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Poems and Fiction

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Breathe--published in Flashquake

Breathe, you say
and lead me into gloom,
away from beloved sunlight
and my mother's grief,
granite walls twinkling
in candle-glow like
stars frozen in stone.

Breathe, you say
and show me your domain,
hoping I'll learn to feel
at ease if light fades
in increments, that memories
of wind in my hair or the
bright petals of roses in
bloom will dim in time.

Breathe, you say
and hold me in your arms,
the taste of pomegranate
on my tongue, your breath
cool on my cheek as twilight
deepens to night, night that
will never end.

Breathe, you say
and tell me not to fear,
you are the King of Shadows
and darkness dare not harm me.

Blood is not red on the moon--published in The Fifth Di

Take a breath, make it last.

Blood is not red on the moon,
it boils away in vacuum
without leaving traitor's stains,
but you want to scrub and scrub
until the skin is gone.

Metallic suits glimmer at earthrise
stillness in heaps, radios silent
thin silvered skins pierced from behind.

If they screamed, you didn't hear.

Drag canisters into the shelter,
life measured by liters per minute
a race between rescue and time.

Take a breath, make it last
try not to count the tick of gauges.

Bubbles in a cosmic sea--published in The Sword Review

We bob like bubbles in a cosmic sea,
Oxygen bleeding from the module
Hissing like foam on some distant
Tropical beach we once visited,
Me maintaining the façade
Rescue will find us in time,
You pretending to believe.

I whisper that your
Unbound hair is a halo
Lush as angel wings or eiderdown,
Hoping to make you blush
Though pink was never your color,
Distraction all I have to counter
The chill making you shiver
And the terror of frost
Creeping up the walls,
Pray you won't feel it and
Slip the needle under your skin
When I kiss you one last time,
Molding my body to yours,
The way we used to spoon
Drifting in the bottom of the boat
After midnight swims,
Before I stole you away
To roam the merciless stars.

Lost Horizons--published in Oddlands

Sunrise brings him fresh
dreams of horizons lost
empires crumbled to dust,
Sunset memories of
the night he followed a smile
through cobbled streets
and alleys of Istanbul,
An innocent beguiled by
promises in bright eyes,
The softness of her lips
caressing his throat
banishing fears of damnation,
His plunge into darkness
unremarked by a city
locked in shadows.

Drizzle mists the summer night
glistens in the hair of
tourist couples searching for
Shangri-La on foreign streets-
Young men and women who yearn
one for the other
need and desire in each touch,
Grey-heads where the women walk ahead
peering in the shop windows,
Their men chuckling over signs
for Turkish delight.

Life is an addiction-
He haunts the sidewalk where
an old woman draws pictures
under a shop canopy,
Watches her char sticks in
a brazier at her feet
draw swift black lines
on cheap paper for the crowd,
Hunting for the shy ones
standing alone on the fringes,
Innocents beguiled by
promises in a bright smile
until soft lips steal away
dreams of new horizons.

Nine days out--published in Mythic Delirum

The ape pounds on the hull,
beats and wails and thrashes
til the ship resonates with sound
his keepers label sorrow.

Only nine days out and months to go,
time enough to worry he won't survive,
time enough to fashion excuses
for disappointed collectors,
more than time to speculate which
parts of you they'll cut off first
if you don't deliver the goods.

You almost put him down
when the keeper assigned
to coax him to eat dies,
the ape's hands crushing thorax
and skull before help arrives,
but calmer minds prevail,
and you remember that without him
you might as well dump the others
out an airlock, or sell them cheap
to the miners on Kantos Four.

So you let them wake a smaller ape,
who wails and thrashes in the keepers'
grip while they drag her to his cage,
the piercing howls when they shove
her inside loud enough to split
engine casings or your carapace,
and you watch the monitors to see
who wins the wager about what he'll do.

Nine weeks out and months to go,
time enough to question if the sounds
they make have meaning,
time enough to wince at their keepers'
silence when you ask what it implies,
more than time enough to wonder what
you've done.

Are you my life?--published in Illumen

Whispering good-bye
the old house creaks and moans
like her joints do when winter
settles down to stay a while.

Are you my life?
she asks each haunted room
mazed with boxes in teetering piles,
promising to remember.

Faded wallpaper in the hall dances
with stained glass rainbows
as she passes through,
light falling on names penciled
next to notches on a closet door,
wedding gift carpets rolled up
and waiting underneath the stairs.

