It sat in a holiday bag

Hidden in a corner of the room

Collecting dust

Unsure of its status

A gift given to another from someone she despised

I took it out one day with its tags still on

The colors bright and bold

Much like myself

I gave it a wash to cleanse it of bad karma                  

In due time the intended passed it on to me


Its pinks and purples capture my face

Drape my body in brazen confidence

Captivating in black tights

I am a sexy bitch

A provocateur

Defiant in the face of the vapid vamp

Yeah bitch you bought it

And now it’s mine


I am a tangible tasty power

Unstoppable in my cape of fetching femininity

Unconquerable to attempts at intimidation

This cloth of steel will bring you to heel

Empowering hues

A fiery fuse

Freedom Forever

That’s my muse

Almost Morrow

I Fear the Night (TSO) (1)

Dawn breaks late night comes much too soon

Warmth is hard to find chill gives me no peace of mind

I awaken and run under the light of the moon

Leaves crackle and needles slide beneath my feet

Each mile I feel the coming heat

I am alone with nothing but my shadow

My breathing is rapid and shallow

I sense them: the creatures of the night

Not seen it is their scent I glean

My mind is alert as my legs continue to hurt

Gobble, Howl, Whisper, Bark

These are the sounds of the morning’s dark

#FWF Free Write Friday: Do You Fear the Night?

free write friday kellie elmore

Many thanks to Mark Schutter for once again hosting Kellie Elmore’s Free Write Friday!

Midnight Angst


Last night I was awakened

By the piercing sound of the coyotes’ call

And my own sweat drenched skin

Fear and loathing in the blackness

Restless as the night sounds invade

Their howls are wildly harmonious

As I throw the damp covers off

Letting the night air cool my heat

The creatures seem to sing beneath my window

Monstrously loud under the hunter’s moon

My body disobeys me, a stranger to my soul

Howling in its flashes of humidity

It falls into a nightly imbalance

A  disjointed discord

Void of rhythm and its bold beat

I leave my rest to amble in the air

Deeply breathing its frosty scent

A witness to the noir heavens

I offer myself to the divine’s fiery orbs

Boldly stepping, never fearing

My nocturnal companions

Whose silence is as loud as their songs

Blood Moon

Hunter's Moon

Stalked Chased Hunted

    Ground cracking beneath her feet

            Air heated and misted

Body tormented and twisted

Her breath lowly humming

Her predator is drumming

Traced Tracked Shadowed

She knows he is coming

Must she keep running?

His pursuit is impassioned

Hewn by lunar crimson splendor

He wants but to love her

Not place himself above her

Their hearts are afire

Yearning deep desire

He draws himself closer

Near enough to reach out and touch her

Captured by her radiance

A magenta maiden

A ruby fruit jungle

Her heat a vermillion feast

Seized Surrendered Suppressed

He lays his head low in defeat



#FWF Free Write Friday: Image Prompt With Guest Host Mark Schutter

Mid-Week Meditation


Darkness at day’s awakening lengthening

The sun a sleepy, slumbering star

I open the door to feel the air

Breathing deeply, my morning amble begins

I sense cool cucumbers, warm butter, fermenting leaves

The morning gray kisses my skin with its dusky dampness

Cloaked in the void, my mind a jumble of thoughts

I let them in and out at their own will

I beckon Mother Nature to grace me with her daily rise

Relenting, she presents me with peach fuzz puffy skies

Autumns’ Awning


The half-moon’s light bathes my window

Promising the season’s first frost

The night is deeply still

Reverently quiet

The crickets’ and peepers’

hums and murmurs dormant

Squirrels, black and gray

have fattened up for another day

Wind whispers and whirls

Leaves tumble and twirl

Needles of the pine carpet

The drive and front hill

A warm slick cushion

against the hardness and the coming chill

The back forty cut one last time

Laid bare in verdant green and burnished gold

October: an integrated season

            Deep reds

            Fiery oranges

            Bursting yellows

        Beauty’s last breath

As the purgatory of November

descends too soon

Swimming With The Fishes


At first it felt as if his lungs were going to burst. He had never held his breathe this long , the depth of this dive seemed endless, the water a black hole of nothingness. His eyes were hurting from the strain and he was beginning to doubt he would ever find it in the infinite murkiness.

Suddenly and without a hint of warning, he saw a light. He swiftly swam toward it, not noticing that his breathing was somehow eased as he approached the whiteness.  Oddly, he found himself ascending. He was no longer in control of his body as the water transformed from a deep indigo into a soothing hue of turquoise.

A great heave of water pushed him up, and there he was, on some sandy, sunny, heated island-alone.  He had not expected this- a wave of panic rushed at him. All he wanted to was to find the key and hand it over to Jacko. Then the hounds of debt would stop nipping at his heals.

Now what was he to do?  He got off his knees and slowly walked to a shady area. He lay down under the cool canopy and fell into a deep sleep.

