Eternal Star


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Oh, phosphorescent night;
a gift from the sea
that glides us on foam

reflection of light
moon’s mouth; dripping in
ribbons of glass thread

woven into rope; swaying
we chime at high decibels
ascending; arced

luminaire pulls; bound
by silvered sand
stitched with a hard swallow

breaking shards carry us toward eternity
I sink into your hard night
inhaling stars; we become aurora borealis

the composition of colour;
we ride against light
and the sound of forever; luminescent

For Open Link Night #29: dVerse Poet’s Pub at

Time Points Down


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Time points down to a fleshless skull; memory
preserved and resting; safely nestled
inside a uterine lining; still echoing
daily; a ghostly cry; crows
feed inside flexible hips,
empty but for the
grey ash of time.
I wish for the
of space
in vein

and dried out on
a white windowsill;
l keep it for some time
with tufts of dead cats’ fur;
black, grey, and orange, neatly
tucked into small squares of a large
mahogany jewellery box; handmade
against my wishes the colour fades like a drug.
Crimson wax flows; laying pysanka* in a pattern of
stars and double-helixes; dripping in moons of
rose-tinted honey held in the comb, then
released; in a spontaneous flush- out.

Unexpected and without any explanation; ‘just a glitch, really.’
Occasionally, I still consult lunar charts to see
my waning windowsill of opportunity.

One hundred and eight moons
have passed counting
down to

hold a
séance for
my heart to conjure
a kindred soul.

Posted for dVerse OpenLinkNight # 25

*Pysanka is the art of Ukrainian egg decorating. A pen-like instrument is used to draw patterns on an egg with beeswax. The egg is then dyed, the wax removed, and the colourful pattern displays against the egg’s natural colour. The process can be continued in multiple layers of design and colour. During the time of this poem’s event, I made many of these eggs, not for any religious meaning at all, but because I loved preparing the eggs, creating the patterns, and living the process.

Eleventh Winter


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My back sways toward a grey sky
face tilted, up
fear gusts me down the steps
on an afternoon
in early winter
of my eleventh year.

Screen door bangs rhythmically behind.

I have only three wishes: I wish for wings; I wish for clear sky; I wish for colour.

The wind whips
as I reach high
clipping frayed towels and threadbare sheets
to a drooping line
icy fringe stabbing my fingers; bleached.

Extra pins drop from my mouth
caught by a tub
I bathed in as an infant
once white.

Tire leans against the tree.

I fold myself inside
comfort of invisibility; contorted
upside-down; becoming the tire
for as long as I need
studying the interior
I compare texture against my skin.


Everything looks different from inside the tire.

Bic Flick!
Cigarette lit
ash bark splits, releasing steam
lips pursed, my practiced exhale
tries to swirl the two vapors
in spirals; upward.

Unsuccessful, I return to chains.

Panasonic radio silences
chaos and wind; nicely.

Hungry, I enter the clubhouse.
Metal door screeches shut; rust spills.
I light a purple candle with kitchen matches.

Tab, Cheez-Its, and potted meat fill me; prepared lunch.
Tracing comics from the newspaper, I begin to colour.
I decide if I could only have three of the thirty-two colours
they would be magenta, sky blue, and grass.

And black. Ok, four.

I whittle my pencil; jack-knife sharp.

Band-aid box snaps open.
dead wren slides out
over my glass shard collection; now dulled
each piece has a story
green, purple, orange, red, and cobalt.

I know it’s wrong, but
I think this dead bird
is the most beautiful thing
I’ve ever seen.

Moving its wings, I wonder about flying.

Officer Jerry’s car door.
He knocks on the screen door, but no one answers.


His pitied eyes ask for help again
just routine questioning;
can I take him inside?


Our four footsteps
ascend the stairs
leaves crunch; he holds my hand.

I insert the key,
turn the knob,
as we step
into hell.

I have only three wishes: I wish for wings; I wish for clear sky; I wish for colour.

