drunk, but it was another to be the town whore. She made sure that line was never crossed, until tonight. Lauralye had always wanted the satisfaction of Marshall being the one to take her innocence and with graduation a week away, tonight would be the night. She could not risk losing the only chance of escape, the night of graduation when her parents would not be looking for her to be home early. If she were going give Marshall a proper farewell, it was tonight or never. At the end of the date, on the way back to her house, Lauralye convinced him to stop at Flower Bluff, a secluded rendezvous point for amorous couples. That night under the light of a crescent moon, Lauralye said goodbye to her childhood and to the one person who could imprison her to life in this small town.

Eight weeks later, the newly freed spirit now wandered the streets of Paris, drank “un express” every morning, and worked in a local brasserie owned by a very kind and generous woman. Lauralye was poorer than an English church mouse, but she had never been happier and never had as much. On a rare day off, she went exploring at Les Puces de Saint-Ouen or the flea markets of Porte de Clignancourt. Lauralye, unable to afford anything frivolous, loved just being among the thousands of items, each with its own history, some with stories literally centuries old. As she wandered among the priceless treasures, something caught her eye. A glass sphere with a shocking splash of red. Upon closer inspection, Lauralye realized that objet d’arte was hand blown class with a coral and fish scene inside. She was instantly drawn to the story created inside. She was the fish, but that was no coral. It was the angry hand of small-minded people trying to drag her back to a place that would surely be a death sentence for her soul. She had to have this treasure and the 210 Francs it cost meant she would do without dinner tonight. That was okay; she wasn’t feeling that well anyway. She had a stomach virus that had been hanging around for a couple of weeks now.

Several more weeks later in August, all of Paris seemed to be closed down as most Parisians escaped the heat and crowds of the city. Lauralye enjoyed this time feeling as if she had a bit more of the city to herself. However, she wished, she could enjoy it more. That stomach virus just kept hanging on. Her nagging “French Maman” convinced her to visit the family doctor. Frankly, Lauralye was ready to see him in hopes of obtaining a prescription to end the discomfort so as to continue the Parisian Adventure without a constant wave of nausea.

After a thorough exam, the doctor came back to the room with a smile, which could only mean good news; Lauralye had been worried she might have IBS or maybe even an ulcer from those oppressive years in Petitville. In a heavily accented English, Monsieur Doctor Mauvais gave the nervous patient the results. “Everyzeeng eez okay. Dees leedle tummy zeeng weel clear up in six mois, ummm, six monts. Félicitations, Mademoiselle, you weel be a mozhur soon!”

“Whaaat? I will be a what soon? A mother? I’m pregnant?” Lauralye cried out as she nearly fainted from the shock and from her growing condition. In an instant, her Great Escape and Parisian Adventure had come to a screeching halt. The ever-reaching hand of Petitville had managed to find the happy fugitive, across an entire ocean, securing her in its grasp. The small town and the small mindedness had won in the end…

“Mom! Where are you? I need the keys to the car. My shift at the Dairy Cream starts in 15 minutes and I am running late!” Lauralye is instantly dragged back to the present. Shaken out of her reverie by her daughter's shrill voice, she puts her fragile memory back onto the shelf; it will still be waiting for her when she comes back to visit. She always does. But now she needs to get ready to return back to work. She had let too much time pass on her lunch break. She had to get back to her shift as the restaurant manager at the Dairy Cream.  But a single mom without a college education can’t be too picky in this town. Luckily she only had 3.17 miles to drive to get there.

Lauralye calls across the house, “Paris, don’t get your knickers in a twist! I’m working a double today. You can ride with me tonight.” As she leaves the room she glances back at the blown-glass sphere and whispers, “All the little fish ever wanted was to live a peaceful life in the great big ocean. Now all she has is this bracken pond.”

Story inspired by the Magpie Tales.

Thursday, April 29, 2010

Silent Man's Song

She found him, she loved him
She, his only dream,
She left him, she broke him
His heart torn at the seam.

Winter came…

He loved her, he hated her
No other would he find,
He damned her, he cursed her
Pushed her from his mind.

Not again…

Closed his heart, closed his soul
No one to come inside,
Kept them out, kept them back
His heart he’d always hide.