Laughter trapped under the eves
twines round her ankles like
the cat buried under the apple tree,
takes the stairs two at a time
whistling off-key and
waltzes her round the kitchen
while supper cools on the stove.

Wind-chimes sing the ABCs,
plead for five minutes more
to watch fireflies before bed,
explain how pirate maps always
lead to buried treasure.

Sorrow slips in with the rain
leaking through the shingles,
offers a lock of hair from a babe
lost before she was found,
voices no longer heard demanding
their place in the shadows.

Are you my life?
she asks the big front door,
stepping outside when the taxi comes.

The old house creaks and moans,
wind-chimes singing and laughter
bounding down the stairs,
whispers good-bye as the front door slams,
and promises to remember.

A Princess, a Hero and me--unpublished

Laugh if you want
but I've tales to tell
about a Princess of nothing,
who sorta kinda might be me,
racing off on her white horse
to rescue a not so noble Hero
with tarnished virtue.

Scoff if you must,
perfect Heroes don't exist
in this modern day and time,
they're a quaint notion
leftover from fairytales
where Beauty wins her Beast
and the Fairy Godmother's wand
is never on the blink,
each and every ending is happy and
youth lasts forever and a day.

Those stories were never true.

As for me,
I write fantasy steeped in reality
where age is the enemy and time fleeting,
my Hero loses his hair in dibs and dabs
his face wrinkled from decades
of laughing at his own jokes,
while a Princess of nothing much at all,
no blushing maiden herself,
believes balding men are sexy
and lines add character.

Laugh if you want
but I've true stories to tell
about a Princess of nothing,
who kinda sorta might be me,
racing off on her white horse
to rescue her not so
noble Hero from himself
and do battle with the toothless
old dragon that comes for us all.

Light--published in Lone Star Stories

Light is different here,
shining cotton candy pink,
shadows like cherry syrup stretching from
chocolate dunes around an inland sea,
and the waves don't crash
or roar in battle with the shore,
they sneak in with a sigh.

Time is different here,
creeping from dawn to dusk
the way summers stretched long
when I was only six,
before I learned that life is finite,
and the stars that glitter in
the dark are strangers.

Dreams are different too,
what I remember colored by distance
and the fact of living with no
hope or promise for tomorrow,
memories fading a little more with
each transit of silver moons,
a brave explorer with no one
to come home to.

Light is different here,
and I wish you could see how
cotton candy pink sparkles on
the top of whispering waves,
how cherry shadows stretch long
toward shore as night falls,
and I'd ask you to help me name
the stars that glitter in the dark,
hanging promises on each one.

Light is different here.

I wish you could see.

Longing--published in Goblin Fruit

I don't lie easy in our bed,
Tucked against your chest like
A pearl in an oyster shell,
As if I belonged,
As if the need to feel
Your breath soft on my cheek,
Your fingers trailing foxfire
On my skin was not insane,
A longing that could doom us both.

You walk the dream roads
In darkness and moonlight
Gathering what allies you can,
Searching for warriors condemned
To wander bone strewn moors
By misdeed or cowardice,
The cries of lost companions
Echoing in their ears,
Fallen heroes
Hungry for the redemption
Fighting at your back can bring.

And while you sleep
I bargain for your life,
Entreating demons and Gods
Alike to choose another,
Fearing the musical voices
Whispering from the shadows
Asking what I'd trade
Asking what you're worth,
Fearing Gods that never answer,
Fearing what I'm willing
To offer even more.

I don't lie easy in our bed,
Tucked against your heart like
A pearl in an oyster shell,
As if I could save you,
As if I could change your destiny
With bad bargains,
With the longing to breathe you
In with each kiss,
Or the need to feel fingers
Trailing foxfire across my skin.

Ocean Daughters--published in Lone Star Stories

Wear your widow's weeds
to petition the sea,
stand on the beach while
waves caress your toes and
foam round your ankles,
feel her hunger for the salt
locked in your blood in the way
sand hisses and slides away,
tugging you toward the depths.

Step back from the ocean's
grasping fingers,
back to where children
build castles under a mother's
watchful eyes.

Throw your marriage ring
into the seething surf,
an offering to mother ocean
salted with tears,
a tithe to an ocean daughter
who stole your man from
storm washed decks,
throw your pleas to return him
into the wind.

Watch mothers gather
small sons and daughters
reluctant to hurry home,
smile at the tow-haired boy
who offers sprigs of sea pinks
clutched in a tiny fist.