Someone told me that if you wish hard enough your wishes come true.

They were right.

For dVerse OpenLinkNight #18
Poetry Picnic: Childhood Dreams for

Hyphephilia: Freedom Bound


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This poem was written in collaboration with John Wood (@mysilvertongue). His words are used with permission and indicated by bold/italics. To experience a previous collaboration between John and I, click . I would like to thank John for sharing his beautiful words and being an inspiration to me.









My lips on
your skin
wet cotton.

My wrist
held to your mouth
warmth radiates through cool,
wet cotton’s soft, dull brush.


Satin burns my cheek

Lustrous peaks
slide under
your warm weight.

Images flicker
on a screen
of slick black.

I glimpse
your beauty
through snapping celluloid
and fall; frictionless.


Chafed leather
sweat sheer skin.

Our skin pressed; confined
moisture dripping
to a swallow.

Lining of veins
corded; inside
folded tissue.


Threaded needle
desire’s loops
your back arched.

A tatted circuit
of braided nylon
magic square of three.

Your tugs
brand my
translucent skin.

I arch back
peering up
at a heavy sky
of layered chiffon.

Your blurred essence
patterns the horizon
as I inhale.


Mount Venus subsiding
your velvet sheath
my hard gaze.

Armfuls of draped ruffles
shirred; my crimson secrets
by a tessellated net.

Breath held…
I wait
to hold your dreams.


Silken slit
my tongue
a blade.

leathered and laced
in arabesques.

Your hilt held safe.


Warm lace
the length of me.

Moonlight bathes
my knees glowing; pinned
to your skin.

White paper hyacinths
our woven dreams a veil.


I dream to wake to open that veil.


Posted for OpenLinkNight #17 – dVerse Poet’s Pub

Photograph by Elisa Lazo de Valdez. See more of her stunning art photography at

Invocation for Spring


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Wet stitches
knotted high and pulled
fascia scars
organs grinding
for my own good.


Sanguine ligature
plucks a six-string
hymeneal improv
chaotically jerking me
this way and that
“for entertainment purposes only.”


Cherished with each loving tie
of an overhand knot
cat gut reins degrade via enzymes
as I unplug the cautery
and wait…
to bleed again.


Valves leak
bleeding grids onto an
ivory corset; spreading
sine qua non


I scrape claret-tinted resin
from the surface
cork-patch the holes,
wiped them clean,
and wait…
to slip free.


Plummeting headfirst
into a sea of autumn’s compost
I forage for a
blood-soaked pedon
raising only familiar shards
of glass and wire and plastic.


The cuts are small, so
I continue to float
and wait…
to bleed out.




I lay
in a field of lavender
on a mountain of freedom
in the springtime.


Posted for OpenLinkNight – Week #15 at




The following is a poem inspired by Erik Satie’s Vexations (1893) and his short-lived, but very intense relationship with artist Suzanne Valadon. This sequence was conceived and written in collaboration with Peter. Please read his amazing poetry at His words are clothed in bold.

Listen to Satie’s Vexations:

(the curtains open)

Your shy glance
the pause
between notes

My breath suspends
viewing time’s dilation
our universe rotates around fixed stars

Rain drops splashing
into spaces
of silence

is where eternal love
internal lives

running down
black silk

Slitted relativity; absolute
as cushion glides over warm waves
reflecting moist ivory sheath; lubricious (sinking)

in a half smile

Rings of smoke kick;
tears crash translucent
light is pulled low in the sky

Love mourned
eyes wet closed
hands empty open

Metrical heartbeat laments, as
ears vibrate with pain(t) and
hope folds into love’s murmur

the sound of fingers (almost)
caressing beauty

Pulled by a note, taut; plucked in time
tapping out notes; stillborn, as
an ebony sheath empties

Ivory pleasure
the black of not there
knuckle white pain

(the curtains close)

Satie by Suzanne Valadon

The fierce quiet of love roars in my ears…