Month: June 2017

this searing boxed energy

is sapping my strength

I try not to see

the inanity’s length

that goes on past borders

of my mind’s eye

(and my actual eye)…


hazed by condition

we call common cold

the tv’s alive now

I’ve never felt bold

enough just to shoot it

it’s offensively loud-

er than my thoughts

and when did this crowd

get the green light it needed

to make such a show

has anyone watched it

or heard someone mow

a much nicer tune

than the musical theme

it’s the basic equivalent

of hearing green screen

being scratched by a chalkboard

when killing some glass

you should fire that brainkill

I refuse to use ___

just to make this line rhyme

and I also love donkeys

a much better name

humility caped

by a loveable frame

and I don’t want this black thing

plugged into the web

they warned others hear you

if you’re close to the…. thing

that doesn’t rhyme with web.



Sometimes it’s best
to back away from the microphone…


the deafening…




of the mirror falling

breaking into shards of rain


The welcome filling

of  unwelcome cracks

in the halls of the criminally sane.


The midnighting of light

and the folding of the fan of every colour

into its resting place


the praying of the weary

the relief in flowing tears, theres no grieving

for the mirror’s freak showed face.


photo credit: Alex Voigt

I lose myself

8-4-08 003

Yasmin never ceases to amaze and inspire!


I lose myself ...among wildflowers..
I mind-cut through the rust of mundane thoughts...
resuscitating words and laying them out in the radiance
of the sun.

the sun seeps gold
through my hair....awakening
slumberous reflections..

words shape themselves...cutting through the miasma..
my gut goes candid..I retreat into where I bleed alone..
holding on tightly to the unwavering companionship of
my fervor..

an organic wind
carries syllables to me..
I play my pen

a quill haloed by mentors of destiny..destiny slams its a zealot with the devil in his eyes.

words course through the 
virgin of my sternere..
I have come home...


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the eleventh hour

It’s 11 pm. So technically

we’re going into the twelfth hour.

Except it’s almost midnight.

So it’s the 24th hour.

And that gets me reeling.

Why is it so hard for me to count past 12

and go backwards at the same time?


And I always seem to think

of the right thing to say

or anything to say

or nothing to say

at the 27th hour.

That’s the magic time

my foot comes out of my mouth.


My most honed skill appearing

at the 33rd hour.

Which is also the holy crap hour.

That skill being

the complete evaporation

of the 27th hour.


I know. This is a skill

you can’t touch.


the healing power of music


I have been trying to catch up on some reading and came across a blog post by Raili Tanska at soul gifts.  It’s an absolutely fascinating read about Ancient Music.

I have been going to alternative health practitioners for years, and am a fan of colour and music therapy, well, all therapies, quite frankly, based on the fact that everything has its own frequency. I find it fascinating, being a practising Christian, that the story of creation emphasises sound as the means by which God created. And now in our times of electromagnetic pollution and overload, how powerful these therapies can be.

Last year when I visited my naturopath, he played some music based on the musical principles explained in this article. The person who produced the music had come to the conclusion in his research that the Biblical story of young David, playing music for King Saul to relieve his suffering when tormented by an evil spirit, was most likely based on this as well. Regardless of what you believe, I think it is very interesting the wisdom and learning that has been lost over the centuries. (I even read something years ago that the ancient Egyptians practised the art of levitation using sound waves. Wish it would improve my memory. I have no idea now where I read that.)




you’ve got a good heart.
I hope you’ll die in a car accident some day
so I can have it”.

He sat taking notes.

Why wouldn’t she stop laughing?
It was annoying, and he was sure it was somehow drying up the ink in his pen.

He wondered about her heart. Would he want hers?


(Quote by Jenna on ’30 Rock’)


The Weyward Sisters: Back to Black/ Collaborative Amy Winehouse Tribute

How can this not be shared? Awesome collaboration of extraordinary writing.

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

Rana Kelly/2nd star to the Left, straight on ’til morning

Oh, Amy

Whenever I go walking

In my stilettos,

I hear you talking.

Dream me up a way

Of swishing my hips

And pursing my lips

And singing your riffs

So that I find beauty

Like you.

lois e. linkens

she puts her black dress on
in the dark,
anxious nails red and messy
in their early-morning artistry.
he left the candle burning
in the winter window –
vanilla and cinnamon
on a Sunday evening,
tears and vodka
on a Monday morning.
last week’s relief
into tonight’s regrets,
but the shadowy smear
on the glass
is all that is left of him.

Aakriti Kuntal/Writings of Aakriti Kuntal

Rummaging through

black air,

nauseous red nails bearing oily seas


existence with conversations,


with glittering nail cutters,

cracked moons

laughing hysterically in them


of fallen boyfriends, of fallen love

Fallen being

the new being


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Where are you going?

img_20170113_100300When I was little, this was the recording of Godspell our family owned. There were only a couple of songs I liked on there, and this was, by far, my favourite. (I saw the movie once and didn’t like it. I have a sneaking suspicion it was because there were clowns 😉 …well, at least one, ironically, singing this lovely song). But I still love this song, and it popped into my head today after reading the news.

This is still my favourite version. It’s really beautiful. The longing in her voice got into my bone marrow. And it’s intriguing. So I thought I’d share it, for those interested, in case you haven’t heard this one.

(The meaning of ‘By My Side’)


drawing murray.JPG

toxic fumed bathing,

clarity blooms from dark, the

coloured light haunts my



Memories developing:

my jukebox romance –


cigarette and beer

in one hand, the other rests

lovingly on sound


Sometimes, I just need Nirvana.