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.


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.