Self Help

I can do it, myself
Famous last words – right?
I didn’t need someone else’s 12 step’s.
They wouldn’t find me sitting there holding hands and singing “kumbaya” like some pathetic teenage drama queen.
I could stop whenever I wanted.
I just didn’t have time right now.
Later, when time wasn’t pushing on my back like the north-eastern winds – chilling me to the bone.
Later, when there was peace and quiet, to work through the need.
They didn’t want me to try this today, or even tomorrow. Not if they wanted to live.
Okay that sounds a bit drastic. I wouldn’t kill anyone would I?
What kind of person is willing to kill over a cup’a joe?
But some days, when I have had only one.
and the printer runs out of ink,
and the tires have that squeak.
When they’re rub’n down that last nerve to a nub
What do they want from me, anyway?
A girls not made of stone.
I can do it myself
Just not yet
Later
yeah, later

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Frosty Night

Frosty kisses nibble
around my ears and neck
Pink cheeked and breathless
I dance within his grip
Icy arms grab at me
sends me giggling
through the snow
snow flakes caress
his touch, I know
though dark descends
hiding indiscreet tryst,
Lights sparkle in the night
I make my Christmas wish
And yet he breaks my heart
I’m lonely once again
That wicked boy Jack,
a Frosty dream,
his love I can not win.

Worth It

Today it’s easy
to leave it all behind.
When roads grow steep,
When heart aches creep,
Filing corners of my mind.

The long haul isn’t used
for Sunday walks in the park.
They’re nights of dread,
of an empty bed,
wandering in the dark

When sea’s are high
and darkness blots the sun,
hold fast and wait,
it’s not to late,
loves worth it, when it’s won

Panning for Dreams

Dip your toe in
swirl the depthImage
If you want to find
shimmering sunlight
in the silt
Gems locked in your mind

only way to know
tis gold or foolish dream
is to pull it out
and test its strength
but you must get in the stream

When I was a little girl – my grandfather used to take me panning for gold in the mountains above our home. There are lots of things that glimmer in a mountain stream – some of it is fool’s gold and some of it is real. If you sit on the bank wondering – it won’t do you a lick of good in the end. You have to be willing to get wet if you ever want to get the gold. I was thinking about writing and that maybe my book isn’t all that great an idea, maybe just a foolish dream…and the above poem came to me. Maybe its a fools dream, maybe not, only one way to find out.

The Vessel

Their voices grip my mind

They beckon me to tell

to make the voices heard

breathing life to those who dwell

deep inside, waiting for

the time when they are freed

To laugh and cry and love and die

to live and hurt and bleed.

I am but a vessel,

a hollow empty jar

holding those meant to soar

to fly among the stars.

Writer Unblocked

I sit at the bottom, waiting, inspired to write

Looking up, the worlds distorted, blurry in my sight

The hunger aches, desire burns to craft my lengthy prose

But life itself blocks the path, my words they do not flow

Words sift like murky silt across my addled brain

A surplus of ideas with no where left to drain

The time has come to raise the dam and let my words flow free

And show the world without a doubt the writer I can be

Underwater, looking through the story I must tell

A magical land of fae and wolf & heaven and of hell

Rushing now the words flow out, my ink upon the page

As my characters live and breathe, at last take center stage

Soul Sisters

soul sisters born a world apart, yet bound their souls in birth

childhood friends who dance and play and laugh with girlish mirth

each wakes to lives so far apart, ner in the day they meet

one a barmaids dirty child, one a princess with slippers on her feet

 

soul sister sleeps a sleep the never breaks from dreams

soul sister wants for me to enter to her scene

we play and laugh til light doth pull me back to sleeping form

I leave her though she begs me stay, tear striken she doth morn

 

soul sister does not grow as I, a woman she can not be

for she is trapped inside her mind, her soul only i can see

she begs me come and find her, and free her from her cell

I leave my home, climb mountains high, the end i can not tell

 

soul sister waits for me to rise and take a final stand

and lead my merry men against the one who’d wipes us from this land

witches come and head my call, our princess doth await

come with me, its time to fight, leave not the warlock declare our fate

————————–

a poem written about one of my novels in process.

Mountain Life

life is not lived peak to peak

nor in the valleys deep

but spent upon the slopes of life

the mountain path so steep

To seek the constant high of life

on lofty mountain tops

Will leave you gasp for lack of air

exposed in cold and hot

The lows of life should come and go

but if you stay below

you find you never see new lands

lose chances, never grow

We measure things from peak to peak

 

We chart the ghastly drop of strife

But we should live between them both

the middle ground of life

never ever after

cedar arms cradle memories bound by ragged ribbon

dreams called forth as I sleep, the ache of love forbidden

bitter sweet never meant-to-be’s,  tomorrows forever hidden

the touch of my soldiers lips, linger on mine, unbidden

 

we dance, the two of us, between once was and what will never be

my soldier boy, in army dress, the girl in white is me

red blossoms grace my bridal bouquet, red blooms on army green

he fades to mist and then he’s gone, I’m left alone to grieve

 

brittle parchment, the sad remains of foolish girlish whim

the echo of a maidens prayers, the hope that died with him

nothing left of what once was but letters from Berlin

held inside my dresser drawer, bound by ribbon times worn thin.