Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Sant Jordi, for Sapphics

At six AM,
I set off as the sun showed her face,
smiling, high in the sky,
as Saturday said “Hello sweetheart, would you like to fall in love?”

My hands hungered for the velvet softness of beautiful buds,
blood red, spilling across the valley,
and my body is electric as I head towards a destined love affair.

My fingers do not feel the trauma of the thorns,
my blood joining the scarlet of the swaying stems and petals.
I gather up such beauty,
my arms heavy with expectation,
all my Venus dreams playing to awakened eyes as I follow the river back to my lover.

She has made breakfast while I’ve been gone,
porridge with honey, for her Earthly Aphrodite,
this is our harmony,
the day is there to be explored,
and I am in her arms,
my arms overflowing with roses,
for the only one I love.

I’ll write our love story, for the rest of my life.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Planting Roses

No bars to break,

but here I am,

surrounded by searching space,

a prisoner,

encased in ivy,

that I have imagined,

grew side by side,

with the roses we planted.



I never knew my charge,

but I was sentenced to be sped,

back to the real world,

on several delayed trains,

with barely there air conditioning,

and piece by piece,

I felt each flower fall,

all around me.



The empty, invisible walls tell tales,

and I can’t tell which voice is yours,


because the rain still falls,

and the wind still wails,

but I’m not sure they’re really there.

I’m not sure where it hurts,

I just know that it does,

and I know why it does,

even if that isn’t “proper science”.


I don’t know if you’ll wait for me,

or how long you’d have to wait,

but I know I need you to.

I remember this kind of crying,


Hastings beach,

knowing my world wouldn’t fit into a quaint country village,

not just the bright lights,

I had dreamed of,

for as long as I knew how to dream,

but a love.

I wanted a love,

that I couldn’t yet describe,

and maybe never could.




twenty three,

pausing at Preston,

with my heart in my throat,

poking it’s way out,

with razor blades and regret,

knowing it had found the love,

but not the words,

to explain how essential it was.



It never ends,

it only eases,

until it doesn’t,

and then,

I am back behind bars,

that cannot be broken,

by anything but,

freedom to be locked away,

planting roses,

with you,

and watching your excited eyes,

as we we wait for them to grow.



I could walk away,

at any second,

out the door,

into the sunset,

under a train,

but with each step,

the chains of my choice,

and the punishment it brings others,

would grow heavier,

until my legs broke,

and my torso wept.



Give me rain,

or sun,

or death.

Give me some way,

to make each moment just a moment,

rather than a reminder,

that I have a life,

and a job,

and a whole realm of responsibilities,

that don’t include planting roses,

with you,

and watching your excited eyes,

as we we wait for them to grow.



Give me hope,

that one day,

I will find a time,

when I can survive on the inside,

and see it more as the outside,

real life,

my life,

without you.



Tell me that I’ll survive,

even if you’re lying,


better yet,

lie down,

keep my side of the bed warm,

rain roses from the roof,


settled in the sheets,

growing strong under bright lights,

waiting for me to make parole.



I’ve found the words now.

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