Goodbye

A dear friend is retiring from the public eye for a while. Words cannot express how much this woman has meant to my life and my writing. My heart goes with her, wherever she travels. This she knows, and thus ever it will be. She will always have my sword and shield at her call.

Always

TheFeatheredSleep

In the New Year I am going to do something drastic. I’m going to close all my social media down, take the majority of my books/work offline/out of bookstores and not stay in touch with the majority of online acquaintances I have met during these years. The work that will remain is what I’m most proud of; SMITTEN This Is What Love Looks Like (an anthology, 2019), We Will Not Be Silenced (one of 4 editors/contributors, 2018) and Pinch the Lock (Finishing Line Press, 2016).

When I began, I really believed I could contribute something valuable to the world through the medium of writing. I saw many other people trying but I did not know how many and since 2015 I have seen that there is a glut of people all self-publishing, indie publishing, small press publishing, all with the same ‘dream’ of being a legit writer. Mostly wasting hours…

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Hypothermic – Eric Syrdal

Honored to be on Free Verse Revolution 💛

FREE VERSE REVOLUTION

I met her
in April
when I took her hand
as together we stood, in a springtime storm
the rain ran down our faces and over our lips
and no words were needed

We danced
under the cerulean dome
of our summer palace
my eyes focused on her blushing cheeks
as the world beyond us smeared into hues of passion
in August she held my hand to her chest and asked for one more dance

In Autumn’s reverent halls, she struggled to speak
October’s dying breaths sent puffing steam to twilight heavens
the crackle of fallen leaves and the echo in quiet places
was the anthem and fanfare to our union
evenings came sooner, and longer were the hours before dawn
soon, the pyre wood was stacked awaiting fate’s flame

I knelt there in the circle of fading light
and through my knees, digging into the ashes, I could feel…

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Smitten: This is what love looks like. Poetry by Women for Women

I’m very excited to help promote this wonderful anthology of poetry from some of the most amazing female writers it has been my honor and pleasure to know! Currently out in Ebook format with print copies not too far behind.

“SMITTEN This Is What Love Looks Like is an anthology of love poetry by 120 lesbian and bisexual women ranging in age from 15 to 87 from around the globe.This is a book that should be gifted. In spite of its implied audience, Smitten is not just for women who adore women. It is for those whose hearts twist and skin prickles at romance, who know the flight of butterflies in their stomachs, who long for the feeling of home in another’s heart.”

Purchase “Smitten” in Ebook format

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I’ve Known This Season #WritePhoto

Sarah, making a beautiful photo even more beautiful

Lemon Shark Reef

I’ve known this season.

Danced with dying dreams.

Watched bits of myself float away.

Sometimes I tried to hold on. Other times I watched those pieces fly from me in the autumn breeze.

Both were painful.

Both left me bare and vulnerable.

Yet I’ve survived. Grown stronger.

I don’t always change in my own time.

It could be another’s clock that ticks and clicks at me.

In crisp air, I show my true colors. 

What are they? What will the world think of them?

I wait, worry, wonder…

But the oak, anticipating winter, knows she will become more beautiful as she lets go. 

Here is my attempt at #writephoto, a weekly writing prompt for poetry/flash/short stories hosted by Sue Vincent

writephoto-logo

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Allegiance

This place
Sacred ground
As if earth, god-touched
She resides
Kindred spirit
Sister, swordsworn
Wordsmith, the brand
Our hearts share
Blood scrivener
We drink, she and I
From inkwell chalices
And read the bones
In the light of our stained glass souls
Oracle, she is
And her prophecy is the same
As mine
We do not read stars
We birth distant suns into existence
With the breath of our muses
She and I Warriors bound to each
By crimson oaths
Of courage, understanding
My sword and shield is hers
And hers are at my call
Standing back to back
I feel her beautiful heartbeat
In the hollow of my own chest
And if its rhythm quickens
Through fear or pain
My own shall beat to bring
The cadence back to ground
And she shall rest her soul upon my pauldron
Her heart shall rest in my hands
On bended knee
To her fierce spirit, I swear
At her service
She shall ever find me

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The Weyward Sisters: Songs of Ophelia

Amazing work, Ladies!!! Brava!

