It looks like sand has filled that balloon;
tried to preserve the ancient castle
but moats laid siege so it was lifted away.
Rouge, rounded it flew distant, a once and future joy.
The court jester has little to laugh at
in presence of such a sight.
Bells once sounding bright are broken; Continue reading
Art by Markus Gann
A blank page, or screen in this modern age, has such a wonderful, mystical and frustrating dichotomy to it. On the one hand it holds absolutely nothing: it’s vastly sparse and unappealing; on the other hand, it can become anything, limited only by your imagination. That is both the great triumph and bane of a writer.
The most astounding piece of writing advice I ever received was Continue reading
an empty-handed gorgeous day,
with a calming gentle breeze.
and such a gentle breeze it is,
to create a piercing flutter.
one that floats above the
that cranks the Continue reading
I get held up
On the choices I don’t make
And I worry
About the risks that I don’t take
So I am leaving in the morning before the sun
I’m so bent that I can’t break
I’m an actor
I make love in just one take
So I am leaving in Continue reading
I wrote both this story and the poem Cupid last night in the span of about twenty minutes. It’s odd how the dichotomy of love works, changing inside one’s mind and heart so quickly.
This is not a typical love story–because what, if anything, is typical about love? Nobody feels love the same as another, especially in this next instance.
He stood overlooking the lake for as long as he could remember–through night and day and the changing seasons. He’d seen families of ducks grow, mature and fly away; he’d seen the swimmers come to Continue reading
I’ve spent the hours, days and years
to build my armour tightly;
through night and day I’ve kept it near
but now it rusts, just slightly.
He dips and swirls and flutters by,
his arrow-point is guiding–
no matter, still, how Continue reading
These veins have been hung upon
the clothesline, threadbare.
The needle-holes are visible through
the dirty, pale violet sheen.
They are scars of no answers and medical
theories are tumbleweed-tales.
Think things through–
test and track the path of least resistance.
The night is long, but no longer shows
the crimson of its alleyways.
Embers stationed, calculatingly,
so that Continue reading