Spirit Hurricane

Mephistopheles and his demons
run rampant through my brain
drowning thoughts, drowning feelings
a spirit hurricane

teeth tear apart truth
revealing succulent lies
sugar-coated in happiness
in an attempt to survive

dark angels feast on all
leaving famine in their wake
an empty shell of a mind
now so fragile it breaks

and collapses inward
into the soothing blackness of death
taking my war-ravaged spirit
that has at last found rest


April is National Autism Awareness Month. My fellow blogger and friend, Clarissa, at http://www.poeturja.wordpress.com does a fantastic job at expressing the interior landscape of autism.



Autism is standing still while

Everyone runs for the cliff edge

And you want to know why

Before joining them

But the surge pushes you down

And they thunder across your back

And you’re bloody but not broken

Because the rage keeps you sane

Autism is always being chosen

To be

The Cheese

In Farmer in the Dell

The Cheese stands alone

In the middle of the circle

As baby classmates point and sing

And you cry

But the next year you don’t cry

You will never let them break you

At least they won’t know

You care

Autism is getting it wrong when a boy flirts

Confusion from what he means

Interpreted by his ego

Thinking you’re indifferent

To his oh-so-obvious charms

And he hates you

Autism is being nice to a boy

Who seems like a friend

But not realizing

His ego…

View original post 351 more words

Sins of the Fathers (6)

When I got home from school, I told Granny about Bubba Higgins.

“Terrible thing to lose a child,” she said. “A body shouldn’t have t’put their babies in the ground. . . ain’t right. I know how it feels.”

We prepared supper in relative silence, and after sitting down to our meal, ate only a few bites.

The wrinkles on Granny’s face looked as if they had been chiseled deeper, her eyes more faded and less focused. Most likely, her thoughts had traveled to the past, to Daddy’s dead brother.

As for me, my mind had taken a disturbing turn. Ira’s strange smile kept floating to the surface of my thoughts. I recalled how furious he had been on the bus yesterday afternoon, the violence seething in his eyes. And Granny’s words kept echoing in my mind: He stares at a body like he’d just as soon kill you as t’look at you.

Was Ira capable of murder? The Ira I knew, that he allowed only me to see, I didn’t think was. But what about that other Ira who showed a stony, arrogant face to the world? God help me, I didn’t know. I had to see him, had to talk to him. Continue reading

Dropping Gs

This piece was previously posted on an old blog of mine, so to my friends who have read it, feel free to give it a pass; you won’t hurt my feelings.  Also, it was written before my short-lived foray into the world of self-publishing, which I found out wasn’t my cup of tea.

For those of you following Sins of the Fathers who are scratching your head and thinking: “Wait a minute, she’s dropping quite a few Gs here”, bear in mind that story was written years ago before I learned less is usually better–and a few other things.


Something has been bothering me for a few months, and maybe if I write about it here I can get it out of my mind.

Concerning my Kindle short, Saving Grace, I received a three-star review because my Southern dialect was, according to the reviewer, an “incomplete translation” due to the fact I didn’t drop my ending Gs, and I had the audacity to use words no true Southerner would, such as “skeert”.
I’ll address skeert (meaning scared) first…

Any of y’all who have followed me for any length of time know I’m as about as Southern as Southern can get. I know and use words and phrases gleaned from my youth that many people in this country, and in others as well, have never heard. Case in point: “yont”. (And no, I didn’t misspell a word, nor leave out an apostrophe.) I’m betting not many reading this post know the word–though maybe have heard it. I’ll use it in a sentence:

“Yont to go ‘coon hunting tonight?” Bubba asked Leroy. Continue reading

You’re The One That I Want

GreaseYoureTheOneThatIWant7InchSingleCoverToday, I want to share my happy song, the one that makes me grin like an idiot and want to jump up and shake it every time I hear it.

Performed by John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John,  “You’re the One That I Want” was written by John Farrar for the 1978 film version of the musical, Grease. The single reached number one on the U. S. Billboard Hot 100 in June 1978, and topped the U. K. Singles Chart that same summer for seven weeks, some months before the film had even been released there.