Locked away…

He grew up, he spread his wings
As his heart grew cold
He looks back, he looks in
Could he really be this old?

Deep inside…

He seeks more, he needs more
Will he ever believe?
But she quit him, she wrecked him
Long ago, he’d been deceived.

Then, one day,
one day,
one day,

She came back, she found him
Now he, her only want,
She needs him, she loves him
The memories, how they haunt.

Could it be?

He walks away, runs away
Won’t let her come back in,
Flees from her, turns from her
Love, his greatest sin.

Not a chance…

It burned him, it turned him
Out into life’s cold winds,
Opened him, revealed him
‘Twas pain without an end.

Still, today…

He keeps her out, keeps her back
Defends his heart ‘er well,
Stands aloof, and stands alone
The price, he’ll never tell.

But, what if?
What if?
What it?

She yearns for him, she waits for him
Her heart, here to stay,
Longs for him, calls out to him
"What’er the price, I’ll pay.”
“What’er the price, I’ll pay!”

Sunday, April 25, 2010

Mad Hatter's Choice

Once upon a time, women adored
a man in a top hat
donned in black tie and tails
sauntering with a gentleman’s cane
with a gentleman’s air.
      Good Evening!
      You look lovely this evening.
      May I have this dance?
      After you.
      You dance delightfully.
      May I call on you and your family later this week?
      I have your father’s permission to make you my wife.

Call me Mad as a Hatter, but I prefer the
man in faded jeans
dressed in white oxford, untucked
walking with confidence and contentment
with a gentle man’s heart.
      Hey, babe!
      So good to see you.
      You look amazing tonight.
      Let’s dance.
      Take my hand.
      It feels good with you in my arms.
      C’mon, love, let’s go on home.
      Will you share the rest of your life with me?

Yes, Mad Hatter that I am,
I much rather prefer the man in faded jeans…..

   Inspired by Magpie Tales.

Friday, April 23, 2010

From Within

She looks upon the reflection of silver streaks,
softened curves, fuller shape and time-kissed face.
No longer the dark-haired beauty of yesteryear,
basking in the glow of youth, secure in the lure of her splendor
to draw them in, to find her way.

No sadness found within the looking glass.
Smile dawns upon the contented likeness.
Today’s confidence no longer coupled with façade,
rather from life-lesson, realization, & heart.
She looks upon the reflection of one she’s grown to love.

Friday, April 16, 2010


If time were trapped in a pocket watch
     golden timepiece that could be rewound
     to a single defining moment
    changing the course of an entire lifetime,
Would I go back to that right turn just to go left?
     to that yes to shout “No!”?
     to that no to whisper “Yes.”?
     to take back the dream snatched from my grasp?
     to reject what was “just for the best”?

This time-catcher, caressed by patina of time
     remains just an ordinary pocket watch
     tick-tocking away the moments of my life
     metronome to each judgment made in the moment.
I would not go back to turn left simply to do so.
     to shout the unpredictable no.
     to whisper the unanswerable yes.
     to dream a forgotten reverie.
     to reject what I could not understand.

I stand in this moment with complete understanding
     where I have chosen to be
     with a golden pocket watch, lifetime companion,
     reminding me, “Make the most of what you are given.”

A piece inspired by Magpie Tales.

Thursday, April 15, 2010

Neglected Garden

extraordinary in the ordinary
the garden oft' untended
   until the quiet, unplanned moments
when caretaker opens both eye and heart 
    to see the bloom of child's wonder
    to hear the buzz of love's laughter
    to gather blooming bounty

Saturday, April 10, 2010

Lipstick and Lies (Mag 9)

Marah peruses a Cosmo while her sister and the others set up for a Girl’s Night In. She knows she should probably help, but it’s so nice to have a minute to sit and to read something other than weekly reports and the Wall Street Journal. “Hey, Ladies,” she shouts towards the kitchen. “Did you know you can learn alot about a woman by the shape of her lipstick? Let’s see… a slanted tip, close to the original shape reveals a rule-follower. Um, a rounded tip to a point indicates a loveable, people-person. The easy-going, peacemaker will have an exceptionally rounded lipstick end, whereas the high-spirited, debater will have lipstick with a sharp, angled tip. Yep, I have proof now. You're all rule-following sheep!”

