Dust off your soul There was a time when she could not sleep for the gnawing thoughts that ate at her efforts to find peace. “Tell us,” they shouted, “Tell us before we die. Speak of us, why don’t you?” “But I do,” she reasoned. “Not enough!” They screamed. “Not enough!” “She looked at them […]
14.07.2017 12:14
A writer’s harvest Dead they lie ‘neath your leaden feet Strewn o’er Time by a careless hand Once vessels of treasure replete, Now maggot-filled shells on barren land. No wish how strong can bring them back, No sorrowful desiring Can raise to light those in the dark Hold off heavy suspiring. But show your hand, […]
13.06.2017 17:53
Writing In The Dark or The Neon Flower There were days when she closed her eyes and looked at the blink of neon red and yellow behind her lids. At these times, she stood silent, wondering whether there were words to write, stories to tell. Whether the neon flowers she saw in the dark garden, […]
07.06.2017 10:13
At horizons’ doors Blue lines run side by side, spread out like a horizon multiplied. In between, white expanse lies, full, suggestive. The voyager pauses, points a used, grey finger at the invisible confines of the Self, and steps off the edge of the Universe.
23.05.2017 9:26
Behind red curtains She cracked open her eyelids, lifting her chin slightly. There was too much light but she did not draw the blinds. The lazy pleasures of the night were now gone, they had not even lingered long enough to greet Morpheus. In their wake were a stinging bitterness on the tongue and an […]
01.02.2014 05:27
Somewhere She understood that what pleased her in the written word was the unoriginal fact of fiction. It was the bringing to life of characters, places, happenings, the drawing of inspiration in the real, the surreal, the breath, the heartbeat, in the imagined, the dreamed, the imaginary. It was the game of all that was […]
31.08.2013 7:38
The Writer It is Saturday morning. Everything is still. The birds sit still and sing-song softly in the trees across the lawn. The wind whispers a worn, whistled tune. I have come to know and love this melody. It comforts me in the morning. I open my eyes and see the white waste of the […]