To the Faerest Lady in Illumen

My poem To the Faerest Lady can now be found in Illumen magazine! 😀 I received my own copy just the other day.

To the Faerest Lady is a love poem about a fae woman in the form of five sonnets.

If you want to read it, Illumen can be bought as either print or e-book at Alban Lake Store.




(Credit: American Mcgee and Electronic Arts)


I remember through the smoke,

Flames licking up the walls.

The rabbit showed me the way out,

And as I stood there watching the fire

With a group of strangers

More screams

And I recognised their voices.

And it was not over when my childhood home was a black ruin.

It was not over when the orphanage swallowed me up.

It was not over when Dr. Deadeyes told me that some memories are not constructive,

And I dissolved into a swarm of blue butterflies.


The screaming will never be done.

Homemade Clothes


(Credit: Cafer Zorkun, wikiDoc)

I sew clothes from silk scraps and cotton sheets.

The donators think their contributions go to the third world,

But they go to this one,

Right here.

They go to my three children and me,

After having been through my algae green, foot pedal driven sewing machine.

And I know it’s wrong to lie to them, but ever since I saw the x-ray of Dewey,

My son,

Ever since, I saw the thing, which should not be in his chest,

I have seen everything through cloudy glass.

It makes everything

flow together and it

Blots out all the small things like lying

And stealing.

And if I can steal my boy away from death

I don’t care how expensive the treatment is

And I don’t care

Who has to pay for it.

How long?


(Credit: Sonja Krueger)

Her skin burns.

The air ripples over the dried up riverbed.

A deep breath brings rosemary and thyme.

Smoothed rocks dig into her back, but she is completely still.

Above her, several vultures circle.

How long until they land?

How long until it is the bone breaker’s turn?

How long until she will be gone,

Absorbed into this dry oven with tall towers of layered limestone?

The hot air scorches her nose and catches in her throat.

Much, much too long.

She Used to Dance


(Credit: BeKissable on Deviantart)

On the porch with his violin.

At sunset, he plays everything

That used to make her dance.


He is alone in the house now

With cobwebs and squeaking windows

Since the forest took her.


One summer I brought him small talk,

Groceries and many questions.

No answers ever came.


When I looked over my shoulder,

His silhouette was a statue

Staring at the forest.


It seems very painful with the

Memory and forest so close

One should think he would leave.


But he seems to be waiting and

At sunset, he plays everything

That used to make her dance.

A Christmas Rhyme

Illustration for Edgar Allan Poe's "The R...

Illustration for Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven”. Accompanies the phrase “And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor/Shall be lifted–nevermore!” (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Christmas made me late
But gave me inspiration for my update,
So as you can see this time,
I’m going to try to make it rhyme.

Some say a poem must paint a perfect picture,
Some say it is all about the structure,
Others say that a poem is not fine
Unless it has a proper rhyme.

The Raven was read aloud Christmas night,
Followed by a poem about love’s might.
Both poems were much longer than mine,
and still they did beautifully rhyme.

I have reached the fourth stanza
Of this rhyme extravaganza,
And I’m already having trouble
With making it rhyme.

I hope you all had a very happy Christmas!

Use of the Word: Lost

A bird welcomes the morning outside my window, my eyes are still closed and you are afraid that you might have “lost” my love.


Lost, as in you hid it under the bed, but then forgot where you put it?

Lost, as in threw out some old stuff and forgot that my love was in between the crumpled paper somewhere?

Lost, as in you lent it to an old friend and you forgot to get it back before she moved far away and you lost contact with her?

Lost, as in you kept it in your pocket, but one day all your trousers were in the washing except this one really old pair with lots of holes in them, and you put my love in the pocket of those, but there was a hole in the pocket, and my love fell out on some pavement as you went from the doctor’s to the grocery store, and you went back and looked for it, but it was nowhere to be found, and you think someone might have picked it up and taken it home with them?

In any case, you are being silly.

If I know anything for a fact, it is that one cannot lose something which one has never had.

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