Category: Uncategorized

They say you’re all consuming
That you hit like waves
But it seems you’re always with me
In a sort of foggy haze
Looming over my shoulder
All my waking hours
My body may be mine
But my brain is more like ours
My connection to myself
My confidence my pride
Seems to dissipate
With every ambulance ride
I remember when you were loudest
This most recent time
I was sitting in my doctors office
As I watched my mother cry
I held back my own tears
I didn’t want to make it worse
The ride home was in her subaru
But it felt more like a hearse
Pain is such an awful thing
That plagues me to this day
Physical and mental
Each day I fade away
My thousand dollar wheelchair
Carries me through each wave
But I still can’t seem to shake the fog
That lives with me each day
I can’t shake the voice
The knowledge of what I wont become
The mourning of what “could have been”
The glimpse of hope to not succumb
To the darkness that you bring
But until I do or don’t
My little shoulder devil
We’ll grieve the life i could have had
When my head is all but level
It may come in waves for others
Hit them like a mallet
But for me it’s always there in case I’m too hopeful
Grief will cleanse my palette

Stacy Jones was made of stone.
And, of course, she didn’t know.
Her father lived in Dogwood Holler
in a trailer, all alone.

He worked down at the Cutter Mill
slicing rocks and turning drills
and pennies pay is what he earned
for all his strength and skill.

He couldn’t complain, all the same.
He knew how to mind his place.
He kept to himself and kept to work,
and he knew the rocks by name,

so you could say he was getting by.
He had what he needed to survive,
a bit of land and food and drink,
but he could never lie,

and if you asked him what he missed
he’d say a baby he could kiss
and hug and love until he died—
yes, then he’d be blessed.

You see, he had a little problem,
no girl could ever really love him
since he was worth less than the dirt,
and he could not support them.

So one night when he worked real late
he grabbed his hammer, chisel, and blade
and hammered at the rock ‘til dawn
down by the quarry lake.

Maybe it was the way the moon
sparkled like the sun at noon
dancing on the little waves
the lake made as it swooned,

or maybe that the stone he carved
was cut right from the quarry’s heart
and longed to move and sing and live
and so her stone lips parted.

The first cry tiny Stacy sighed
was like the crack of rocks on ice,
and you could tell by how he yelled
that her father was surprised.

But, oh! He loved his daughter so
from that first dusty breath, you know,
he was hers and she was his—
his little speckled doe.

And best of all, she didn’t need
taking care of like you’d think
she grew and grew just like a plant
and she didn’t sleep or eat.

Only in the darkest nights,
she’d get real stiff like statues might
and birds would settle on her arms,
tired from their flying.

That’s when her dad would share his dreams
that someday she’d do better than him
and find someone that she could love
who’d give her everything.

Well, all the years went by so fast
like heated sand that turns to glass,
and suddenly his girl was grown
and walking all alone.

She was on her way to school
when a neighbor boy she knew
strut a stomp right up to her
and called Stacy a fool.

After all, how could she go
walking by herself alone—
how could she not know she was
the prettiest girl in the world?

Satisfied with his confession
the boy made her hand his possession
and led her down the windswept road
making an impression.

“Stacy Jones,” he said, “you hear.
My father’s got more cash than deer
in all the hills in Donaldson woods
or crystals in chandeliers.”

“He owns the quarry up a ways
where your dad’s worked all his days
and I will give it all to you,
if you’ll say you feel the same.”

“So—some of us are going swimming
in the quarry hole this evening—
won’t you come along with me?
I’d do anything.”

When Stacy blushed it looked just like
A sunrise on the mountain heights
and never was a single “No”
formed in her crystal mind.

After all, yes, she recalled,
wasn’t she determined to fall
like a stone right down a hill
for one who’d give her all?

It was her father’s deepest wish,
or so she shyly reminisced,
that she would marry stone to gold
with a polished kiss,

and nighttime swimming sounded fun!
Her dad had never let her run
off a ledge into a lake—
not a single one!

So Stacy Jones, who didn’t know,
promised this boy that she would go
to the lake with him that night
and kissed his cheek just so.

Now, Stacy had gone with her father to see
the quarry and the lake where he,
like the boy said, worked his days,
and so she easily

made her way in the darkest hour
when the moon hid like a flower
underneath a growth of clouds—
Stacy was no coward.

