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



  1. Yup, which is why you are on Robmoji’s upcoming Top 20 Poets List. You just have this incredible way of describing something. I would have battled for the words for weeks. Tight write!

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thank you Rob! I am taking my very first Creative Writing class this semester and I have been working on tightening things up and eliminating small unnecessary words. It is harder than you’d think trying to decide what can go and what you need to keep to maintain coherence

      Liked by 1 person

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