Her Words

The sweetly tickling nuances of her words
never cease to amaze me,
nor how swiftly sullen me unfolds
to the touch of her voice.

This most prolific creator who populates
realms of finest fiction
with lives much more richly crafted
than I could ever imagine.

The fresh intimate tones of the tales
she composes seduce me,
tantalizing this reader to more than believe—
but to be in that space.

I long to race wildly through her LA streets,
to gently rise with her wisps.
If only I could pass through the portals of Qaf
or strive against ghosts in France.

Instead, I harangue the too arduous day
awaiting the silence of night,
when I might grasp once more at the chance
to turn to the next page.

My favorite author, Laya V. Smith, before Eilean Donan castle in the Highlands of Scotland (2015).

My Wee Sprite

my wee sprite speaks to the trees
and dances their sylvan singing
bringing vibrant hope to my soul,
bark growing stronger at her touch
roots stretching deeper and deeper
below her feet

my wee sprite chases away spectres
securing trust and eternal song
that pardons even the most egregious
envies that have broken bound me
to pursue such petty pleasures
in this life

my wee sprite promises me a day
when the Shellycoat herself bows
and allows me to ascend and ride
the very seas from shore to shore
only to see my wee sprite smile
once more

The Gloaming

How swiftly sadly falls the ponderous silence of the human heart
When the bonds of necessity lie broken and scattered along abandoned paths.

The palest stars populate the autumn sky when darkness descends
And sullen graying clouds snake across the frozen fields above.

I knew this place once when oak and birch stretched nobly overhead
Endowing time with the means to birth the most brilliant smiles.

I knew this path when certain steps ascended hills of heather and hope
And eager souls embraced a future that seemed abundant and true.

As the path diverged yet again I paused and sat in the waning light
My back to an aging fir, its bark growing duller by the moment.

I turned and wondered at how quickly my steps were fading in the gloaming
And thought to myself that the sky had never looked quite so empty before.


the hands eager,
fingers kneading, plying
finding space to breath

the fear enfolds
so very well anymore,
the blood being thin

“yes,” he says
and smiling bows,
the weight crushing

more space now
more time to play
time to love

he nods once more
reassuring still or so
he hopes

the steps so quick
back arching, legs tight
grinning deliciously

the eyes sparkle
turning swiftly away
into a finer space

the smile is immense
and more passionate
than ever

when silence descends
the crystals begin to form
like ghosts

the blood thins further
and yet time refuses
to end


i can still hear their needful echoes
rising up the steps
flowing over the stained walls

i think perhaps they are laughing
i hope they are
although sometimes they shout at me

and when i trembling reach out
to listen, to feel
more deeply than ever before

i notice the path is still broken
and shards remain
untended by even the smallest hands

From Greyfriars Kirkyard, Edinburgh (May 2015)

it is not the drinks that matter

it is not the drinks that matter
not the sinful sips of hearty spirits
smoothly washing down down
coating my soul with laughter

not the sweetly nibbling bite
of Caribbean rum twirling
in candlelight with raspberry liqueur
and languidly painted smiles

not the warming caress
of tequila tickling my tongue
with tartly eager lime and
time enough for breasts bared

not a quiet shot of vodka or two
befriending bitter grapefruit
while a hint of peach jealously
chases after them both

no, it is not the drinks that matter
in the end
but how easily they seduce me
away from me

Ages ago somewhere in Turkey

around and around

around and around she flew
over the well-trodden snow
giggling with such perfect zeal
such unrefined, unrestricted joy
that I found myself trembling inside
so very fortunate to be standing here
watching a child of mine experience
the finest truth of this being:
that to touch the world at its core—
to strive without pretence
to play without avarice
simply to live in this moment—
is to smile the biggest loveliest
smile that one is capable of

My beautiful baby girl playing in the first snowfall of this coming winter

I have seen

I have seen

the deepest red in gently folding
petals of a humble rose
not the one beside it which was more
than arrogant and unworthy
but that one, the little one
the quiet one
and it touched my heart and
made me long for love

I have seen

the most verdant greens stretching regally
and true across all of Cumbria
encircling Derwentwater
where swans splash while ignoring
the many curious visitors
who have come to honor Wordsworth
and revel in romantic verse and
glory in ever trembling song

I have seen

the truest blues bedeck the skies
over the bewitching redwoods
ranging over California’s mountains
standing proudly above the Pacific coast
looking down over Santa Cruz
and those vibrant sands and eternal waves
that ebb and flow and never seem to find
a reason to cease

and I have seen

the grayest of grays on solemn days
and felt inspired to be nothing
to do nothing
feeling naught but the bitterness of age
while listening to the mournful sounds
of a heart that once believed
only now to shudder in lonesome fear
just waiting, still waiting

oh yes, I have seen

Sunset over Derwentwater, Keswick, Cumbria