She found the boy just where he said
she should show her pretty head
at the lovers’ meeting time
in a tree beside the bend

of the ancient gravel quarry road,
laid before they both were born
like a sacred fate they shared
down which they now strolled.

Stacy loved how the boy played
with her fingers as they strayed
deeper into the foreboding forest
at an excited pace—

stealing kisses—it was true,
wasn’t that what lovers do?—
and so they passed beneath the trees
tousled by the breeze.

Suddenly the forest opened.
She saw the fire and smelled the smoke,
and a group of friends around the logs
waved the couple over.

When Stacy and the boy walked up
a girl beside her nearly jumped
to share a bottle they were drinking,
and Stacy took a gulp.

The burning amber cut a canyon
down her throat, and her companions
laughed at how she coughed and coughed
like an iron canon.

And this is how the night was passed,
with barking sips and roaring laughs
and arms on shoulders and cheeks on cheeks,
while bullfrogs sang their best.

They spent some time beside the fire
and the bottle tipped their spirits higher,
until one boy had swallowed all
the courage he required.

He rose up like a tongue of flame
and yelling out his girlfriend’s name,
he charged toward the nearest cliff,
stripping all the way

and leapt just like a flailing fish
into the water, dark as pitch,
and screamed about the cold so much
the others weren’t as quick.

But as the fire turned to ash,
one by one, each person splashed
into the quarry’s chilly jaws,
and Stacy was the last.

Oh! Poor Stacy didn’t know
as she pulled a sock off her stone toes,
how unnaturally cold and deep
a quarry hole can go.

The other folks were yelling for her,
and the boy she kissed was swimming closer,
telling her to jump right in,
and Stacy Jones shivered.

She stood there at the edge of the cliff
looking like an saint in bliss
about to make that fateful leap
into the abyss—

her skin was smooth as polished marble,
in the dark, both eyes sparkled,
and when the moon lit up her face,
her smile was a marvel—

and when she jumped, the swimmers paused,
to watch that lovely meteor fall,
a star that turned the night to day
and made them gasp, because

that light had quickly disappeared
beneath the water’s dark veneer,
and Stacy Jones, who didn’t know,
took the boy with her.

It was a sad night and a sadder day.
What could all those young folks say?
Their friend was pulled down by his girl,
and they couldn’t do a thing.

But a rich man’s son had left the earth,
and damn it all, wasn’t it worth,
turning our world upside down,
to ease that rich man’s hurt?

They must’ve tried to drain that lake
as many times as it would take
but even though the lake stayed filled,
they drained the rich man’s bank.

And so the lake was sold and sold
until the town forgot who owned
the lake and rocks the people mined
so close to Stacy’s home.

Still, sometimes down in Dogwood Holler,
when the moon is getting darker,
Stacy’s dad, who’s very old,
goes fishing in the cold.

He takes a pole out to the lake,
but he leaves behind the bait—
instead he tosses empty hooks
loaded down with weight.

He sits there in the dark until,
if he’s patient, he can feel
his daughter tug the other side
of his old rusted reel,

and in this way she lets him know
how much she still loves him so,
and how one day she’ll make it out,
so he won’t be alone,

and every time her father casts
a hook into that looking glass
he offers God what coins he owns
to help him bring her back

coughing to that gravel shore
where they can start off like before—
a family carved right from the earth
that no one would call poor

September 23, 2025

They removed the
sound of children
screaming, “Save them!”
as they clutched
their fake pearls
and outrage to
their chests like
bandaging bullet holes
With only their
Thoughts and prayers

They removed the
privacy from the
bathroom shouting, “Predator!”
as they looked
up our skirts
without our leave,
this place is
no longer safe

They removed the
power from our
hands ordering, “Teach!”
as they tossed
the knowledge on
the fires fueled
by the propaganda
they wanted preached

They removed our
names from the
annals and acted
like nothing had
changed but our
existence is not
new only obscured
by lost time

They removed the
ugly truth that
their hands wrought
atrocities in the
name of a
god who would
not know them
as her own

They will silence
the screams of
dying children and
ignore the reality
of their cruelty

They will try
but we will
not be removed.