Brave & Reckless

Originally published on Sudden Denouement

you must remember
rosemary, pansies, fennel,
columbine and rue,
You forgot tansy, didn’t you?
When the ground freezes over
And your flowers crumble and brown
Let the ice in Hamlet’s Heart
And the Red on his hands
Deliver him forever from you.
And when you return again
From your journey to the sea
Never forget
It is you.
It was never he.
Rana Kelly/2nd star to the Left, straight on ’til morning

I sat and watched the current roll by today
I think I’d like to float away to a place that I cannot say
You were always directing the rivers flow
I trusted you knew where it would go
But you let me go adrift
Dream chaser isn’t that what you always said?
You’re where the love has always been
Dream chaser dream chaser
don’t mock me now
Its not always the same
You…

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Prey…

My heart pounds…
Oh, how perfect things
had seemed just minutes ago
Before she flushed me
from my cover
I was safe and warm
inside of my
nebulous thunderstorm
listening to the sounds
of the gentle raindrops of
my indifference
softly pattering against
this verdant canopy
of polite conversation
nocturnal, idle prattle

all the while, unbeknownst to me
she tracked me
behind main courses, wine glasses
and fan-shaped folded napkins

It was the whiteness of her
canines against the deep
velvet of her painted lips
that stilled my heart
and set my ears up to listen

She, fearless, approached with
the wind at her back
Her scent encompassed
our venue
but I had not sensed
the predator within
those gentle pheromones

The touch of her hand
at the hair against her neck
The blush of her cheek
after a sip of honey wine

I was mid-sentence
when she reclined
both elbows on the table
folded her hands
and rested the scenery
of her face upon them

The pose of a reverent prayer
within this carefully
practiced religious rite
of which I was
fast becoming a believer
and its high priestess
A huntress, who would take
my heart
a trophy

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Canticle…

In that instant
I saw for the briefest of moments
The evening horizon reflected
In the dark pools of her eyes
And I can’t
For the life of me
Remember having seen anything
Ever
Before that

Scribes came
From the four corners of the land
Spilling dusty tomes
From the folds of their robes
Upon the mosaic floor
I poured through them
one by one
Ancient texts, encompassing
The whole of creation
Eveything that ever was or will be
And there was no entry
To be found
For Her

The ink on these pages
A pigment formed from the ashes
Of the birth of creation
Emblazoned here
Upon the pulped memory
of a tree born long before my shadow was ever cast by our sun
Her soul was no work of creation
It was prelife
Beyond anything that could be considered
Memory

I took up my sword
With rusted edge
And ran like a madman from my bed
Its blade ignited under the full moon
I stood upon the ramparts
Raising it over my head
In a mocking cry
I cursed the gods
For giving my heart
The vision
To see hers
And for the distance
They placed between us

For what wealth is there
To be spent
That can cross the void
What currency may be paid
To lay a bridge made of Oathstone
across this chasm
Charon could dig to the bottom of his purse
and find not even a whisper of thread that would prove worthy
To place my feet upon
Her flagstones

And moreover
If my feet ever did find purchase
Upon those sacred stones
I am but a vagabond peddler
Rapping at her door
With only stories of my days
Beneath martial banners
To sell
Rusted armor and corroded intentions
Blue black with the ravages of wars
Fought over flowered words

Better I should lay my blade
At her doorstep and seek the lower places of the world
And on the morrow she should find
That instrument of wrath and rage
Carefully preserved by the morning dew
never again to be wielded
By silvered gauntlets
and never again shall it spill blood

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For Halo

The depth of feeling in her gorgeous soul is immeasurable. Rest in peace Halo. And all my love to you, My Warrior Sister. ❤

TheFeatheredSleep

My debt rests in your fur

as they light it

and it burns

and your form shrinks

from this world

your black and white paw limp against my clutching

fingers wishing you here

those images are cookie cut into my mind

called intrusive thoughts and flash-backs

I know them well

they are not my friend as you were my friend

I imagine what you feel and then recall

you no longer feel anything

though that does not seem right

without religion I am left unknowing

where you land next or if you will

awaken in paradise or remain slumbering

whether sleep or a void, if we can truly leave

and have nothing of ourselves remain

but ash and debris

it seems impossible that you were once

jumping onto the table and making me laugh

with your antics

only to be nowhere and gone eternal

I may not possess sufficient faith

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Stormsurge…

early August swelter
banana leaf shaped
fan blades
spin 15 feet above my head
the old plaster ceiling
full of cracks and divots
my eyes follow the broken rhythm
of the lines
as if they were etched
by a low slung blues guitar
graffitiing my field of vision
with morse coded messages
as we lay tangled in linen
your damp hair is like a cold compress
on my aching soul
a wave of magnolia flows
across my face
as you settle in place
your fingers tracing across my chest
speaking a powerful pantomime
sign language to my heart
I sigh a pleadful prayer
for mercy
for there is no doubt in my mind
in Nola
May through November
you, are the goddess
of hurricanes

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