Monthly Archives: June 2019


Long dark hair. Slim. Dark clothes.

Cigarette. Jeweled stud in her nose.

Devil may care. Proud, sharp pose.


Laughing. Some guy chatting her up.

She’s amused, but not eating it all up.

Sighs, weary, behind her red Solo cup.


I watch. She edges toward her scooter

on the street, done with this dull suitor.

She is neither queen, or damsel, or tutor.


I watch. She leaves. Dark hair, banner flows.

I wish I was with her. Go where she goes.

But I am just another vampire, heaven knows.


Silly headed, I walk back to my apartment alone.

The party faded away, a dull roar, love’s killing stone.



I look up at the starry sky. I see a thing I cannot name.

I feel eyes on me. Malicious curiosity. A secret shame.

A means to an end, all I am. Upon me they put all blame.


In my sleep. In my bed. They take what they want, at will.

I don’t tell anyone. They all look away. Reassurances shrill.

The hybrids, the children that rule, demigods of Fairie Hill.


The sky is so big and so empty and swallows up all things.

It still soothes me, when they come, when arias Renee sings.

A means to an end, a mass breeder for those with halo rings.


Winter. First frost, yesterday. No snow yet.

I have the little tape recorder, and a cassete.

I look up at Venus rising, bright, pink far above.

Is this madness? Is this hope? Is it foolish? Love?


I still carry the limp from the wreck. You are gone.

I still hesitate. I am still afraid. Must act before dawn.

I sit against your gravestone, and I press down “Record”.

Hoping to hear your voice, that same haughty chord.


Voices of the dead are silent, but can be captured.

The veil of Charon can be torn or even raptured.

I want to hear you again, know you linger still behind.

I want to hear you again, say the prayers for peace of mind.


Sitting in my room, getting ready to play the tape back.

It’s a hope for a faith and dream that I will always lack.

Will your voice came quite and proud, as in our mad life?

Will it be fear that comes, torment, caught in purgatory strife?


I press play………..

Behind Stone Walls

The city, hot and built of hard things, crowded and moving fast.

The young woman, A saint of sorts, in that she was love so vast.

A little menagerie in a walled in back yard, with a tall, bushy tree.

Sometimes the scent of the salty breeze, blowing in off the near sea.


Her name Amber, found a place of peace there, animals to care for.

Sitting there at night, watching stars, hearing waves crash on the shore.

The salty breeze, reminding her of when she first saw the ocean wide.

Knew God was the sky and the water as one, and she could not hide.


She went one day to get a lamb, to bring him home as her very own.

The lamb, her spirit in flesh, to hide away in her place behind walls of stone.

She walked on those crowded streets, holding the lamb close and dear.

Out in this world, this bright city, she was ever unsure and full of fear.


And she was taken away, by a man who feasted upon innocence, a dark thing.

Took her apart, and left her in those ocean backwaters, as his demons did sing.

The lamb stayed beside her, weeping, as the morning came, as things went on.

The lamb, brayed and cried, but the girl was up in the sky, her life forever gone.


And the menagerie and the wild plants and those stone walls, are softly sad.

The lamb sleeps under the dark shade, other animals defer to closeness he had.

What is Eden without hope of the children it nourished, who kept the garden well.

What is Eden, if the innocent who stayed there, blameless, are left to this world’s hell?


A Cocoon of Thunder

A sweet women’s voice, a joyful song, as I lay in the dark.

Earbuds in, swallowed by the sound, a cocoon of thunder.

I try to dream of love, of a better tomorrow, like I once did.


I’ll be up all night, trying to soothe myself with her music.

I want to hope the girl who’s won my heart loves me back.

I’m afraid to hope, because I know she’ll also leave me behind.


In the dark, and with bittersweet melodies, I can touch an angel.

And that angel will smile upon me, and she’ll touch my face.

I’ll be a heartful of love, a child of light, until the morning comes.


The sunlight’s creeping up, a slit of orange, a deep navy blue sky.

I dream of the girl who’s won my heart, try to imagine a future.

But people sell themselves to Satan to make a buck, and time is gone.


A big house out in the country, surrounded by forests and rivers.

Me and a wife I adore, a houseful of animals and kids and laughter.

But the world is burning. No returning. I still want love and a future.


I have to take out the earbuds, get dressed, face this whole waking world.

The lights slips away with the day, when I can’t wrap myself in my dreams.

Let be light in love in a dark world. Let someone come to my life who’ll stay.

I Hope For Thorns and Blackberries

A little house, on a shady street in Lincoln, Nebraska.

