to be loved

I have never seen beauty
that glows so richly across skin
like waves of pure light
gossamer glimmering
adorning her face

I have never known warmth
linger so longingly
long after her touch has fled
yet still I feel she is there
always, always there

I have never heard a voice so richly
vibrantly singing songs
like mystical muses
inspiring my own hope
to share in her hymns

I have never wanted more
to be loved than when I spy
that glistening eye falling
deftly gently on my face
in the setting sun

one more chance

one more chance
he thought, elevating aspirations
finding hope in the here
the now, beyond what was
beyond the me that has always been
lost and pointlessly meandering
between this wish and that
never quite achieving
anything of real merit

one last chance to be seen
to be heard and known
perhaps even to be loved
before the curtain descends
on a life so very ignoble,
so easy to ignore,
so shamefully dully maintained
under clouds that never
quite found the courage
to disappear

With Laya V Smith at Inverness (May 2015)

daring to love

it is not only your incomparable beauty, beloved
outshining the insipid grays and days
of banality that beset this so-called life

it is not only the unimpeachable cleverness you evince
nor yet the wizened ways your youth portrays
the carefully crafted tales you compose

it is not only the sincerity of your voice
evoking my attention even from the cacophony
of this maddening world whirling around me

oh of a certain, my love, all of this matters, too
but it is in your mildest most mundane imperfections
that feeble I take refuge in daring to love you

Laya V Smith at Hyde Park, London (May 2015)

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).

When Aaron Died

“Why has nothing changed,”
she wondered when Aaron died.

And she cried,
and she cried,

as the very weight of her tears
impeded the vainglorious sun

and the moon being more of a heart
mourned oh so bitterly beside her

while the world was shrouded in darkness
more appalling than the blackest night,

affrighting my ancient clumsy soul
with the enduring moans of her sorrow.

I could hear the earth begin to crack
felt it shaking ungratefully again and again.

I could feel the air grow stale and cold
holding each breath with avarice

while steps slowed, and regret carved
angry furrows across my trembling skin.

And so we begin,
and so we begin.

I sat staring into the indifferent sky
begging time to permit a peaceful pause.

I do not know what comes next—
knowledge and experience fail me,

because however spins the world more
it is so painfully true to behold

that nothing could ever be the same again,
not since the day that Aaron died.

My wonderful wife Laya, with her brother Aaron, the way I remember him best–playful, gregarious, argumentative, inspiring and aggravating. And perhaps a little tipsy. Here’s to you, Aaron.

My Moon Resplendent

Brightly lithesome she dances across the sky
my joyful lunar maid, my all
her winsome ways ever appalling the jealous sun
so somber and staid, and she
unwilling to stay his commanded course
playfully japes with a rhyme.

How haughtily he cringes, wincing at her smiles
her lips teasing in mirth
birthing yet another game to play, a song to sing
my jocund jesting one
testing the stodgy sun with each twirling reel
feeling fully alive and sublime.

“Do you know,” I ask, as she passes again
barely glancing down,
“how much I adore you, mo gealach àillidh
my fair fae one on high?”
“Then rise,” she says, treading the night
“and know the truth of time.”


It was raining then,
soft and gentle and pristine.
Covetous I watched.

The sky enveloped me.
Petals pouted in the shadows.
Moisture clinging to my skin.

You spoke to me,
your voice fondling my heart.
Laughter tickling my hope.

Forever could I listen
knowing that you were all,
adorning every moment.

Raindrops caressed you,
and I watched enthralled.
Yes. This life is ours.

Laya at Windsor

my author

she weaves tales of such glorious complexity
the richest tapestry of love and fear and wonder
and I, desparate to feel, wander lustfully
from one courageous strand to the next
dipping here dodging there filling the gaps in my mind
with faces and figures and finest determination
all of which I have acquired from the worlds
that are born of her pensive passionate thoughts
she is my muse, she is my author
and I would follow her to the ends of time
ever eager for the next incomparable tale
her characters compel her to compose

Out Brief Candle

I just had to share this with you all. Out Brief Candle is a magazine publishing short fiction and images associated with horror, gothica, and speculative fiction. They are seeking submissions for the July edition (published four times a year). Looks like a great opportunity to share your own creative works with others and get published.

the avarice of time

the avarice of time is unmistakable
cruelly rolling my flesh through the dirt
like a blind and callous dung beetle
leaving nothing but meandering paths
and pock marked speculations
defying the simplest interpretations
of what it all was ever for beyond this—
the banal flecks of dust left behind

and yet

when honest thought pierces gray morbidity
colors emerge of such unexpected vibrancy
willingly painted upon this gloomy canvas
by the most creative and caring artist
for you have illuminated this darkness so deeply
that I might ruminate for eons yet to come
and never again encounter a single strand
of that once ponderous web woven by ravenous time

me and my favorite author, Laya V Smith