Going through the motions

When your heart
lacks love for today
a mere shadow, chasing the sun away
close the curtains
ban the songs
people got in your way.

I remember
a time -certainly
now, not to be high
perhaps it was last night
the outline of a face
traced in the dust, aroused.

You wait for your ship
a turn around
right about face
float until the motion -going
shifts your head.
It’s this tread you dread.

Three Days In the Woods (heave)

Church is Poetry. Poetry is Life. A life well lived.

Three Days in the Woods (heave), Morgantown IN

Waking Up

I believe inside each of us resides a broken heart that never received the love needed. Our job is to heal those wounds, as revealed, and to search for those yet uncovered.

It came to me -a dream
And so my friend,
he has a name -Goy Peppo.

My constant companion on this writing adventure, Goy “Penguin” Peppo. He hardly believes I have shoved out all these words, nonstop, since 2008. Its akin to puking… i slowly loose the burden, strung around my neck, threatening to hang me.

Certainly there are people who would loved to have seen me dead. Growing up, there were kids in school who harbored ill desires toward me. At home, my sisters regulated me to a corner of the room, size of a cardboard box, and threw my clothes on top. I was invisible to my parents who walked right past and never noticed the tears.

Nights. I remember being in the dark, listening to the laughter coming from the living room. My parents and sisters would make pizza and popcorn and watch tv. It didn’t matter. I held my breath, covered my face with a pillow, in hopes the world would disappear. I would wake to silence, thinking I was dead. Imagine the disappointment when my wishes had not come true.

So, Goy searches for Words of Wisdom, in hopes, with time, I can be as loved as him.

Wharton “It was easy enough to despise the world, but decidedly difficult to find any other habitable region.”

Woolf “I thought how unpleasant it is to be locked out; and I thought how it is worse, perhaps, to be locked in.”

“I’m Nobody! Who are you?
Are you – Nobody – too?
Then there’s a pair of us!
Don’t tell! they’d advertise – you know!”

Alcott “I keep turning over new leaves, and spoiling them, as I used to spoil my copybooks; and I make so many beginnings there never will be an end.” (Jo March)

Frost “Poetry is what gets lost in translation.”

Plath “Yes, I was infatuated with you: I am still. No one has ever heightened such a keen capacity of physical sensation in me. I cut you out because I couldn’t stand being a passing fancy. Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams. And you weren’t having any of those.

If you expect nothing from anybody, you’re never disappointed.

I feel my words are changing as I am healing. Becoming one heart. Whole. I hope I am growing as a writer, expressing the deep caverns, still not lit well enough to explore.

Writing is a discipline as any other creative endeavor. What we give of ourselves, to both the process and the outcome, is what eventually is criticized. What remains unsaid, at the end of the day, will wait for tomorrow.


dark pleases

understands all. Embrace
dark and light

a bad girl
stockings ripped

her material lifted high

Fingernails -sharp
sunk pleasure, all hers.

He lay wounded
cast aside -screams
from the room above

burnt heart


you can blame her
like Adam blamed Eve

take a bite, she begs
as a stray dog in an alley

their breath rises
morning fog -discreet

a promise to no one
who would ever find them

rumpled hearts in satin sheets

their desire unmatched
had she known him sooner

heat, like fear


Wide-Open, Eyes Shut

Thursday Doors – Norm 2.0

Fear this
wide open space -exists
to construct walls

add windows
and doors
to enjoy the view.

If life isn’t fragments
what is the big picture?

tears witness death
storms wash me to sea
tides say goodbye, evidently.

Time Spent

Weekly Photo Challenge: Sweet

Time spent with a friend is sweet. Shared treats. Shared tweets. At Cupitol, Downtown Chicago, 455 E Illinois Avenue. If you find yourself there, sitting…

consider visiting the Museum of Contemporary Art, a short 20 minute walk away. Along the edge of Northwestern’s college campus.

Please do not use my photos for any purpose, without permission. Thank you.

Happy Accidents (reblog)

Happy Accidents…

One name Bob Ross…

He was an amazing painter and I find myself at 5am an hour and half until the alarm is to go off and I’m watching him paint a beautiful winter sunset scene with my favourite colour yellow.


I mentioned I had found, accidentally, a painting signed H. Ross. I loved the scene and colors and only after hanging the picture noticed the signature. After searching to see if it could be a Bob Ross painting, his quintessential scenes made me think it could be, albeit never saw him paint a boat, we assumed it was the son, Steven Ross, who had painted it. Now, checking a bit further, I am unsure. Maybe it is Bob Ross. Maybe Steven Ross. Most likely I need expert advice.

Regardless, I love the painting. And if your in the mood for more Bob Ross… be happy.

Art, Be Mine

I am not in love with one person. Today, no poem to express my desire, written.

Art is the soul of life. The drive to burn my way through the toughest days, exists in creating.

I am in love with art. The dirty and the clean. The high and the low. The spaces between. All of life performed in view and that which resides within.

I am in love with you. I am in love with art.