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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Where it Stops

November 30, 2010 at 8:36 pm (Poetry) (, , , , , , , , )

Sun up and sun down

Round and round we go

We know we’ll stop, but where?

Who knows?

Talk of fire and ice pervades the air

The preachers yell fire and the people fall down

The scientists say ice and the people bow down

Me? I’m indecisive.

But I say: Why not both?

As the Earth stops turning and the icicles form –

The people cry mercy from the fires in Hell.

So, death and destruction

The same old bit

Nothing new under the sun

Dust to dust to light –

Or flames.

Ashes to ashes

They all fall down –

Down, down.

So, fire and ice

The same old poem

He goes up, she goes down

The world turns – until you stop


You’ll know.

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Puddles and Cobblestones

June 29, 2010 at 4:25 pm (Poetry) (, , , , , , , , , , , , )

Traveling down a cobblestone road,

I’ve seen it before

Crumbling with green in the cracks

Ahead there is a shining tower

That beckons the lost and longing.

I stumble, and see the tower

Reflected in a shallow puddle.

Mirrored in the water

The tower no longer shines

But blends with the water and sky.

I will leave this road

That is taking me no where

I will leave the puddles and cobblestones

Only be sure that I will return


***I wrote this after I had a very strange dream in which I was in a crumbling city full of reflective puddles.  It was inspiring for sure, but still quite creepy.

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May 3, 2010 at 12:02 am (Poetry) (, , , , , , , , , , , )


She tells me to put

my heart in a box.

She thinks the sight

pains me

but it doesn’t.

It confuses me.

I don’t understand

why these bleak and barren bones

make other people sad-

why it causes them pain.

***I wrote this after watching an episode of Bones where the lovely forensic anthropologist, Dr. Brennan, tells Zack he has to put his heart in a box when looking at the remains of a murdered child. I think the poem speaks for itself.

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Empty Spaces

January 28, 2010 at 2:02 am (Poetry) (, , , , , , , , )

Little girl

in a downpour

sad eyes

smile on her lips

Big blue eyes

staring at the raindrops

one step forward

outstretched hands

She steps farther from home

feeling her emotions like the rain

raised hands

tears mixed with rain

Her hands above her head

she melts into the storm



The little girl is gone

just blue eyes and a smile.

***My mind is in the past these days. Who is the little girl? Is it me? What happened…

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