Quiet Pen

My mouth has been full of stones for years, 

Scratching at my throat when I try to speak 

Pretty poetry. Nothing has been pretty. 

I have existed in the space between sun rays,

The dark behind the diamond dust,

Looking for peace in stability with my wild heart pounding

Away inside of me. I lost the will to speak, lost 

My poetry. The journey climbs on outside of me, 

I am not sure who carved this out or how I got here. 

I know some places to set some blame

But when it comes down to it, I know blahblah 

Only I can change. 

It does nothing for me. I started piling secrets 

I have no choice but to keep.

 Demons stretch, yawn but never sleep. 

They kill, and I’ll let them take only me. 

Demons digging graves in my ink, overflowing. 

They will bury me. Bury my poetry. 



It all happens in silence. Your words meant nothing.

You said ‘ I love you’ as the sea rose in a wall on the horizon.

The birds had been quiet a whole day-

It is a wonder how we ignore our sense for destruction;

We see the tide rising and run toward it.

I saw the cliff looming and jumped forward.

There is the voice in my head narrating the end before it is written,

Although is it written once I have said it-

Once I have thought it-

Is it predicted or foreshadowed? Did I cast it or did your God plan this?

Where is the way that a great book paved,

How do you swim to the surface when the way out is as murky as the way down?

When I drown it will be because I tried to breathe

When I knew there was no air,

It will be because my gut told me what my heart wouldn’t hear.

Your hands held me as the water met my knees,

held me steady until the salt began to ache in my throat.

I was  so dazzled by the ocean in your eyes

That I didn’t hear the seashell roar in my ears.

You had left me before the words ever came to your lips.

I was so focused treading the water between us

That I did not see you pulling in the life line,

I did know this was over yet.

Suddenly there was only the ocean. For as far as my eyes could see.



It all happened in silence,

There was only me.


Morning Come

In the morning

I wake first and rise

to walk the dog, and put on my tea

to boil. You still sleep so sound

in the morning dusk of our room.

I leave my boots at the door

and tip toe through the kitchen,

holding my breath

until I hear the coming-to of yours;

a rustle no more loud than leaves,

you climbing from the winded sheets.

By now you have noticed I am never there

when you wake.

One morning you asked why

I am so quiet, when I usually babble like a brook

and I joked the day had yet begun.

In truth, I am like a dancer waiting for her cue;

trained to hold my pose until the curtain does rise.


A time before this

mornings were dark places. The sun could not find me

in the bathroom with the door shut

doing my makeup before work,

fast as I might.

In the other room the day would rise with a crash,

and a grunt.

I would pause.


A grumble, a slam, the sloshing of ice in a cup.

I would wind my way around him,

move from the sink as he took over to brush his teeth,

hover by the stove as he spilled his coffee over my tea.

Some mornings rose with a smile

a ray of sun in the cloudy winter I inhabited,

and the day might unfurl sweetly,

but I would come home with a belly ache

expecting all things dimmmer in the eve’s darkness.

I know it was not your doing

but muscles have memory.

The day has never risen with me

rather always hinged on a sun

that did not always come

to chase away the darkest night from our mind.

So when you rise, groggy and worlds away

to slip past me at the stove on your way to the bathroom,

I will hold my pose

waiting on your cue-

waiting on your mood.


This Sun

The sun has crept up-
only evident through a break in the cold brick buildings-
through a golden rip in the smooth bank of of grey clouds,
the first ones to move in this winter
and grapple with the autumn sunrise.
The air is cool but the plush pines against the gold-blue
look pleasantly warmed, almost on fire, or in a halo.
Only across this patch can you also glance the pace at which clouds fly,
although all around the sky seems un-moving grey; stifled.

I have seen mornings like this before.
I have caught this fresh scent pondering a hillside in Germany,
where I had no tongue for the moment, no words to with which to speak.
I have seen trees undressed by the same golden touch,
In closer huddles, their spines more spindly in the raw dawn.
The same chill has chased me through the morning rush of Dublin
after a night of hard rain,
Trying to recall the dream I had forgotten again.
I have seen the same sun over the rise of bare chest,
Watched a flock of grey-white birds take off at the slip of a sleeper’s breath.
Hands lost in your hair like my pen this memory,
Seen this sun chase the shadows from the hollows of your cheeks…

The bricks are still cold; the day seems stuck at mid-rise,
The sun rising, and quickly setting, hardly seen.