Wait while the sun slips
below an apricot tinged horizon,
wait while the tide glides out
and crabs scuttle on sand
awash in moonbeams,
try not to remember
the sea never relinquishes
those it claims.

Listen to the mermaids' laughter
from the harbor wall where
they comb their hair before
you surrender to sleep,
listen to the siren's song
planting love for the sea
in men's hearts,
listen to the ocean's daughters
luring them back into boats
with each rising sun.

Wake to gulls crying as they swoop
above the waves,
wake to sails already small
on the horizon,
wake to shells in a circle on sand,
a marriage ring in each one.

Paradise--published in Flashquake

The notes he left were
Always the same,
Gone looking for paradise,
Be back soon,
A small kindness, he thought,
So she wouldn't look for
Someone who wasn't there,
The way she peeled
Onions underwater
To spare him the fumes.

He only went seeking
When drowning in ennui,
The putty dried and
Cracked in the seams
Of their union,
And he, ever kind,
Slipped quietly away
When she closed her eyes,
Sparing her the strain
Of hollow conversation
Over morning coffee,
Never planning to
Be gone long,
Or changing in quite
The ways he did,
Chasing after
Visions of paradise
Found and lost in a day,
That faded away with
The word hello.

Window on the world--published in Lone Star Stories

They brought him home on a rare day when
rain fell, silver drops writhing like mercury
on dust lying thick as snow over the walkway,
home to a house I couldn't find the courage
to vacate, balanced on the razor's edge of
memory and pain at what he'd become, the landscape
in my heart as desolate as our ravaged world.

His face was the same, laugh lines and shadows
where they'd always been, an integral part of
who he was before the powers that be did all
they could to keep him alive, although he never
laughs now, circuits a poor excuse to carry the spark
that used to shine in his eyes, a man cobbled together
with titanium so they could claim one less failure.

They say that he'll be fine, I need to give him time,
let the man inside their machine remember all of what
he used to be, that soon he'll forget the horrors of all
he saw, forget what they made him do in the name of duty,
a hero salvaging humanity's wounded pride, reassuring me
that I won't always wake in the dark, silence thick as
the dust coating our window on the world, to find him gone.

Under the bridge--published in Aoife's Kiss print edition

Pa told Missy not to play with the troll,
convinced he could set his price, soak a dollar
a head from the guileless rubes who came
through town for a peek under the bridge,
if only she didn't spoil his prize attraction
with cranberry sauce sandwiches and left over
mango curry.

His eyes shone each time he talked about
the money and crowds he knew were sure to
come this time, Pa's diet being rich in pie
in the sky, excitement vying with avarice
to see which would come out on top.

Ma sent Missy out back to feed Pa's starfish,
reminding her not to lean on the tank, cracked
on one side and wobbling, the special base
of simulated granite not near as sturdy as
the catalog claimed, distracting the child
with shimmers and starfish glow, the left over
bits of glimmer in trails where they'd clung
to the murky glass, and promised five-year
old Missy she'd get to dance with the angels
in the Saturday night show.

Her eyes shone each time Ma looked at her
baby girl, the spitting image of a
conjurer man who left the show one August night
when I was ten, departing with a thunderclap
and the sulfur smell of flash powder used
to dazzle the suckers.

Josh is oldest and loves the tent show, Pa's
son through and through, full of dreams and
magic, wishes that can never come true, while
his twin Cora ran away to college, following
a frat boy's come hither smile, her heart anchored
in facts and figures that have no place in
a crossroad world of wonders and illusions.

When the crowds fill the tent Missy dances with
angels, brimming over with the joy of it,
while Ma leads strings of old ladies in flowered
dusters past the starfish, all of them holding
tight to the arms of men in battered fedoras so
as not to be overcome with a case of wonder,
and Josh expounds on the marvels to be seen within,
so Pa can part the fools from their filthy lucre.

I take the troll his supper, crawling under the
bridge to keep him company, the noise and the lights,
the smell of rose water and Old Spice fading away
with a wave of his gnarled hand, as if he knew,
saw me hovering on the brink of neither here nor there,
and I wonder if I've found my place, and think maybe I
might stay.

Lost--published in Star*Line

In the rush to escape she lost him,
Lost the package thrust into her hand
Before she reached the final ship,
His token trampled underfoot in the crush
Of people focused on their own salvation.

Years pass, but she dreams of him still,
Dreams he grows older just as she does,
Living a long life in the settlement
Built on untouched vermilion sands,
Climbing the cliff face with her
To survey wind-whipped azure seas
Before spreading his wings,
An angel never turned to ash,
Soaring on thermals high above
While she watches, knees drawn up,
Lost in a madness all her own.

