The Frame



Olive green majestic,

flower on an ancient frame.

Carved from red wood,

a dying forest,

swallowed by lava that once was leaves.

Leave me here to die a red death

and I will thank you three times.

Once for the olive green photo frame that houses a black and white memory-

Once for the paint you harvested and drained from my black and white veins-

And lastly I will thank you,

for throwing the picture away.

Untitled 2017


Release me from this day and time

A face of no words

A voice not yet heard


I am waiting for the world to take me

But until it does it will not break me


See these lines upon my face

These lines you made when you folded me in two

and three

and four

and five more times

never thinking you will run out of paper


But there are only so many trees in the forest

The Hollow Place

#poetry, Uncategorized

Her feet walk the wild waves of the sea

Waves biting back at the heels of her hollow feet


changed by the creatures who lurk below

watching her with curiosity

will she make it?

They just don’t know.


And so

she walks

they wait

they watch

their eyes follow every speck of splashing water

darting in every different direction

always somewhere new.


She almost wished for a welcoming-

a homecoming

as though she belonged beneath it all along

and was never truly meant for the surface.


A glint of orange haze on the horizon

the glint of hope

a spark of shore

to reassure

to make the shipwreck mean something

to tell the story of dead Sailors

and Pirates who stole without truly wanting

just to steal

and steal they did

digging and digging

a hole so hollow

so void of that which makes the flowers grow.


Thin paper prodding along the edge between

air and ocean

and the space where fate decides

up or down

do I breathe or do I drown?


I am not a god

I should not be able to walk these wild waves

and yet I continue

and the creatures continue to watch



A deep wanting,


deep inside.


Storm clouds gather and swallow the orange horizon

Night steals the lighthouse away

the storm in my eye gathers

the swell of thunder in the distance is borrowed by a stare.


#poetry, Uncategorized

I stand in a clown store

and ask the question that needed to be asked.

Are we still used at children’s parties?


I suppose it doesn’t matter.

My face is still painted-

bright red hue against cracked lips.

They have touched the tip of the cold for too long

without ever truly freezing.


Perhaps if I was there,

I would not be here

in a store of hidden figures

waiting to crawl into silly striped overalls.


It will close down soon,

customers scarce.

No longer a clown store,

and then where will I go to paint my face?


The Thinker


Waiting for the thinker to

rear it’s ugly head

like a sneaky little monster

with poison in it’s eyes



ever evaluating…


This and that and all the smaller moments that make me, me

but not the girl

the fake one-the false

A painted face in a hall of painted faces

and scissors

and gauze


Disfigured faerie’s with broken wings

chopping at my face

my arms

legs and everything in–between

the cracks within the cracks

breaking against my back

until I’m completely bent


Perception now upside-down

Right-side up for the thinker


I can see you now

Spotlight shining on that poison laced pupil


You can keep on looking

but know that I will look back



The days do cut my eyes away

and take my breath for an honest day.

They save it for a long time when,

the flowers die and the night is spent.

And when they pierce my ears with Merlin’s drum

a magical lie,

the sorcerers gun,

I will not let my wrists be bound,

cut to the bone,

thrust to the ground.

Stand I will,

against the floods of mind.

The cloudy little whispers

in the cloud of Satan’s shrine.

And the night does dwell on a dose of rum,

the secret cure to a poison sun.

For the day has wrought its dirty deeds,

and given life to blackened seeds.

And what trees they become,

I cannot say,

for my eyes must turn and look away.

And when butterflies dance on a broken dawn

and the light has scattered into streams of orange

the sun will sob until it’s final cries have set

and the moon will laugh the night away……