Monthly Archives: July 2016

Edna Snead’s Pancreas

Through the islet of the eyes,

past the backward view

into the blood and memory

the images once flew.

To enter that which never sees,

tapping into the sap.

The chemicals which so dormant lie,

powerfully unwrapped.

So few will be allowed;

as Edna Snead now is –

To reach beyond the grips of time,

the wings of flight it pins.

Now passed by her in silence,

the feeling soon is gone –

uncontrolled, will it return?

To see what no one saw.

Lover of words

Words like scorned lovers taunt me;

whispering in dark places on dark days.

Gnawing slowly at what fragments remain of my mind.

Constantly repeating, growing more insistent –

nearly shouting!

Appeasing them only in the moment of silence when I can let them run their course.

Their satisfaction is fleeting – coupled with torment;

as they scurry about their duties, unraveling what

remains of me.

Passionate voices driven by the desire to be emptied upon this blank page –

Using me, adoring only as their purpose is fulfilled and then –

Quickly and quietly tip toeing out the door.

Cold and forgetful – satisfied in their retreat.

Calling upon me with vicious affection in these weak moments.

Desire giving me purpose and unable ignore their advances.

And yet we are symbiotic.

They are no more animate then this page allows – then my hand allows.

Vengeful only in my obsession to stifle them – to use them as they have used me.

I will let them have their way with me, with this tired pen

And then –

Once more sit idly hoping to feel the warmth,

the soft glow of passion fulfilled.



Untitled X

Gently rocking in rhythmic orbits

dancing pantomime upon the wooden beam

lemon silk exploding sits

life hiding in slow decay seems –

once again so alert

awake in the noontime glow

as if at once to assert

that what now reaps, soon must sow.

Little Grey Squirrel

Busy little rodent.

Quickly passing by on some greater quest.

Are you searching for a lost friend,

a mate, a meal?

You seem so determined.

Unaltered by screeching tires, potential predators,

or obstruction.

I envy such purpose, such certainty.

A simple life of survival.

Perhaps you are not so different from us all?

Intelligence may not be such a blessing.

It allows us the ability to question our actions.

Doubt, mourn, long –

The simplest tasks made complicated;

partnered with guilt and remorse.

A day on my porch

Ivory latex skin cracked and faded,

revealing your grey withered form –

each stain perhaps a memory

a moment etched in time.

Sturdy and supportive yet – dissolved –

worn with use and abuse.

A clear purpose, neglected.

Indistinct and unnoticed, perhaps always.

Yet someone cared once, laboured once in creation.

Passed on, never revisited.

Left to your own fate, until disposed.


Silence breaks the cluttered air,

and penetrates the lies;

Which are whispered back and forth between

strangers with their eyes.

What look is that which begs me on?

To slip into a tale;

of valour and royal affection –

and salvation through the grail.

I wonder if you notice,

the anxiety I attempt to hide?

Or can you see right through it all,

and understand inside?

To turn away would be to run,

and I wish so much to stay.

But I am defenseless here with you;

your eyes which lure this way.

Vulnerable I sit and watch – for signs,

of the touch which is sure to come

unable to break the silence

unwilling still to run.

And as the expected soon occurs,

I melt beneath your skin.

The anticipation of your reach.

I believe this time you win.

Fight or Flight

Some days I think I might run away –

like a child on an adventure.

Without a care for bills or tasks at hand.

What a disappointment I should be –

to flee from life with such ease.

But my breath sits trapped within my chest,

and I wager on loneliness.

What an empty world so full –

where my comfort lies within unfeeling,

calculated characters.

So much easier to digest the fiction

then to face the reality and have my eyes tear,

my heart ache, my breath cease.

And what echoing cries sit

caged behind flesh?

For no one could hear them anyway.

Who’s around to listen?

In an empty brown house on the corner.


In pristine grace

alone beneath a crown;

untouched, unmoved.

Married to a broken kingdom;

divided by faith and ambition.

Yet, in divinity placed;

to govern and wield

a majestic tradition.

Wealth and power in lonely betrayal.

Forced into porcelain roles.

Shattering all that was once and passionate.

The pencil placed aside for a cold sword.

A wildflower withering on a battlefield,

in death remembered in sainthood.


Lucky to be alive;

breathing cool air

gasping absent air.

An unfinished portrait.


Lucky to be young;

faced with uncertainty,

dared by uncertainty.

An unpaid expense.


Lucky to be sheltered;

living in moderation,

forced into moderation –

an unforeseen event.


Lucky to be welcome;

standing in a doorway,

crouching beneath the doorway –

not so welcome after all.


Young writer

Singular type-face.

Hidden within impassioned shelves.

Where is the fire, the vigor, the colour?

Where is the passion of the young mind?

Stuffed into ten lined print on a stark white page.

Sitting asleep with boredom.

It passes through us without impact.

Unable to breath & dance & feel –

Within a plain blue cover, the incarcerated images

lay locked behind yellowing pages

and me along with them.