I sit at the kitchen table, writing, my window on a wild

lawn, where birds sing, and I hope for thorns and blackberries.


She is in another city, on the banks of the Missouri River.

Sometimes I think of her, the useless wishes that I could

have followed her, to not to have once again been left behind.


It is the end of June. The whole horizon is swallowed by

a black and purple storm cloud as the sun fades away,

darkness with gilt of burning red and orange, like an angel.


The rain pounds down as I lay in bed, sleepless, restless.

My overgrown lawn will drink it all up, grow knotted, fecund.

I hope for thorns and blackberries, and I hope for cuts and blood.

Weight of Thought and Flesh

Small, petite, bob cut blonde hair.

Thinking the road offered something,

someplace to go to, someplace to find,

someplace where her people were waiting.


A loyal dog, scruffy and goofy, better than a boy.

He sat content in the passenger seat, watching

the sun rise and fall and rise, getting fussy

in the evenings, so she’d stop to let him run.


In the mountains, in the hills, among ancient things,

she’d drive, her and her mutt dog, exploring, watching,

finding in fleeting moments, grace and peace and hope.

She hoped to see the Pacific by the time the season turned.


And, somewhere along the way, she side stepped daylight,

stepped away from the waking world, found the Fae, or,

walked in the spaces between the air. Her loyal dog crying

for her, by that battered jeep, deep in the Oregon forest.


Maybe she is free now, of the weight of thought and flesh.

Maybe she was taken underground, taken to ghosts forever.

Her loyal dog now lays at my door, and he watches for her.

Her whines when the sun goes down. Does let me touch him

Love Story

A gentle young man, and a young and beautiful princess,

in a verdant and lush forest, just before the darkness falls.

They embrace, laying among flowers and colorful blooms.

Soft kisses. Gentle kisses. Innocent kisses. Still pure of heart.


I watch, slunk down in my theatre chair, drinking a cold beer.

Revival houses let me remember, when I still was pure of heart.

When I was a knight, instead of broken, filled with love and light.

Even after turning away from the dark, the stain and hate linger.


And that gentle young man, and that sweet princess fall, as we do.

The darkness comes, the demons torment them, they are pulled down.

But in the end, they are redeemed, and made whole again, all is well.

Here on Earth, the redemption never takes, never washes away loss.


The bright orange sun shining behind them, they run hand in hand.

The perfect forest and the perfect love, without all that comes after.

I remember a young woman I loved, and who touched my face.

I remember a young woman, before I fell away, fell forevermore.


It’s raining now, as I walk to my car, and I am wet, but not cleansed.

I hold onto this wisping ember, this little light of purity and grace.

It’ll fade and go dark, and I’ll be back where I began, never whole.

No redemption or cleansing of the dark things when you let them loose.

Soft Eyes Give Wishes

Transylvania, but not among the vampires, or the bloody king.

Still there are woods and places for the Fae to hide away safely.

I hear a whisper of 16, and a matchstick lights my clove cigarette.


Mermaids come every summer, up into the mountain aquarium.

In the rippling blue light their wild hair floats, soft eyes give wishes.

My hand upon the glass, she smiles, and places her hand up to mine.


In Transylvania, and in the mountain tourist town, I find a fleeting peace.

I hear a whisper of 16, but memory cannot fill you, maybe magic can now.

I throw away my clove cigarettes. You made it to them underground at 41.





Somewhere towards the pointed corner of the state, the tri-cities,

I pull over into a little picnic area to sleep for an hour or two.

The starry sky above, offers no hope, a dead man’s picture show.

I don’t turn on the radio, as it’s always the same shit, time and again.


I close my eyes, and sleep is fitful, filled with terrible visions of loss.

I cannot remember my lover’s face, or how it felt for her to kiss me.

All the demons are entwined in my spirit and my memories, forever.

She is a ghost of a summer afternoon, wisps of cinnamon in coffee.


To the wilds that won’t be swallowed or disgraced by the coming fires.

Up to the places safe from the coming waters, far north to still be livable.

I will dedicate my life to her memory, to calling back every kiss and touch.

Calling back all of her grace and kindness, so at least my angel will know.


By a dark and cold lake, I will build an altar of grey rocks and stones.

The grave she never got, as she was never found, out in smoky hills.

All I remember of her, will be left by magic and prayer upon that place.

Whoever comes after, if there is anyone after, will feel her light again.


4am, I head back out on the secluded rural highway, heading north.

My car is between dark mountains and a starry and hungry sky.

No radio. Just tires on the road. Hum of the engine. The headlights.

The demons I see everywhere. Feel every moment. I can’t remember her face.