Magda, Marah’s sister, saunters over and teasingly snaps, “Which shape indicates a lazy ass who sits while her sister and friends do all the work?” Marah tosses the magazine to the side, opting to contribute to the night’s festivities. Besides, after the week, hell the decade, she has had, nothing sounds better than one of Deidre’s Mojitos with fresh mint from the window box. Off she goes to solve her problems with rum, lime, sugar, fresh mint and a night of debauchery with dear friends.

An hour and four Mojitos later, Marah and the others collapse onto the cream-colored leather of Magda’s oversized sectional. This is the type of evening all the girls long for. An evening without the demands of jobs, men and children, each sprawled out on the couch, somehow interlocked with the woman next to her. This is as close as it will ever get to the slumber parties and innocence of their youth. As much as she loves each woman on that couch and for as long as they have known each other, Marah cannot help but ruminate, “No one here knows me. They think they do, but really, it’s just an illusion. I will never again be that person they assume me to be.  Not since the day that he walked...”

Deidre, conjurer of liquid healing, startles Marah out of her private reverie. “Hey, McDreamy, snap out of it!” Tossing the daydreamer a $20 tube of Femme Fatale heisted from Marah’s own purse, Deidre demands, “So what’s your lipstick say about you, Mar-Mar?” Marah opens the tube, supposedly to reveal her innermost self. Magda leans over, bursts out loud with a horsey little laugh, “Geesh, Mar, you have the funkiest looking lipstick shape ever. Look at the weird curvey-pointy shape.  Here, hand me that magazine!” Magda rips the Cosmo out from underneath her sister's legs to continue the assessment.

“The sharp-angled boxed curve suggests that this person is extremely talkative, very creative, and falls in love easily. Mar, this is so you. You could talk the paint off the wall, you’re practically the poster child for Adult ADHD, and you change boyfriends with the price of gas!” This brings an onslaught of drunken giggles and a mocking that can only come from people who genuinely care. Marah laughs with them, but inside she carries on an entirely different conversation.

Ten years ago, I probably would have agreed. Most assuredly, I am quite the chatterbox with a million whirling dervishes frantically dancing in my mind, so wildly that most of what’s in there scatters and hides. However, the part about “she falls in love easily,” I highly doubt.

Does the sharp-angled boxed curve reveal the fear and trepidation that has frozen this heart that once pumped hope and faith through these veins? Can a tube of lipstick expose this soul’s invisible scars that cause the heart to atrophy? In the curve on that lipstick, will they all finally see the wall, overgrown with hesitation and self-preservation, fortress that protects the shattered spirit? Probably not. I am quite adept at deflecting any real assessment. If these ladies, whom I love dearly, don’t even see the truth, why shatter the illusion now? I can play along with the rest of the world to play the light-hearted lover they expect me to be.

After resetting the defenses of her heart, Marah smiles and lets out a forced laugh. “You’re right. My lipstick is crazy looking. So this curvy part here says I’m creative, enthusiastic, talkative, and fall wildly and madly in love at the drop of a hat, huh? Well, of course I do, you ding-dongs. I mean, ain’t love grand? Especially when love comes in the shape of a yummy lifeguard in Cabo or that lawyer, Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Delicious. As a matter of fact, ladies, I have really should run. I met this very charming and very young college boy at Bookman’s Alley last week. I’m going to take the gamble that he’s there tonight, all alone, and perhaps in need of some ‘research assistance’. Pardon me while I go and ‘fall in love easily’ right this very moment. “

With the serenade of catcalls and bawdy words of wisdom, Marah finds her keys, throws the lipstick into the Gucci, and grabs the Cosmo, all with a bravado and swagger that is nothing more than an act. Hurriedly kissing each woman good night, she dashes off as if in a rush to have tryst with a new lover; in reality, she is fleeing before she breaks down and confesses the truth. Once in the shelter of the car, tears begin to flow as sobs escape from behind the fortress wall. In the light of the street lamp, she stumbles through the pages of the Cosmo desperate to read her fortune once more. Finding the page, she reads aloud through sobs in a hushed whisper, “...falls in love easily,” repeating it over and over again. After several minutes, Marah looks up, and to whom she is unsure, begging to know “When? “

A piece inspired by Magpie Tales.