Boys Like Benny

Benny calls,

says he’s been thinking often of me.

Asks where I’ve been, what life has brought recently.

He says someones passed, but he don’t have much more to speak.


When he writes to me,

Says has a girlfriend, but things have gotten tough.

He swears- he don’t think he’ll ever love;

There is a lot we don’t say, but I’ve known Benny long enough.


He calls late at night,

when he must know I’m not awake.

He’s had a few drinks, I can tell from miles away.

Said he misses me, been thinking ’bout the past.

He knows I’m listenin’, because he knows I’m just as bad.


It’s been a while,



But I don’t wonder , I already know.

It is all in cycles; one day he’ll call, one day he won’t.

No need to worry. Boys like Benny, they’ll never go.


When I bring children into this world,

I will teach them to treasure this Earth.

I will not let them roam, blindly

through these sacred hills and valleys

without knowledge of the feet that tread first.


They will help reap the harvest,

and I promise to speak in honest terms.

My children will not be slaves,

but they will know the truth about the world.


When it is time to slaughter,

my children will all come.

We will give thanks to the life ending for us,

We will streak our cheeks in blood.

For how dare we

Forget the lamb upon our plate?

How dare we eat as mush as we want

when we know his tortured fate?

My children will hold the knife

and they will know the gush of the slit.

Call it what you will

my children will know of it.


Then when we lose a loved one

I hope my children will understand-

that is just the way of life.

Ashes to ashes, dirt, and sand.

We will dig the grave deep-

sometimes six feet is not deep enough.

There is something for grief in digging,

the last act that you can perform.


There upon the hillside,

as the sun slowly touches down,

they will have turned up some beautiful Earth,

They will not have paid a thousand a plot

stuffed next to strangers,

in a mud hole dug by ex cons- no


they will have a crude crust of land

dug deep enough to hug my bones

long after my hair has turned to precious


and my heart returned to Earth

my blood mingled with the blood

of all the lambs

before us.


I leave my children







This Is Not A Love Poem

It has been, obviously, a very very long time since I have put pen to paper, and then fingers to keyboard :p Alas,  here is something from my recessed caves of creativity. This is not a promise for more, just a hope that my creations will crawl forth again.

Anyways, enjoy


This Is Not A Love Poem




This used to be my journey,

the pen was my hope-

the sacrifice of inner truth flowing-

the slow unfurling


a rose  .  .  .


I bled blue ink from the marrow of my bones.


Now the ink nips

as the quill quickly writes,

black bubbles blooming

in persistent spite.

The truth that spills

are things better left without light.


As the ivy snakes

and comes to close around my throat,

the pen still scribes

finding substance in my ghosts.

I’ll be swallowed by very garden

from which we all arose.


As the world fills with sorrow,

terror reigning near and far,

the grey shades of these frightening days

have left fear stains

a shade too dark.


This used to my freedom,

I used to write in blood,

but now my heart is haunted

though I write nothing

about love.





The Magician’s Show

You reach for the rabbit in the tattered black hat

Without the fever you once possessed.

You bow to the crowd and accept the applause

Before hurrying off the stage without zest.

The dove shuffles, stuck in the cage-

The butterflies died in the cloudy night.

Silk kerchiefs have stayed stiff with tears;

A smoke black smudge where once was white.

You smiled as I took my seat,

Bowed to the crowd, then locked eyes on me

And as you swung that heavy chain

I felt as if I just learned to breathe. . .

Your arm falls short as you swing the cape,

The cards shuffle slowly and almost slip

You’ve lost the magic you once possessed,

The hand that gestures is quick.

Disappearing wasn’t merely your act,

Time was not something you could truly slow.

When the curtain fell and the lights when out,

It was your double who drove me home.

I climbed atop of your altar,

As you showed the blade to the crowd.

You hacked me in half then left to me bleed

And just left after your final bow.