Iron Maiden

Through the Iron Maiden’s bars

I spy a fairyland, a place

where peace grows, seeded row by row

with roots of safety, soil of grace.

But Iron Maiden bids me stay,

she bars the path to enter in;

whispers how I don’t belong,

hints at defect deep within

so here I stop, with longing gaze,

aching for the scene I spy,

wanting Eden’s leafy rest,

believing Iron Maiden’s lie.

First Kiss

No Botox here.

Braces weren’t in the cards.

Scoliosis made sure you couldn’t walk with a stack of books on your head,

so your gait is – awkward. ┬áMincing.

You never had the time or inclination to perm, straighten, tint, dye, crimp, or highlight.

You always dreamed of being loved by a handsome Prince

who would sweep you off your calloused feet

and love you for who you were.

You hadn’t reckoned on

being compared to the Kardashians,

competing with the pin-ups,

playing second-fiddle to an air-brushed myth.

So you settle for a frog prince,

warts and all,

and wait, alone,

night after night,

for your first kiss…


One of these things is not like the others,

One of these flowers is an island of blue;

She stands alone, amidst all the silver,

She isn’t ashamed of her different hue.

She isn’t aware that her petals’ arrangement

Stubbornly shouts out her personal flair;

She isn’t trying to mimic the snow-scape,

Or trying to squelch how she grows.  Her air

Is one of contentment, of ‘I have arrived!’

She blooms where her seed has fallen by chance.

Her radiance, her difference, will draw all the eyes,

And hers is the visage that’s worth second glance.