This piece was was originally published by the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective.

It had been many years

Since the wolves

Had come and

Circled the house

Howling at her door

Their voices insistent

Their teeth sharp

Their musk pungent

Their coats winter thick and matted


She was not surprised

At their return

It was, after all,

The Full Wolf Moon

She shivered in the house

Wrapping herself

In a worn blanket

Trying to block out

The mournful, insistent sound

Her heart beating fast


She never knew if they were

Demanding retribution

Come to tear out her throat

Or inviting her to shrug off the last

Vestiges of her humanity

And run wild with the pack

Naked through the snowy night

Our Banquet #RomanticTuesday

The world can feel

A deprivation chamber




Our bed

A place of abundance

Private banquets served

Where we shall

Taste with our skin

Read with our hands

Swallow with our eyes

Feel with our breath

Hear with our hearts


Lay us down on

Sheets like golden tablecloths

Our bodies moving


A fluid tide

Rising, cresting like

Wine overflowing

Our goblets

Flowing out

To join cherry seas


My Morning Commute

Restless commuters

Coffee to-go cups

Noses buried in Smartphones


Monthly Trailpasses/Smartpasses

Inadequate shelter on concrete platform

Signal Light for tain

The one commuter paying fare in coin, holding up the line, inevitablably on a rainy or frosty morning

Standing-room-only view from under an armpit

The fight through the crowded as I near my stop, anxiety heightened


My Evening Commute

Tired, subdued commuters

Loud, lively children with energy I envy

Sticky floor and discarded Metros

Contraband pizza being eaten

The guy with the bicycle nudging everyone over

Sharp curves taken at too fast a speed

Platform signs hard to read in winter dark

The commuter who desperately needs a shower and antiperspirant

My favorite conductor making humorous overhead announcements and chatting with passengers

Long walk up the steep hill to my snug house


Daily Battles

Another piece revisited that was written when my most recent depression was at its worst.

Edges of my soul

Feel raw


Torn roughly


Like junk mail on recycling day


There are moments



Undefined hunger

Are piercing arrows

Penetrating my heart

Expanding on contact

Removal threatening hemorrhage





Heavy, thick

Like amber honey

Coating surfaces

Seeping into crevices


Trapping me in my own chaotic head

No comfort here




At seeking sanctuary

Stubborn, prickly pride

More sharp edges than a porcupine

Used to going it alone

Convinced this burden is mine to bear alone


The weight  of this depression

Bends my back

Buckles my knees

I fight to keep standing

Harden the steel in my spine

Call on the fire in my belly

Marshall my troops

But I am so very tired

Weary to my core


I must take respite for a moment

Before picking myself up

To continue this war

An Aspergian Suicide Turned Romance

A new voice to listen to– beautiful work from DEVEREAUX FRAZ of CREATIVE WRITING OF A BALTIMOREAN

An Aspergian's Chemical Romance

wamtacCold winds

blow over waters so deep

I try to reach for her soul

but she’s too deep

Betrayed and dismayed

at the life she was given

She tried to make her own

and found herself in prison

Trapped by boyfriend after boyfriend

who said they’d go to the ends with her

only to dump her

when they found she had Aspergers

Depression led to regression

and the cuts went deep

Hospital bills cut deep

into her father’s pockets

Lost at the mire his little princess was becoming

he turned to books, videos, and doctors

but was no less cunning

One day, while the family was away

she walked onto the balcony

It was windy that day

With one bare foot, she stepped onto the railing

and she closed her eyes

dreaming of flailing

But when she opened them

she was being held against her will

Thrashing and crying, she…

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December Ghost

I have been walking

Through the holiday season

As if from the inside

Of an ice tunnel

I see cheerful lights

I hear joyous voices

I smell pine

But everything is muffled, remote

I experience these sensations

From a distance


As I trod Locust Walk

On my way to my

Sterile subterranean office

I know that I will yet again

Spend too many hours

Trying to wrestle

My focus, attention span

Back onto work

Deadlines looming

My thoughts too easily

Wander away into ether


Other commuters

Look as though they

Are on another plain

Of existence

Our colors, our vibrancy

Do not match

No look of recognition

No acknowledgement

As we pass each other

They are like ghosts

Drifting by on the cobblestones


It occurs to me

That perhaps it is I

Who has become

The ghost

Washed out

Stretched thin

Rendered transparent


Liable to disintegrate

Become completely


If strong enough winds blow

She Still Burns

This felt like a very apropos reblog with my 51st birthday coming up this week.

At her age she

Did appreciate

The calm stability

Of middle age

Of mature love

The security

The lack of drama

The quiet good life

Built on respect, history

Friendship, good meals

Intellect, companionship



Maybe it was her poet soul

Maybe it was her oppositional

Streak, deep and belligerent

Maybe it was the passing

Of the years themselves

Reminding her

That she would never

Be young and beautiful again

Never young and in love again

That reckless, greedy, heedless

Messy love that only the young

Seem to tumble into


Some days she felt like the

Middle aged suburban wife

And mother she was

“Soccer mom with an attitude”

But other days

There was a supernova

In her belly, in her chest

Threatening to break free


Carefully restrained passion

Deeply hidden hungers

That could explode at any moment

Erupt like lava from her depths

Flowing onto the thick sheet of ice

Of staid, mature adulthood

The steam rising twenty feet, thirty

Liquid fire

Incinerating the winter dry trees

Scorching the air

Permanently altering her landscape