Rain under the sun
A crow comes to call
Tomorrow, Fading
Entering the fall

Instrument in hand
Chamber full of grief
Lost in my shadow
Lonely, disbelief

Searching for my youth
Where are days gone by?
Past feels long ago
Regrets never die

Hopelessly crying
Without knowing why
Sadness overwhelms
Running out of tries

Self-isolating
Starless moonless night
Windows sealed, doors locked
Darkness sheds no light

Why the cells divided and multiplied the way they did we cannot know – one of many secrets held within the impenetrable darkness of a mother’s womb. But grow you did.

And when the winds they said would come to take you away from us blew, you held fast like a seed clinging stubbornly to the fuzzy head of a dandelion, cotton bud hopes plucked from a vacant lot where only the hardy greens grow.

And suddenly we had time:
time for a life that could not last,
time for lingering and longing,
beautiful, excruciating time.

In that time, we marveled at the cells divided and multiplied,
Devoured each fold of skin, searching for meaning in your silent gravity.
Loved you so hard the pain echoes still.

Eventually, our time ran out.

Now we hold
our breath
and watch the air
for downy dreams
made of unwished wishes.

Hear now the tale of this grand and great structure of Whitby by the sea.
Down through the ages this abbey has stood on the cliff on this headland,
Silently watching and looming, its spires and belfries high above,
Over a town of such import that Stoker himself paid a visit.
Gothic, majestic, this beacon of glory entices the darkness.

Haunted by time, and the lashing of wind and the storms of the North Sea,
Whitby and Abbey have weathered the decades and centuries of yore.
Here, at the mouth of the river – the Esk, where it joins to the ocean,
Seafarers sail from the wharf to lands distant and fishing for haddock,
Whaling, and building of ships and the berthing for Earl of Pembroke.

Harkening back to the time of when Oswig was throned in the kingdom,
Land for a convent was sanctioned and deeded in Six Fifty Seven.
Hild was the Abbess who founded the cloister. Monastics there were both
Women and men, an unusual system, but charity and peace,
Virtues she championed, characterized the community at large.

Stories were told of the monks and the nuns and their saintly compassion,
Such that the size of the village kept growing as supplicants arrived,
Seeking a life of devotion and service to God. But tensions were
Mounting and growing between institutions – of Rome and of the Celts,
Each with assertions of how they should promulgate pastoral issues.

Representations of each of the factions convened there at Whitby
Abbey to stake their positions and argue the merit of their views.
This was the Synod of Whitby, and Roman conventions were chosen,
Further cementing the power of Rome in the churches of the land.
Codified rules under Rome was the fate – year Six Hundred Sixty Four.

Tragedy struck then two hundred years later when Vikings invaded.
Pillaged and plundered, the abbey was gutted, abandoned, crumbling,
Desolate, wasting away on the cliff in the harsh elements there.
Not until Normans had conquered the land and regained governance there,
Would our fair abbey become resurrected to prominence again.

Ten Seventy saw a soldier of Norman named Reinfrid visiting
Whitby and Abbey and remnants of structures that long ago were lost.
He was the one who brought forth resurrection and started to rebuild
Chapels and dwellings for monks to be sheltered in, here upon the cliff.
William de Percy ensured that the land would be properly endowed.

Humble beginnings with simple monastical organization
Started the earnest improvement. Development fostered the growth of
Village, society and Benedictine monastics’ hermitage.
Early, the site was adorned with a beautiful Romanesque abbey,
Serving the needs of the monks as they rendered their holy duties there.

Then, in the year of our Lord Twelve and Twenty Five, Gothic rebuilding
Vitalized Whitby with purpose and passion, a captivating sight.
Masons and craftsmen who labored and struggled brought forth upon the hill,
Brilliant workmanship, intricate, stone carving artistry in the
Choir and transepts, the nave and the narthex, the altar and rib vaults.

Stone after stone that was brought to the Abbey was placed higher, higher.
Reaching for Heaven and towering over the waters down below.
Columns and arches of gothic construction were built into the bones.
Vaunted by townsfolk and all in the kingdom, magnificent in its
Grandeur. A Masterpiece rising like God was himself lifting it up.