Saturday, April 3, 2010

Shattered (Mag 8)

Created from the Master’s loving hand, a painted shell of true beauty
Bestowed upon a head-strong daughter, endeavoring to break free
Given wings and granted freedom from the Father’s tower
Warned of lovely porcelain’s treasure and its enduring power
     freely shared with those who love and give, and it will be safely guarded
     foolishly shared with those who use and take, and its power will be thwarted
Lured into the life, the bed, of the unclaimed Adonis-arms
Fallen, twisted effortlessly by serpent’s whims and charms
Dreamt of happy forever’s, eternal bliss, and “death do us part”
Tumbled words of carelessness, crushed the young and tender heart
     blinded by rose-colored glasses, confessed a love pure and true
     tired by sweet dalliance, declared the flirtation’s end due
Shattered egg, much like the heart, at the feet in a thousand little pieces.
Taught the lesson of careless love-gifting, bringing pain that never ceases.

Inspired by Magpie Tales.  Go check it out!

Tuesday, March 30, 2010


At onset of life’s first spark, nestled in the cocoon of womb’s water
Into this world born through love and anguish of gushing waters
From the Potter’s hand, vessels filled with naught but thought and water
Tainting of the once untouched soul, made anew in cleansing waters
Throughout life lured back again and again to the whisper of the water
At the last hour’s goodbye kiss, restored to His embrace by Heaven’s waters

Monday, March 29, 2010

Promise (Mag 7)

quiescent unborn-soul buried lying, dying in the filth and muck of His plan
     bleak night, winter’s bitter cold, deluge of life

tiny-nothing seed forced to grow roots, twisting, clawing, taking hold
     fearless fight, hope’s untainted warmth, dawn before birth

tender seedling-soul bursts forth, writhing, grasping , gasping Him in
     glorious light, miracle’s brilliant glow, incarnation of promise

I took this photo at the Sherwood Forest Faire last weekend.  In the middle of a trampled path grew this one lovely flower, as if defying the universe.  I loved the juxtaposition of dead-gray dirt and the vibrancy of the flower.  When I saw the shot on my computer, I kept hearing the refrain, "Bloom where you are.  Bloom where you are. Bloom where you are."  Sometimes, to bloom where you are is to be reborn unto yourself.


This story was written for the prompt at Magpie Tales.

Saturday, March 27, 2010

silver scar

nighttime edges into dawn
empty peace of sleep eludes
glance of hand that click-clacks on the alphabet
     tending, mending a broken heart, a broken dream
glance of hand that once danced in his ebony hair
     swirling, twirling silken waves in a quiet love-dance
he, gone forever
the hand remains
older, stronger with reminder of empty bed, empty heart
     silver scar of solitude
     two-hands clasp crowned-heart
     outward and away,
     away from the heart
his love now outward and away
she, the one who walked away

Sunday, March 21, 2010


Freiderich, a brash, young man itching to explore the limitless universe, wanders aimlessly and angrily, trapped in his grandfather’s antiquated hardware store. Freiderich’s father had decided, for the summer, it would be “character building” if his dreamer son got his hands dirty with the honesty of a good day’s work.

Finally the frustration of this fruitless endeavor erupts from the confines of the young man’s mind. Picking up a box of outdated nails, he waves the box and attacks, “Opa, what could a single nail offer the 22nd century? What possible advancement could it offer modern man when bio-computers, the InPlaNet (Intra-Planetary Internet), and teleportation have launched us all into the reality of your Ray Bradbury’s dreams? A nail has nothing of value to offer anyone, especially not to me.”

With strength of voice that comes only with time and wisdom, Hans turns to his upstart grandson. “What power does a single nail possess? It was a single spike that united this great land from east to west, taming the once Wild West. It was the nail that built houses that have endured for centuries, houses once a refuge of love and joy. It was the nail that pierced His Flesh, as he was placed upon a wooden cross to redeem the unworthy and the flawed. A nail can change the history of a nation. It can create a home. A single nail can deliver salvation. But then again, how could that possibly matter to you in the 22nd century?”