Minotaur--written with John Borneman and published in Magazine of Speculative poetry

I. Queen Pasiphae Reflects

I pity the poor Minotaur.
The labyrinth holds him in,
A twisting maze of spirals,
Corners leading nowhere,
The illusion of an endless world
Contained in a finite space.

No one saw him stop in the
Midst of wandering days,
Feel rain soft and warm
Slide down his upturned face
Like tears he never cried,
Longing for the gentle touch
Of a lover's hand,
Passion and joy
To ease his lonely nights.

And no one heard him
Curse the Fates that
Doomed him to a life alone,
Forever searching for
A corner yet unturned,
The pathway to a door
Marked love and veritas.

II. The King Responds

I envy the poor Minotaur.
His labyrinth embraces him,
With enticing maze of spirals,
Corners leading--who knows where--
The benefits of an endless world
Contained in finite space.

She never saw him stop outside her window--
fragile as glass, yet solid as steel.
She never heard him groan,
As tears soft and warm,
Carved dark streaks in his soft furred face;
Horns aching as he watched
Joy and passion peak under
The gentle touch of
Her lover's fingered hands.

And no one heard him
Bless the Fates that
Granted him a life alone,
Forever shielded from her mendacium,
From her screams,
From the vision of dual graves
Marked true love and falsehood.

Waiting--published in Dreams and Nightmares

The teakettle man waits for the absent one
From sunrise to the flares that fill the night,
Rainbow flashes and noise and motor's whine
His sole companions, while action men chase
Monsters who don't belong back to their warrens,
Twisting tunnels burrowed deeper with each turn
Of the world from sun to moon and back again.

He sits in a faded green kitchen chair and
Watches a door hanging crooked by one hinge,
Swaying and swinging when the wind blows,
Prism drops running down shattered windows
Scattering rain on the inside as well as out,
Left alone by action men and monsters taught their
Petty war wasn't allowed to interrupt his vigil.

The teakettle man is waiting for the absent one
Who took him in and didn't know to be afraid,
Remembers how she smiled and told him to make
Himself comfortable and sit in the chair,
Blowing him a kiss as she breezed out the door
Making a quick run to the shops for milk and jam,
And promised she wouldn't keep him waiting long.

Circus--published in Lone Star Stories

When summers came,
Dad ran off to join the circus,
His annual rebellion against frumpy suits
And selling swampland on the Martian frontier,
Or so it seemed to those who didn't know him,
Didn't see the sparkle in his eye dim in
Winter's darkling days and endless nights.

My mother knew.

Mom held his heart by
Never asking him to surrender dreams,
Taking me to visit big top tents set-up
On red dust plains not yet Terra-formed,
Tears filling her eyes while we cheered
And clapped with all the rest,
While Dad flew from trapeze to trapeze
Flipping and looping at the top of the tent,
Cheap silver lame glittering in the spots.

When winters came,
Dad told me stories of summer tours
On outposts and stations before I was born,
Regaling me with tales of practices in zero g,
Of how a billion unnamed stars shone starkly
Blue against ink dark lunar skies
And the thrill of working without a net,
Teaching me that gravity and fear only hold
You tight to the ground if you allow them to,
And promising that when I was ready and sure,
He would teach me how to fly.

What do you wish you were? --published in Flashquake

I'll never understand this man,
he bounces on and off the stage
of my life more often than a
Mikado road show extra,
charming me back into his orbit
each time I break away,
extending the embargo on my heart
and leaving nothing but empty
behind each time he goes.

Friends meet him and ask where he's from,
and he makes jokes about 'the crash',
energy beams and escape pods
with a twinkle and a grin,
his man of mystery persona secure
if he makes them laugh playing the clown,
pinning him down to truth futile as
holding snowflakes in your hand.

But he turns to me sometimes
when their magpie minds move on,
sadness and starlight in his eyes,
and I wonder what he wants me to know,
what truth he can't bring himself to say.

I've asked more than once
when I see restless settle on him
what he needs me to be,
what it would take to make him stay,
and he gives me that grin
like some shaggy guardian angel,
keeping it light, keeping it shallow,
and asks, what do you wish you were?

And I answer with my heart,
caged in as it is with truth
that always makes him pull away,
the distance growing between us
in painful minutes and eternal hours,
until the day I wake to find him gone.