I’ve included a second video of the song made in 2002 at the Grease DVD release party. Twenty-four years between the first and second video, but John and Olivia still had it. And I bet they still do.

Sins of the Fathers (7)

School drew to a close and another hot summer settled in.

Daddy’s visits had dwindled, becoming sporadic and brief, which was just as well since most of the time he arrived drunk, or well on his way there. Granny got mad and they always ended up arguing. I wondered why he even bothered coming here at all.

Ira and I met almost every night at the bridge over Eddy Creek. As he had promised, he didn’t try to take it farther when we kissed and cuddled, seeming content with that.

Neither one of us spoke of Bubba Higgins.

But Ira brought up another subject. “You remember the night we met, how I told you I’d be leaving here in about a year?”

I had forgotten. He had never mentioned it but that one time. “Now I do.” My heart lodged in my throat. “But you’re not going to now—are you?”

“Not right this minute, but yeah, before long I will be.” He rested his forearms on a cross-rail and gazed down at the water below. “I’ve been saving up some money, and before summer’s over, I should have enough to get the hell outta here, maybe go somewhere up north.” Continue reading

I Will Come To You


someway, somehow
when the night is long
and the moon is blue
I will come to you

over rivers, over mountains
over bodies of lovers
both false and true
I will come to you

along highways, along byways
along pathways
damp with dew
I will come to you

in darkness, in shadows
in trails of moonbeam’s
silvered hues
I will come to you

clothed in wanting, clothed in lust
clothed in forever love
mixed in a witch’s brew
I will come to you

head bowed, eyes downcast
kneeling on your bed
now one where once was two
I will come to you

My friend, JW at JW’s Creative World collaborated with me on this piece, doing a continuation from the male’s perspective regarding the lady that came to him. You can find his poem here, Yang to my Yin.

The Cold Time

“Would ya just look at all that blood, Jen?” Steve pointed his knife at the big red blotch staining the snow near our boots. “Must be a big one.” He grinned, the excitement dancing in his blue eyes lighting up his gaunt face.

Saliva pooled in my mouth. Meat . . .

How long had it been since we’d had anything but some wild greens, dug from beneath the snow, boiled with bones of previous kills? Weeks? Months?

No one kept count of the years anymore. What was the use? Since The Cold Time had come, settling over the world in a thick, white blanket, the passage of time had lost meaning. There was a brief period of warmth and melting—Mama called it summer—when a few hardy, fast-growing plants were harvested. Then snow covered the land once more.

When I was a kid I had heard talk of ice ages, and maybe at one time, had known what that meant. Now all I knew was The Cold Time. Continue reading

Sins of the Fathers (8)

The next morning, Granny was still in bed when I got up. Neither one of us had gotten much sleep the night before so I didn’t wake her, thinking she could use the rest.

She always had two cups of coffee before doing anything, so I kindled a fire in the wood cookstove and put on a pot. While it perked, I wrapped ice cubes in a dish towel, making a cold pack for my swollen eye. When the coffee was ready, I poured a cup for myself, adding copious amounts of cream and sugar, sat at the kitchen table, and held the ice pack to my throbbing eye.

Reflecting back on last night’s events, I didn’t know how I could have been so blind for so long. The last few months of Mama’s life, when her depression and drinking had gotten really bad, Daddy had begun to notice to me. In retrospect. I could see it for the ugly thing it had been. At the time, I had only known that my kind but distant daddy had gradually disappeared, and a drunken, repulsive stranger had taken his place. And now that I knew I was going to keep living with Granny and never have to see him again, I felt a small measure of peace.

When Granny failed to put in an appearance by mid-morning, I poked my head in the bedroom door to check on her. Her sunken eyes focused on me, and she motioned me to come closer.

I crossed the room to her bed. Her skin was the color of parchment, the tracing of blue veins stark in contrast. One side of her face seemed . . . loose. Continue reading