Days later, he made front page news. A fishing vessel had recovered a body in one of their tuna nets. Naked, except for a chain wrapped around his left ankle. Tethered to the other end was a concrete block.

  free write friday kellie elmore

Wonderful Kellie Elmore supplied us with 2 prompts this week! The above image came from her.

Say a Little Prayer


My heart needs help

But I was born strong

Natural street fighter

Rough and Tough

Despite my size

Tender with love like my daddy

Mama loves the sweetness

Deep in my soul and prays

That I be made more whole

The world needs to know

Beautiful  Baby Khole

This poem is dedicated to Kellie Elmore’s nephew Khole who was born 2 weeks ago with a heart defect. He is undergoing care at Vanderbilt University Hospital in Nashville, TN.

#FWF Free Write Friday: Special Edition #TeamKhole

Slaying the Dragon


For those of you who have been reading my posts the lately, you may have noticed a theme or two.  Current and past real life situations have informed those pieces. If you don’t know it already, I was once verbally and emotionally abused during my first marriage. When I finally realized that it was happening and stood up for myself one time too many, he wanted out. It was the best gift he ever gave me. Truly, there is nothing more powerful than one’s independence and freedom.

Today I live my life on my own terms.  I have confidence in my career. I cultivate healthy relationships. Love has found me again. I am a whole and happy woman. As I ready myself for the next phase in my life, I am also purging and grieving some things from my past. Writing is at once a great unburdening and a form of standing up to the fight-a means to work through any residual pain. Ultimately, I hope I can help others gain the strength to leave their situations and heal themselves.

Last spring during a home renovation, I came across a series of journals buried deep in a desk drawer. I was giving the over-sized roll top away to a woman who really needed it. I was forced to clean it  out once and for all. So there they sat. Three journals from way back when. Some had poetry. Another contained lists of information that were important at the time. Still another had examples of the verbal abuse that was being hurled at me. I  put them on my bedroom bookcase to sit once again. As I was putting them away, a lone piece of paper fell out of one of them. Hotel stationary. Three words: “I Love You” and the initials of my now fiance’.

I couldn’t figure how that missive had landed in journals filled with negativity and pain.  No matter. I saw it as a symbol of how love exists in the midst of chaos and grief. The man I love came into my life quietly. He loved me and supported me through years of challenges with my children and with my former spouse. His love is a burning fire AND a simmering heat.

The road out from abuse is filled with potholes and boulders and other hazards. But the struggle to be whole and happy always makes you stronger.

So the Hebrew people were freed from their enemy by the hand of a woman.

They danced in the streets and the women were crowned with olive wreaths.

(from Judith 1-15 verses 14 & 15)

Scent of a Man

credit: –

She knew it was over when she couldn’t stand the smell of him. The pheromones that had once madly attracted her to him had dissipated. She wasn’t even sure when he turned from being a melliferous man into one who oozed a certain bitter brininess.

His odor permeated the bedroom-an overwhelming form of halitosis-especially in the morning. She remembers how it used to startle her awake. She would be lying close to him one minute and then quickly find refuge on the other side of the bed the next.

It wasn’t long before she arose earlier and earlier each day in an effort to escape the toxicity of him. The raunchiness remained even after he finally woke up and left the room. Then, while he was showering, she would pull down all the bed covers and throw open the windows in an effort to rid the room of his stench.

On the surface, he was a meticulously clean man. He dressed sharply and every hair was in place. But just beneath lay the sewage of his soul. Lately, it had been percolating, bubbling up. He created hazardous waste within their relationship and in their own home.

She knew that his habits were really a manifestation of his need for total control of his own environment at best and an overall inconsideration and disrespect for her at worst. Because he didn’t feel like hanging his jackets in the back hall (where it was cold in the winter), he would pile them up on a kitchen chair. He left his shoes right outside the living room where she or the children inevitably would trip on them.  “Watch where you’re going!”, he would say. He also had his special stack of magazines and papers on one of the living room end tables. She was not allowed to move them except if she dusted.

He seemed to have no problem sitting his ass on the couch while she ran around the house like a whirling dervish cooking dinner and cleaning after working all day either.  A meal and a clean house were par for the course. But she sure was getting tired of cleaning up the toothpaste scum off the bathroom sink’s soap dish. He refused to put his brush with the rest of the family’s. Instead, he would lay it down near the open tube, not caring if he left remnants of saliva or paste on the surface. And he never shut their closet door.  Just left it wide open for her to stub her toe or hit her head in the middle of the night when she got up to pee.

When she called even the slightest attention to any of these issues, he would raise holy hell. Start talking about her bad habits. Tell her, “If you don’t like it, there’s the door.”

She knew she was in a vicious cycle. She was weary and unloved. And she couldn’t stand him or his foulness any longer.  It was time to plan her exit.

“The only thing more unthinkable than leaving was staying; the only thing more impossible than staying was leaving. I didn’t want to destroy anything or anybody. I just wanted to slip quietly out the back door, without causing any fuss or consequences, and then not stop running until I reached Greenland.”
Elizabeth Gilbert, Eat, Pray, Love