Up to the sky went the walls of the abbey with spires rising up,
Buttresses flying and tracery gracing the windows and panels.
William the Conqueror pictured together with Jesus and Mary,
Scenes of the scourging and Stations of Cross there in the stained glass windows.
Objects and relics lent rev’rence and sanctification to its soul.

Thriving for centuries, here on this headland, the abbey attracted
Scholars and pilgrims, both laymen and clergy to celebrate their Lord.
Such, was the thriving community, rooted in mutual respect,
Working and striving, affording their neighbors a tranquil way to live,
Here, where the blood of the ancestors seeps into the mudstone shale.

Henry the Eighth was the king who suppressed it in Fifteen Thirty Nine.
Papal authority blocked and dismantled, absorbing all assets
Unto the Crown and the new Church of England for total control of
Faith and of fortune. Now hobbled by edict and Parliamentary
Actions the abbey was emptied and shuttered, the occupants exiled.

Soon the monastic endowments were forfeited, leaving no legal
Authorization for maintenance, groundskeeping and renovation.
Absent the caretaking given by stewards, the elements took hold.
Nature’s relentless advances of time and corrosion battered,
Weakening columns and arches that shouldered the weight of the structure.

Thundering storms carried bolts of bright lightning, while gales blew the roofing
Off of the parapets, towers and belfries. And decade by decade,
Ravaged by wind and relentless erosion, the graves of the churchyard
Started to topple and fall down the cliffside. And incrementally,
Buttresses broken, collapsing and crumbling, nature reclaims her.

One hundred ninety nine steps link the town with the ruins up the hill.
There on the cliff in the fog is the shell of what stood for God’s glory.
Under grey clouds you can still hear the echoes of choirs and chanting.
Slowly the structure is falling away and in solemn decaying,
Watching the centuries passing as generations lived and died there.

Nowadays visitors come to the East Cliff to marvel and wonder.
Strolling the ruins, the fields and the churchyard, nostalgic hearts; women
Clad in black dresses and lace and pale faces, clutching their parasols,
Sauntering dandies in tophats and waistcoats accompany lovers;
Wistful of romance and darkness, they call to the ruins of Whitby Abbey:

Etiam in morte vivas

Oh! illusion of all illusions
Art thou incarnated as Cupid?

Depicted ye with wings
And hath armed with love-shaft

Entwines ye many hearts of innocence
And warms thyself in their perdu passion

Thou drowns many hearts of sanctity love
Into your fathomless Lethe

And creates many insane encomiast
To eulogize thy illusion deeds

As Apollo transformed Clytie to sunflower
Thou endears innocent hearts bend towards you

Cadeceus, I pray unto thee, resurrect true-hearts
Whom the nebulous, fiend Cupid has entombed

our worst nights, all
the parts and
places they
punctured ache;

I can feel
betrayal
nettle fresh
in scarred skin

their acts like
scalpel slice,
wounds glow like
newly born.

numbness seeps
reliving
slow death, fueled
by caffeine,

bleeding work
as they cut
away seams,
pulled out guts,

ate a feast
at our arms’
bounty, hands’
craft, mind’s thought;

our bodies
paid the price
for purchase
of our best nights.
###

The cabinets won’t close
Anymore. The laundry has pilled
Up and out of the bin, I keep forgetting
To lock the door
Before lying in bed
Awake in your absence. It’s quiet,
Not like it used to be,
It used to be loud, and the mornings
Were worth getting up for, and the nights
Were worth staying up for, and I always
Order take out now, because I can’t
Bring myself to cook, because
All my recipes
Were made for two.

I snuck my hand through my sleeve
And as I saw you sitting in the heat
I reached out an olive branch
But you smacked it away
And laughed at me
And mocked me
As you skipped right on back to her
And she proceeded to beat you, to shame you,
To humiliate you with all her might
As she soaked in the sunlight
And you withered in the coldness of the shade
But I came back and extended again
And I understood that you loved her
And I tried to be a bit more understanding of you
As I furthered my position with a second olive branch
Because you mean everything to me
And because I know that this isn’t your fault
And because I know that she’s your mom
And you look up to her
And I looked up to you
Like I have my whole life
And you looked at me, baffled and confused
As you smacked it away again
And you mocked me once more
As I fell backwards into the dirt
Why are you like this
Can’t you see for once
That she’s abusing you