Moon Dragon--published in Dreams and Nightmares

Moon Dragon rides low in rum dark seas,
Her sails stark against a lowering sky
where storm clouds shimmy across the
face of a newly risen gibbous moon,
Her crew scurrying to lash down cargo
hard won, their victory coming too near defeat
for them to feel easy in their winning.

Moon Dragon's Captain waits and watches,
Planks creaking under soft leather boots
as he paces in front of a personal treasure
plucked from the decks of the Scurvy Muse,
His prize bound to him by sodomy and ropes woven
from her hair, quenching the fear she could
steal their souls with the touch of her hand.

Moon Dragon runs before the coming storm,
Ordered by her master to flee hungry winds
sent to hunt them over the endless ocean deeps
and avenge the binding of a cherished daughter,
Sails taut with captured wrath, Moon Dragon flies
over storm tossed seas, as wings once carried her
across the face of a newly risen gibbous moon.


The pressure of starlight--published in Star*Line

They say you handled it well,
Never letting sorrow linger long
On the lines of your elegant face,
Learning not to flinch at the mention
Of your modern day knight errant,
Thanking those who called him a hero,
And that you showed grace while fielding
Half-hearted condolences from effete young men,
The ones who spoke so casually of ships lost and
Broken bodies scattered among far-flung stars,
That you knew they'd never brave the same terror.


They say you handled it well,
Those who didn't see the distance in your eyes,
Or how you whispered to fireflies perched on your hand
Asking if they'd deliver words you never got to say,
Entrusting tiny messengers with the longing so well
Contained by polite words and pleasantries,
Longing that pleaded with you for release,
Under the pressure of starlight.


A love poem, of sorts-- unpublished

Come with me and be my love,
Though you are no Marlowe,
Or shepherd spending nights
Under starry, starry skies,
And I, I am no maiden fair,
No tragic heroine doomed by
The bard to die with the blush
Of youth still on my cheek.

Foolish hearts pay no heed
To years piled high,
Or hair that sprouts more
Silver with each passing day,
They still count up the ways
Of love and search for the
Sweet smelling rose, by
Whatever name it answers to.

So come with me and be my love,
Though you are no Marlowe
And I am no maiden fair,
Come and walk the world with me,
For we've years to go before we sleep,
And I've still a taste for desire.


Wolf--published in Illumen

The grey wolf curls tighter
In his mountain and dreams.

He is a pup racing wind
Filled with the tang of cedar
And the sting of ice,
Chasing the sun toward twilight
At the end of the world.

Fires warm a heroes' hall
In his dreams,
Warrior maids offering welcome cups
To a gathering of angels,
Brothers and sisters in arms.

He dreams of walking in shadow
And forbidden kisses,
Of winged steeds searching
For the fallen dying on
Crimson stained snow.

The grey wolf whimpers,
Curls tighter in his mountain and
Dreams of a time before he was bound
With a ribbon soft as starlight.


End of the world--published in Star*Line

Anya sits in a window above the fray
waiting for the end of the world,
slowly sipping a glass of whiskey
though she's in no rush to be numb,
not while she still has time to feel,
to watch sun-sparkles dance in a fountain,
or the stars come to life one by one
as day slides into night.


Down in the square brash young men
make plans for a way around fate,
speaking of impact velocity
shockwave fronts and
tunnels bored into mountains,
words they learned on the television
but don't really understand,
While the old men who claim to be holy
tear at their whiskered chins,
faith in a Lord of miracles shattered,
their prayers for divine intervention
turning to salt in their mouth.


Anya sits in a window above the fray
waiting for an end to the world
she's in no rush to see come,
not while she still has time
to decipher the myth of the man
coming to her across the square,
their eyes meeting over chaos
and the noise of fear,
his promise she won't be alone,
promising there's still time,
even at the end of the world.

Twilight--published in the special chapbook Poetry From The Trenches

I see you in the pantry
You built for me
Always just at twilight,
Mud on your boots
Darker stains I can't bear
To name on your uniform.

I've learned not
To reach for you,
Not to listen
For imagined words
Or to think you'll
Hear me call your name,
But for a moment as
The sun sets on another day
Our eyes meet in silent farewell,
Your weary smile mine alone
Before you fade into the whirl
Of jars and spices on the shelf.

I blink back memory and tears
Gather up the rosemary I came for
And knead it into loaves,
Each wrinkle on my hands
The aches in my fingers
Sharp reminders that while
My hero never grew older,
I did.