Inspired by the Magpie Tales.  

Pretty Little Pictures

The Fairy Tale ending,
     reveries of one single day little princesses dream about,
     carelessly neglecting an entire lifetime.
Pretty little pictures obscure serene deception.
White-laced lies carelessly placed before God’s altar,
     hand in hand, empty gazes, empty promises
     offerings of forever,
     bereft of consummation.
Only to discover, Happily Ever After’s key already in her grasp.


Wednesday, March 17, 2010

Breaking Free

Wisps of ginger tendrils dance in the wind
     as she looks back at her beloved Emerald Island,
     reminiscing over a laughing childhood turned into
          Da’s planned destiny

Wings of unborn possibilities flutter in her heart
     as she gazes towards the Land of Milk and Honey
    dreaming of unrestrained adventures, prayers that become
          her unmapped future

Thursday, March 11, 2010

Le Story de L'Amour

Je regrette, Je regrette     
     said the little coquette
     she surrendered in his arms
     falling effortlessly

Je t’aime, Je t’aime
     said la très belle femme
     she placed her hand in his
     trusting entirely

Je t’adore, Je t’adore
     said la dame avec l’amour
     she gave into his heart
     loving entirely

Je pleure, Je pleure
     said la petite, white-laced fleur
     she made her life his
     pledging faithfully

Saturday, March 6, 2010

Little Girl Gave Her Heart Away

Little girl, life so good
knowing not of pain
loved by parents who did as they should

Little girl, heart so big,
fearing not a thing
dared to share what she had to give

Little girl, not so little anymore
seeking destiny
sailed from the safety of her shore

Naïve miss, gave her heart away
yearning for true love
begged them each, keep her and forever stay

Woman’s heart, thrown to the ground
smiling for them all
cried hot tears, all alone without a sound

Broken spirit, soul gave up the fight
wanting no more wounds
turned inside herself, rejected love’s light

Cautious one, alone, her place to be
choosing solitude
bloomed in time, to become the real she

Healing heart, love no longer her defeat
feeling the heart mend
accepts her truth: the jaded heart still beats

Thursday, March 4, 2010

Lieutenant's Song

Distant journey, locked within unspoken dreams,
     should no longer sway tender reeds of the soul.
Time has passed, youth has passed, faith has come and gone again.
      Yet, in the quiet of unexpected moments, his music still lingers here,
       more than echo of what could have been,
       more a refrain of what should have been.
Neither year, nor season, nor day passes
      without taste of mountain kisses,
      without scent of citrus, leather, and possibility,     
      without music of the siren's jazz.
And, the lieutenant still remains.

Wednesday, March 3, 2010

Upon His Lips

He calls me by name,
The winds carry God’s voice from Heaven.
The sound dancing, caressing my face, my soul,
      He speaks my name.
A single word as proof that he hears me, he sees me, he feels me, and
     I matter.
The others did not speak my name.
     I, an after thought, did not exist.
     I was not real.
His tender mouth creates me into being.
My name upon his lips,
    I am born again with each utterance.
He calls me by name and I am.

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

Love's Story

Lost. Broken. Shattered. Hopeless. Empty. Dark.
Doubt. Collapse. Succumb.

Awaken. Seek. Behold. Understand. Believe. Arise.
Step. Stride. Persist.

Found. Restored. Renewed. Inspired. Faithful. Radiant.
Know. Soar. Triumph.

Sunday, February 28, 2010


Love is lost in life’s twisted melodies.

Songs are of happy forevers
that never come true.
And the only saving melody that
can be heard, is often killed by two.

--written by Lisa, fall of 1985

Saturday, February 27, 2010

A Place to Be

Alone is a place to be.
Alone is my reality.

No one here by my side,
Alone to take this crazy ride.

Yes, alone I may be.
Not the same as lonely,

None to tell me I cant’ be “I”,
free to dream, to soar and fly.

My heart, my wants have pushed me through,
to listen, taste, touch, see, feel, and do.

Alone is a contented place to be.
Alone is my serene reality.