frosty oats

Turn not this beauty from your skin,

Do not deny its wintry kiss;

This touch of trouble deep within

Has brought you to the brink’s abyss,

Where self is laid on frozen shrine,

Blowing chaff from every cell,

Sowing strength in every line,

Birthing beauty honed by hell.



The Star Inside

mallow star


She cradles her weakness deep,

tenderly touching places

that crisply curl past their prime;

she treasures bent blooms, broken

foliage. When petals lose

their sheen, her soul stirs, shouting

joy in exuberant notes,

song of the ancients who learned

secrets from secret sorrows.

To such spirits as hers, pain

is welcomed as Mentor, friend

whose sage presence sears blossoms

but harvests seeds. Thankful

heart, this, whose troubles have stripped

away the peripheral,

baubles which blocked her brilliance,

kept her from being a star.



Frozen Fingers


Frozen fingers point, accuse,

indict the earth for all her crimes;

frozen hearts in Trouble’s shoes

hear the fear in Memory’s chimes.

In a world where Winter reigns,

a Narnia ‘neath wicked spell,

who but Spring’s Son breaks such chains,

melts the shackles of such hell?

The Stars are Witnesses

Roses tend to be rather less roses this way,

but hailstones, Nature’s Mafia,

convinced you that life would be safer,

more bearable,

cast in the role of ‘Victim in a Puddle’.

You tremble in your cement boots.

Extortion always exacts a price, unequally applied.

Your grip on reality relaxed

and here you lie,

‘She Was a Good Mother’ carved on your tombstone.

Your fall was silent,

a gradual descent into madness,

and only the stars

are witnesses…

In the Middle of Nowhere

Image courtesy of Ear Split Compound

You called, and my journey began,

a slow and tenuous slide off the lip of a slippery slope,

on a dubious road unmarked and undersigned.

Perhaps I am going to Nowhere,

that magical legendary land of broken dreams and crushed spirits.

Perhaps there is no end to this unending trek

which bloodies my feet and lames my legs

and batters my nerves til they’re raw.

Having begun, and not having arrived,

I am in the middle of


The terrain is strange and terrifying.

Dark shadows and things that creep and hiss live here.

And always the voices call.

“Give up! ”

“Are you lost?  Who told you to walk this road?”

“Turn back!  It’s easier going downhill than

straight up these cliffs.”

“You’ll never make it!  Turn back!”

“Turn back!”

“Turn back…”

Weeping, time after time I get the urge to

lie down

on that lonely and wearisome track.

I can’t do this.

Life in the middle is too hard.  Too raw.  Too everything.

I can’t.

I can’t…

And at the lowest can’t, I hear a can.

It is but a whisper, just enough to raise my head

and seek the source of the sound.

And I glimpse sandalled feet,

curiously pierced,

disappearing in the murky mist just beyond my reach.

So I get up.  I follow.

I must.

I remember now.

You promised an end.

You promised never to leave me.

You promised I would find my song at the end of this road.

You called.

I will answer with my feet.

My follow.

My heart…