Tuesday, September 6, 2016


photograph by author

Memories sift behind closed eyes,

they dance with dreams, turn

across time.

I chase an edge,

rustle inbetween,

my voice muted,

our history edited, 

I am unremembered


Monday, August 29, 2016

the stretch

time stretches,

it seeps into my crevices,

sates my drifting daydreams,

escapes my grasp...

Thursday, July 28, 2016

voodoo queen

Spirits rise from graves too early dug, 

the Voodoo Queen emerges from her crypt.

Her graffiti washed clean by rabid historians, 

she is unrattled by this ploy to tame her magic.

She summons the others,

they gather loosely, ready

for a chance to fool the other side.

They choose from her collection

of abandoned writing instruments, 

nibbed ink pens to neon markers,

tapping their artistic talents,

calligraphy soon adorns the exterior.

They share a laugh, anticipating

the anger of preservationists,

the residents of Saint Louis Cemetery,

not suspect.

As the inky indigo lifts,

the pinpoints of light fade,

they pause above

brackets of their earthly existence,

weighted lives,

unplanned endings,

wistful, blissful.

Wednesday, July 6, 2016


anxiety no longer bound,

she runs out of words,

cannot finish conversations,

she stares into spaces,

scattered; fragments

flitter in her head,

a familiar name misplaced,

a point lost to a tangent,

her memory sheds, 

she views herself-



she seeks...

Monday, July 4, 2016

the fall

the drone of micromanagement,

in quarter-hour installments,

each created to contradict,

they layer them,

a cake, to celebrate.

doubt becomes belief, own the fault,

the pieces of the puzzle fall

into a pattern, a plan,


worthy of a Scottish wife,

with a complement of false concern.

a blight of human kindness.

Wednesday, June 22, 2016

the Curious Shop

Drowsy with their secrets,

the precious sleep, hidden

like a cache of narcotics;

promises made with intent to rescue,

unfulfilled, broken;

memories inherited by an ancient shopkeeper,

recorded in the serifed script of fountain pens,

cryptic names, dates committed to a leather worn ledger;

the heart of each tale in the telling,

to pique, to lure, 

woven by a Poe-like master,

a bit of drama, suspense, a drop of blood;

hypnotized, they fall in love

with the desire to possess,

they depart, crescent-moon-lipped,

with a talisman of the past.

Friday, June 3, 2016


I used ink pens for a while,

the kind that cause

odd black orbs

inbetween the covers,

the stains of still-birthed poems.

They resist laundering,

saying let there be a marking

that we existed.

Only for a while,

only in your head,

no time for paper,

we were perfect.

But without memory,

allow us to remain

a tribute

to your mid-night creations.