Miscellaneous Writings and Musings


A genie and her rock band

(Novel and Short Stories)

Steal Tomorrow

Steal Tomorrow
Murder, Mystery, First Love, and the End of the World

(Novel and Short Stories)

My Books and Stories

My Books and Stories
Where to Buy, Read, Download

Bitter Season

Everything has its season
and the most transient of blooms
can have roots that go deep,
seemingly dormant,
until ripped from the earth.
Then they bleed.

Love is irrational,
caring nothing for the needs
of hours,
or days,
or proximity,
which is just another word
for the space that comes between
and breaks us apart.

In a single wild bright moment
I thought I could have it all,
but soon came reason
and bitter truth:
there was more room in my heart
than in my life.

Whether I shed another tear,
or throw a tantrum like a child,
nothing past will change.
So I choke back the lump in my throat,
gasp for air,
and curse Ananke
that she left me at my mirror
with my thousand salves and emollients,
preserving what’s left of youth
for a reunion that will never come.

And now the mandate to myself:
that I should write this down,
lest I fritter away the rest
of an uncertain strand.
For when my tears are spent
and my books are filled,
there will still be much to do,
and I must find my own way
through the dregs
of my illusions.

This was written for Sunday's Whirligig and M.A. (sixth in a series)


You did not bring order to chaos,
but you gave me shelter,
preserved my sanity,
(saved my soul)
and taught me not to put my faith
in those who would deceive.

You could not lead me
through the wasteland,
but you sustained my journey,
propped me up,
gave me what I needed
until I found my guide.

Possessed of an unruly heart
that would not obey the rules,
you proved love could be

You were a well in the desert that never ran dry.

My refuge, my safe harbor
in a sea of queasy dramas,
night confessions,
and the violent obsessions
that too often passed for love,
you were the small quiet certainty
in the eye of the storm
that was my youth.

This was written for Three Word Wednesday and for M.A. (fifth in a series).


You never claimed to be a saint
and I didn’t need you to be.

Best medicine for a troubled time
when I was bleeding on my own sharp edges,
in thrall to the peaks and valleys
of pursuing fantasy.

Our garbled social notions say
we must play for higher stakes
than just a lover.
We should find everything in one,
put down roots,
and never share.

But what rot to think there’s one right way,
for if we had blessed our love
with words and diamonds,
we would have swiftly killed it,
chipping at it with resentments
over what each could never be.
So we took heaven where we could find it,
and never committed the alchemist's sin
of trying to turn glitter to gold.

It sparkled just the same.

But I sacrificed you for convention,
though my heart never gave you up.
(You would have done it, too.)
And now I find myself in a dark tunnel,
leading to an unknown place
where weeping gains me nothing
and the trail that I thought would take me to you
leads only to your grave.

Would have. Could have. Should have.

I never claimed to be a saint
and you never needed me to be.

This was written for Sunday Scribblings 2, The Sunday Whirl, and M.A. (fourth in a series).

A Little Conceit

What can I say that hasn't been said?
Words will not get it right.
Defy the convention.
Break the taboo.
Speak or stay silent,
they will label it how they will.

Was it a gift or something I stole?
Sweet delusion
or something more?
I would keep my truth
though I ignored the prophecy
written in my own hand.

And here at the end
I'm bereft of answers,
with no right to know,
though I scan my sources,
taut with expectation
and my mind in tatters.

Dead men don't tell tales
so we have to make them up,
lest we go mad.

This was written for Three Word Wednesday and for M.A.

Left Unspoken

Regret is like an illness,
bile rising in the throat,
no respite
no relief
except through tears
that will not banish bruised perplexity
or right the foreseen wrong
of thinking I had time.

Even then (so long ago)
I knew your days were short
but I made you my rock, my given,
my always.
Too wrong to be my only.
Too dear to kill the love.
I could commit my heart but not my life.
Forever needs more than chemistry.
So I trusted you to understand
my new allegiance
and my silence.

And now I look for clues in pixels
and speak as though
the answers will be offered.
These meager measures serve me not at all.
For what haunts my quiet moments
and nibbles at the edges of my thoughts
is the outlandish notion
that you are gone
and I never told you my heart.

This was written for Three Word Wednesday, Poets United and for M.A..


I had to stop explaining you:
as dear to me as food and air,
but never one and only.
(That sort of thing won’t do, you know.)
So I learned to say less,
and finally nothing at all.

But we’ve long moved past that place,
and no maps lead back to youth.
Let people draw their conclusions.

So if I were to pay respects,
would I speak the truth,
or stiffly force a smile
and offer a convenient cover:
He was just a friend.

Rather I should say instead
you were the indulgence
of a hard-edged age.
But then they would
howl their judgments,
quite certain of their certainties.

And so I’ll mark the hour alone,
lest the absurdity break my mind
and split my heart:
dark car,
empty shell
in a box trimmed in silver.

In my thoughts I'll pick up a card
from the rear of the church
and pretend to read it
while trying not to scream.

It’s only words.
And a bell.
Tolling a reminder
that time passes
and so have you.

M.A. falleció 6/2/16