Seascape Fantasy

The sea entices me

Champagne bubbles

Frothing on the shore

As it pulls my body

Inebriation sure

Into its intoxicated dance

Hiccups punctuating

Every dip and slide

Every splash and ripple

Of the tide

Drowning my own mad laughter

As the sun soaks through my lungs

Saltwater burning on my tongue

And my mind

Caught on the ebb and flow

Of guiltless abandon

Floats somewhere

Beyond cirrus corridors

Of time and space

Where I touch freedom

For just a little while


This poem was inspired by this post in particular from My Black and White World: The Incoming Tide

Flavors of the Day

A frog croaks
An evening hymn
Its dissonant rhyme
Scratching at the wind
While the clouds follow
The motley footprints of the sun
And treacles of morning delight
Still hang in the air—
Wisps of cotton candy
Teasing our mouths open
Like carefree children
To taste the last remnants
Of the day:
A day we will never have again.

Feeling Regret

There is but a moment of silence
An ephemeral shimmer of calm
Teasing contentment at my shoulders
Before the pillars
Grounding this nonchalant facade
Tremble with violent fissures
Bursting through with a thousand snakes
Iridescent scales
Stretched and coiled
With mock affection
Before crushing my bones
Without remorse
And though the melodic lull
Of my heart
Strains through the din
Screaming through my veins
I am left restless
Heaving through the miasma
Of this paralyzing pain
That won’t leave me alone
That no-one can save me from

Bad Days

There are days when

My throat and nostrils

Twist into clumps

Of wet cotton

And each breath

Is a starved, desperate gag for air

Helplessly brushing over my face

Times when

The door swings open

To a cloudless world

Without memory of the sun

Through the thick webs

Fraught with tripwires

Digging through my ankles

With each step

And moments in-between


In the miserable stillness

Of my bedroom

I cannot bring myself

To trust

The hopeful voice

From my reflection

Trapped inside the mirror

Musings on Nostalgia

At first, the rain came like a flurry of snowflake kisses over my face. Light and gentle. It seemed only a palpable imagining from my thoughts. Of course, I don’t remember my head being full of such whimsy. But by the time I realized that it was in fact the clouds wringing themselves dry, I didn’t care to take my umbrella from my bag. I let the rain beat over my face and hands, watched the rivulets slide over the black nylon of my coat, and only rushed through the gates of my workplace when it got heavier.

Lately, I’ve been taken with a lot of thoughts that aren’t so positive-leaning. My mind has been soaked in nostalgia for some time now – there are nights too where all I feel is this restless awareness of death. This entry isn’t meant to be depressing in any way, because within every waking moment I do try to stretch the corners of my mind into wide smiles. Until somehow mirth tapers the melancholic gutters to more melodic drips of sound.

But I can’t shake this desperate and visceral longing. It’s as if my chest has been hollowed out; a bottomless well that cannot be filled by any present thing. I can distract myself from it for a time, yet I’m quickly reminded of it on every deep breath that is actually not deep enough for my thirsting lungs. Sometimes I breathe in until the oxygen balloons in my body, ready to burst. I’m pretty sure I could take in even more but because of perceived limitations, my brain forces me to stop. (It’s like the fact that we could easily bite off our fingers with the ease of munching through carrots, but our nerves stop us).

Although this feeling makes me so miserable most of the time, I often remember anime and how the Japanese seem to have always understood this feeling. I’ve always liked the opening sequence of a lot of anime series. The shudder of cherry blossoms on the crisp, spring breeze infusing the air with hope and an innocent expectation for life. The feeling of nostalgia in these openings is always immediate – for me anyway. It was for that evocation of bittersweet emotion that I’d fallen in love with anime.

There was a friend I had once. We’d discuss anime and the symbolism interspersed throughout the stories told. One time, he said to me that a lot of anime usually have adolescent protagonists with common themes of coming of age and finding one’s path/freedom because of the underlying desires of the creators to go back to those days. The carefree and indulgent era of childhood and adolescence that allowed us to just be without our knowing that the phantom shackles of adulthood were upon us.

I remember him and that conversation because I think at the heart of this feeling is indeed a yearning for the past. And sometimes I think it’s stupid to feel this way, to hope for time already spent – that somehow it will reach back for my searching hand. But it only brushes against the tips of my fingers; too small and distant to ever fit within my palm again. I understand that I cannot have the past back, that I can only relish the memories sitting within the many chambers of my mind.

