“Yesterday. I keep on speaking of yesterday as if nothing will come of today.” Who says such words to stir my affection?

Exposé departs the border -rules the space. Brave vowels, ravenously mouth the thoughts. Utterances, breathe air -risen on smoke.

“I have not figured out who you are, but I will find you.” My only reply.

I’ve made reservations. Sit with me. Then we will confess our hearts.

i’ll be me
you be you
together we meet
halfway between

i’m not talking to you
seek shelter inside
should’ve known better.

course through suspicion
a river -electricity
the slow torture of soul.

(This is fiction. Any resemblance to truth quite accidental.)

I can’t let you go.
I refuse to give you up.

I am free. There is no one thing -particulars?

I don’t confess

I like this; I dont like that. -See

the bottom of the ocean travels way down -deep

and this love of ours won’t bless my sleep

because i live my life

the way i want

your done -taking me over.

I can’t let you go.
I refuse to give you up.

I. Am. Not.

Silently whispering

I have been hard pressed- trying to be my best. And in the process, lost all rest. 

Broken, storms erect a wall. Weak, utterly confused. Silent. The drums ever louder, marching to the beats, painful echoes I repeat. What is heard?

Look up! vultures. Masses circle, tease desires. Grotesque in cue. Addressed invitations to the vile.

Quiet! Please be still, my heart. Stop and play with me?

No, sings the chorus. Feeling satisfaction, cloaked with power.  Cuts deep. Power turns me on my head. Destroys what life remains, up ahead. Drains the blood.


The world drives me insane. I attempt to love it back. Erect it, place it back in orbit. Black. Not one person hears. Silently whispering. We fade.

Being Vulnerable

Is it better to get hurt and live or die and never be hurt? Ah! the joys of being an infp!

Some how, and please don’t ask me how, i stumbled onto this “who am i” path. Again. It’s not terribly wrong to want to understand, until this happens. You realize

#3. You find yourself thinking of the worst possible outcome that has a 0.00001% chance of actually happening.


or # 4. You go through moods of acting like a bossy, insensitive jerk, then minutes later, hate yourself and regret saying the hurtful things.

yep! So now I will have to go and hide, because after all…

#6. You have an endless supply of poetry, writing, and artwork that is probably REALLY, REALLY good, but you’re too afraid to ever share it with anyone.

And, sure i have shared plenty. I wouldn’t ever say it is really, really good. Maybe its mediocre at best. But damn, i have to get out of this shell. Some time. Now to find where i put those keys…

#10. Just because you don’t wanna party every night, doesn’t mean you’re not a lot of fun!

But I do!!! I just am afraid. Of you!

All above scenarios were found at personality growth. Now to go back into my grave. 👻👽🤕

Insert my daughters as the infj’s that they are and me, being the infp, and you will understand our relationships. A good reason my daughters think i’m a hurricane, tsunami, blizzard or whatever other storm exists. 🙀

Glad you stopped by. Thanks for reading. Luckily for me, you don’t really know who i am. ✌🏼J✍️

I told my daughter, today, she was a tornado. And she answered. Your worse.


Yes. You. Your a hurricane, tsunami, earthquake, all rolled into one. One some thing. A thunderstorm that never ends.


Life on Monhegan

just a taste … brought us, me, back to life.

The cold breath

of wintering hearts. Over.

I miss Monhegan Island. If I could fly, sewn feathers -tightly worn…

Instead, I sit

Dream -a


I did not meet Judith Pontura. Her book, stacked on a store shelf. The lady, behind the register, well, I asked her, had Judith signed any books? She had. A signature tucked away, book behind the counter. I bought it. I like to see the handwriting on the wall.

I opened the pages -again this morning. And an address, a P.O. Box with 04852 zip code. A name attached. Judith. Now Weber. Was this her? Had the cash-register lady given me her address? How, days pass. We forget the impact, never notice an island sprawled all over the desk. Mapped out-meticulously.

You remind me. Smell.

Monhegan May 2016

Six word story

There is no excuse for abuse. 

Six words to say it all.  It is intimidating to stand before others and fight for beliefs, even though it is justice served to stand up for others.  The adage actions speak louder than words rings true still someone needs to speak up for the voiceless.  We can come up with a million excuses while the following happens in America yearly…

Nearly 700,000 children are abused in the U.S annually. An estimated 683,000 children (unique incidents) were victims of abuse and neglect in 2015, the most recent year for which there is national data.

CPS protects more than 3 million children. Approximately 3.4 million children received an investigation or alternative response from child protective services agencies. 2.3 million children received prevention services.

The youngest children were most vulnerable to maltreatment. Children in the first year of their life had the highest rate of victimization of 24.2 per 1,000 children in the national population of the same age.

Neglect is the most common form of maltreatment. Of the children who experienced maltreatment or abuse, three-quarters suffered neglect; 17.2% suffered physical abuse; and 8.4% suffered sexual abuse. (Some children are polyvictimized—they have suffered more than one form of maltreatment.)

About four out of five abusers are the victims’ parents. A parent of the child victim was the perpetrator in 78.1% of substantiated cases of child maltreatment.


These are the children known about.  Who else is out there silently crying in the corner?

Personally I hide behind the written word to let others know how I feel about atrocities against the vulnerable but to be seen and heard is another thing.  I guess I am use to being voiceless.  Shot down by those who want to steal my being.  I once felt I was no one and often return to past behaviors.  It is hard to believe when trust is broken.  I question those who say they love me.  “Do they really?” an inner voice asks.  “Do they?”  Is that maltreatment not enough to be there for others facing neglect and emotional abuse?  It is even more heart-wrenching to know others face physical and sexual abuse.

I recall a few years back, tutoring at a women’s homeless shelter, a sixth grade boy came in for help.  He sat down and could not make eye contact.  For a half hour I waited and in time he turned towards me.  During our conversation he told me of the bullying by fellow classmates who stole his backpack and ridiculed him for wanting to get an education.  Mind you this is in the inner city where gangs, drugs and distaste for others is the way of life.  The behaviors are learned and passed down through generations stemming from neglect by society at large.

There is blame to pass around but to point fingers does not solve the situation.  Instead we need to roll up our sleeves and get to work.  Whether it is hands-on, one-on-one, or directed to groups at-large, everyone must pick up the torch and move forward.  Let no one be subjected to demeaning and shame for being.  Humanity needs healing.  We are a fallen people hanging on by a thread.