Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

White Owls

White owls wail like they’ve heard this tale before,
like they know how it ends,
an endless screech as the sun sets,
but life is full of surprises,
so maybe those wailing warblers will sing a sweet song after all.

I am constricted under the cool glow of my magnificent moon,
she smiles down, as if I am her most treasured daughter,
and with every moment, I am unraveled,
finding freedom as the seconds slip by,
and she whispers warm wishes in my pierced, imperfect ear.

My madness has become a map.
I slink along the streets like a snake,
teddy bear in hand,
wild words between my luscious lips.
The night’s sky is shining and there is a bright light in my eyeline,
for once, I know exactly where I’m going.

Rainbows rise beneath my shoes,
and I don’t sing the blues anymore, my baby blue,
because you are clear within my sights,
and the white owls are jamming to some sweet jazz.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

I Asked For A Sign and I Got It

Foxes yell the future into the silence of a starless night,

and I listen,

with trembling lips, so suggestible to your own.

The honey flows from the sky,

like acid rain,

destroying the old earth,

so something new can flower and bloom where my past used to pasture.

I can feel your fingertips on my right wrist,

like you are urging me to write a story,

where two princesses journey across ancient lands,

landing in each other’s laps.

I am writing, mi amor,

I am writing.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Angel Number Two – 222

My lucky number,

rests on my left wrist. Dos. Two.

I hear the angels.

I hear the angels.

They say not to cry. My eyes,

for once, they listen.

For once, I glisten.

You can find me in my dreams,

but I won’t go back.

I just won’t go back,

never straying from the path,

my gleaming pavements.

My endless statements,

intentions ring out like bells,

Sunday morning sounds.

Morning sounds hopeful,

church bells, whispering angels,

soft breathing. No tears.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Last Night’s Spell

Planting poppies under the waxing moon,

I read my wish list to the stars,

hoping God stayed up late to hear from his favourite girl.

I’m just a dreamer,

longing for long, late night phone calls,

where I feel the Earth stop,

then watch the sun rise,

in a blink of my hastily made up eyes.

I’m just an angel on the ground,

regaining her power,

but unsure if that will be enough,

to find and fix the shards of her sunshine soul.

I want to sleep in the dirt,

while my garden grows around me,

watching each wish, ticked off the list,

as the moon expands and disappears,

and then expands and disappears.