My Writing
My collection of poetry, prose, and short stories
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Like the 3 faced goddess, I’ve lived 3 lives in one: see The maiden I was, the mother I am, And the crone I’ll become. The Circle of Life and the Wheel of Time Spin together as one. In an unending dance- It shifts like the moon and rises like the sun. Ever present in
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I can’t concentrate long enough To write, or to paint. I long to create But I’m too tired to do more than stare at the blank page And imagine.
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I knew we didn’t have money, But I didn’t know we were poor- Until I ran out of fingers to count The number of pieces I returned. When we were playing a game, To check our privileged status And my hands were full of Empty air. A ledger of my societal debt.
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I am the unending night that swallows the day. I am the warmth of the cold sun before it fades. I am the glow of the moon on a frozen ground. I am the falling snow that muffles all sound. I am the north wind that bites, and the cardinal that sings. I am the
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I wet the tip of my pen like dipping toes into the ink black sea. Knowing it would be best to jump in all at once, I wade in line by line, staring at the endless expanse before me. The surface is calm, intimidating in it’s emptiness that hides entire worlds waiting to be released.
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I don’t know how I managed to talk him into visiting the old house with me, but somehow a week later, we met there. “Sorry I’m late.” His face was white and jaw clenched, but resigned as he got out of the beat-up pickup truck he parked just outside of the property line, as if
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I’m obsessed with balance. Dualities and extremes, spectrums and shades of gray- it’s all related in my mind; Maybe because my life has always been imbalanced. Always unsteady and unstable, I’ve spent my whole life looking for a ground that won’t shift under my feet. Contrast and opposition are how many view the world. What’s
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A poem a day,Some therapists say,Holds darkness at bay,And keeps madness delayed. A poem a day,The readers will say,helps the soul to conveywhat it’s hidden away. But, A poem a day,The writers all say,May keep the muses in sway,But won’t keep the bills paid.
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Peace of mind tastes bitter When racing thoughts are enticingly sweet. Creativity, Industry, and Possibility Season the feast of ideas That makes sleep feel like an untasted meal And moderation feel like starvation.
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I believe that Persephone ate the apple, And Eve ate the pomegranate seeds. The cost of knowledge and power, Was the taste of red fruit on a woman’s lips. The Queen of Death and the Mother of Life: The renewal of Spring followed by the Fall- One in the same, their choices were made, and
Bringing Mae Flowers 