The Key

December 2, 2014 at 1:32 am (Poetry) (, , , , , )

Constantly trapped

between the multitude and the desire,

the hope to be the spark,

the fire –

The great catalyst of an age.

But still one with the flow,

an ink drop on a page

blacked out by scribblings,


drawings –

Everything that was,


may yet be.

Paralyzed by apprehenison –

An obsidonal tension

that my everything is nothing

and my something’s just that.

My every contribution

to the world of self-expression

may only be a splotch,

a blot,

a drop –

but at least my something is just that.



My spark in the fire.

My scribble on the page.

The key to my cage.

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March 28, 2013 at 5:05 pm (Poetry) (, , , , , , )

Wow, it has been a really long time since I posted anything here. I’ve been doing a lot of writing and just not sharing it recently. It’s time to change that though! Here is a poem inspired by the Scottish Clan my family is descended from and their motto “Aut Pax Aut Bellum.”

Either Peace or War.

That is my legacy

Centuries back- the code

by which my ancestors lived.

Unintentionally, it has been

My Creed.

My Curse.

A constant state

of living on an edge.

One easily turned to the other.

One desired more

But rarely achieved.

Either Peace or War.

It beats drums in my head-

ancient and irresistible.

Bidding me ever onward

to make my reality

more fitting to my blood

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Mirror Shards

April 7, 2011 at 8:21 pm (Poetry) (, , )

Staring in a mirror does little good

Shards may come together in a shimmering, glimmering picture

But who’s to say it’s right

Who’s to say it’s good

In a world so often called black and white

There seems an awful lot of gray

That’s right for you

Not right for me


In a mirror I stand

Scarf in hand

Dear Isadora my fate is less than yours

Yet so simple a device turned perilous in your fair hand

Your red breast and white scarf

Are cold and burnt in Paris

Though we both danced out of love for life

Your beat is no longer mine


It was wrong for you

It is wrong for me

And yet still it was right

To you the world was alive

Isadora I desire the same

But it is so cold without you

You flowed through the world with laughter on your lips

It was exactly as it should have been


There are no diamonds on my fingers

Nor screens that hold my face

Lovely Lauren you lived so much more than I

So much love to show so very unlike me

You melted in men’s arms

Held icons as your lovers

I see your face in a darkened mirror

And know it is not mine


It was perfect for you

I wish it would be perfect for me

My name on his crooning lips

My hands held in his as the song fills the air

Oh Lauren you have lived so well

My life is frozen in comparison

The silver screen can barely contain your love and life

And everything is as it should be


Azalea petals in my hands are bright even as they wilt

The mirror is warm to the touch

But Sylvia you are cold

Your inky fingers have surpassed my untried hands

Tears are worthless at the thought of your loss

But come unbidden all the same

You touched the core of sorrow in life

And experienced more than can be held in this cold heart of mine


It was wrong

It is wrong

Why does that make it right?

So much magic in your hands melted away

Sylvia, dear girl, your life was incomplete

My life might be warm, but the chill has pervaded still

Your words were too few; your heart was too heavy

Yet this is how everything should be


The shattered mirror shows feathered quills

And papers upon the floor

I see you fair Jane

I know your words and know they hold power over me

To hold your hand which told so much

And still sways many hearts

We dance at gaily lit balls with men whose faces are obscured

Your fate could so easily be mine


It was right

It will be right for all time

But it feels wrong and unfair

Vivid characters should be the product of vivid life

But Jane you were ever unloved

You are cold and therefore cold is my way too

Books tell of your imagination which was so much more than your life

Is this how it all should be?


The shattered mirror shows a dancer with bare feet

An actress whose eyes held the sky

A writer with too little time

A dreamer who let life slide by

The pieces can be put together

But what does that show?

Is it me or is it fate?

Where did all this gray come from?

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