But if it were possible, and a portal were to manifest itself in a cosmic swirl – the way it sometimes does in the movies – I’d jump in without a second’s hesitation. I wouldn’t change anything either. All I’d do is enjoy and appreciate my childhood and adolescence a bit more. Because I don’t think I truly did that enough…


Self-fulfilling Prophecies

Be careful what you wish for
But the tongue rages against
Such reins and straps
Spits on the warnings
Of guiding restraint
In defiant arrogance
And without roaming
Beyond the flanks
Of its caged domain
It creates worlds
Like a magic wand
Commanding fate
To bend to its wiles
As unsuspecting realities
Into self-fulfilling prophecies
Confounding the heart
When the answer
To every mystery
Has always lingered—
Tastes of bitter licorice
Burning at the throat

Whispers of Serenity

In the quiet of eventide, while he read and she wrote, the flutter of pages would fill their bedroom. Like the soft vibrations in a bird’s wings, catching the wind’s breath in its feathers. The scratches of her pen seemed to murmur in answer of her pensive mumblings. Sounds that often followed him to the dells beyond consciousness.

Sometimes he would peek at her from the top of his book. Her hunched figure at the desk, protecting her writing as if it were some treasure. She had never allowed him to read from her book that always seemed ready to burst from all the notes wedged between its pages, until it appeared an odd and pregnant thing.

But the writings she did allow him to see, were often scattered like lucky coins throughout their apartment. Neatly folded pieces of her heart that he tucked within his wallet, until the leather bulged with every collected charm.

And on the days when he could not be with her, he would untuck each slip of paper to hear the flutters of her heartbeat; the echoes of serenity she’d given him.


Kitsch – Weekend Writing Prompt #198

It seemed Granger’s Avenue attracted all sorts. Crazies. Magicians. Higglers. Sometimes even wandering clusters of orphaned kids. But strangest of them all was the dollmaker. An old man who left his kitsch creations on the gates of each house. Cracked, wooden caricatures that were sloppily painted with garish faces. Most cursed him as an evil omen, but each family that quietly thanked him were met with a gracious fortune.


Thanks to SammiCox again for a great word challenge. I’ve never used the word kitsch before; it sounds so fancy in spite its meaning 😅

I hope you were all able to have a fantastic Saturday 🌼

When Nature Grieves

Festering wounds

Wrought within

These broken words

Emotions raw and rotted

Filled with squirming clusters

Of hungry maggots

Devouring the remains

Of a silenced voice

While the winds billow

Drenched in the sillage

Of decay

And the clouds hang low

Heaving with grief 

For the dying sounds of hope

Shattered on the rocks

Violently thrashed 

By the screaming tide

Beautiful Eyes

He appeared to her through thin feathers of smoke from her lips. She would have ignored him, but her gaze had already, unwittingly, acknowledged his presence.

Over the soft jazz playing from the speakers in the bar, he asked if he could join her. Without much of an answer, shoulders lifted in a casual shrug, she watched him take the stool next to her – his expression one of unabashed relief to have company.

She stubbed out her cigarette in a metal ashtray while he stuck a hand out, signaling the bartender whom sidled over with a broad smile as he inquired what they’d have to drink.

Without asking her what she wanted, he ordered two glasses of rum and coke. He caught the way she blinked, lips pressed together in wordless intrigue, and sheepishly admitted he didn’t have the guts for the harder stuff. He was sure he caught the first glimpses of a smile through her nonchalance.

They clinked their glasses together and his curiosities about her were met with a demure vagueness.  Most women didn’t often waltz into bars alone, unless in search of carnal indulgence. But she was only here for the music and ambience. That was all she gave him, which he didn’t mind. He liked the types that weren’t so easy to figure out.  

When she said nothing more, he offered his first name as a gesture of familiarity. But as her eyes pulled him within its russet rippling, he gave her more than just his name.

He told her of his job as an accountant and how things had started falling apart since his divorce from his wife. How she was fighting him for full-custody of their kids. Jamie and Alex; a twin boy and girl. He pulled their picture from his wallet and she could almost see where his thumbprint had engraved affectionate traces over their sweet faces.

His eyes smoked over with emotion and she touched his arm, cutting in gently to ask if he’d like to go somewhere else. Without his lips shaping the obvious answer, she saw his willingness in the smooth lick of his lips.

He followed her from the bar, apologizing that he didn’t have a car. She waved aside his apology, spinning her own car key around her index finger as she winked at him and led him to her vehicle parked on the side of the road where the streetlight flickered. 

Her home bore her reflection. Alluring in its simplicity and odd mystery. She didn’t have much furniture and unlike his home, strewn with hints of his family life, her only interest was hung in frames of abstract art.

In her bedroom, she offered him a can of beer and they talked for a bit more until she finally seduced him with a deep kiss and climbed atop him.

He was in the throes of orgasm when he tasted blood in his mouth, eyes flashing open to see her smiling through splashes of scarlet. He grabbed at the gashed flesh of his throat, desperate to stop the bleeding. Choked on confusion and fear. And all she did was lean down, small breasts pressed to his chest as she cooed that everything was okay. She kissed the corner of his mouth then pressed her lips to his eyes.

Such beautiful eyes of verdant sorrow that were now all hers.