One for sorrow – 2 October 2016

October 19, 2016 at 5:29 pm (Poetry) (, , , , , , )

He’ll always be my one for sorrow

My magpie, corvid, skulking black crow

In my mind I try to run

To hide, to move, to scream, to overcome

Instead I find this block immobile

It holds me back; a constant trial

One day my demon will be put to bed

But for now this magpie lives in my head.

Just getting words on paper. Not a good poem, but a needed one.

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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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March 10, 2011 at 8:17 am (Sonnets) (, , , , , , , , , , , )

For love, I gave my heart and lost my head.

One look from him was all that I desired,

But still I ran from him – dry-eyed, I fled.

Fear of the future, of secrets – I risked fire –

Soul burning agony. All for freedom.

But there was no freedom in that dark place –

More pain. More chains. More fear. And now, no him,

No love to save me, and so I must perish.

Perish pining, darkly burning in strife!

Regret consumed me. Overwhelmed my soul.

In wandering thoughts I laid down my life,

I let my wits away, and gave up control.

But my knight arrived and in his hand took mine –

Too late my mind was caught in sorrow’s vine.

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September 12, 2010 at 2:17 am (Poetry) (, , , , , , )


That’s what it feels like

Bitter, biting, and wonderful

There is comfort and familiarity

That does not lessen the burn

Warmth and Pain-

Of the most superficial variety

But there are deep currents

Deep and as yet unidentified-

Who knows what flavor will arise?

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No One was Saved

June 23, 2010 at 11:23 pm (Poetry) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , )

I am Eleanor Rigby.

I come out of this world

A lonely person

Searching for love

Dreaming about that day.

I am a river.

Soft and sweet.

My embrace like cold needles

Carrying my dream away

Back to the lonely banks.

I am a smile.

I play on the lips

Of liars, saints, and lovers.

I come and I go

A sign that they are just barely getting by.

I am a secret.

Shared between friends,

Holding people together

Tearing others apart

Because no one keeps me to themselves.

I am Eleanor Rigby.

I keep faces in jars

Because my own face is the mask.

The river, the smile, the secret

are truth.

***I love allusions and I felt a sudden connection to Miss Rigby, so this is my tribute to her (as well as the four men who brought her into existence).  I look forward to the day when I don’t feel like I’m turning into Eleanor and Father McKenzie any more.

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Glass and Sand

April 8, 2010 at 12:48 am (Poetry) (, , , , , , , , , )

When the sand has gone

Every last grain

What is left?

The world has ended

No more flowers

No hands or feet

No more minutes, seconds, or hours

The world has ended

Our time has slipped away

Because this hour glass

Held a single grain

And was attached to the table

With our pride and hatred

Our time is up

Just a blip

a passing moment

in the endless stream of time.

***Once again this poem originally had different spacing, let me know if you want to see the original.  I was inspired by Blake to write this, but I think my take is a little bit more morbid than his.  I am generally a dark person, but sometimes my macabre view of life is surprising. It makes me think, how about you?

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