Sometimes it takes
A knock down
A rejection
A twinge of pain in your cold, steal heart
To remind you that you are human and there is no denying it.



All Souls – Series: Halloween Nights #11

By: Edith Wharton


A thin moon faints in the sky o’erhead,
And dumb in the churchyard lie the dead.
Walk we not, Sweet, by garden ways,
Where the late rose hangs and the phlox delays,
But forth of the gate and down the road,
Past the church and the yews, to their dim abode.
For it’s turn of the year and All Souls’ night,
When the dead can hear and the dead have sight.


Fear not that sound like wind in the trees:
It is only their call that comes on the breeze;
Fear not the shudder that seems to pass:
It is only the tread of their feet on the grass;
Fear not the drip of the bough as you stoop:
It is only the touch of their hands that grope —
For the year’s on the turn, and it’s All Souls’ night,
When the dead can yearn and the dead can smite.


And where should a man bring his sweet to woo
But here, where such hundreds were lovers too?
Where lie the dead lips that thirst to kiss,
The empty hands that their fellows miss,
Where the maid and her lover, from sere to green,
Sleep bed by bed, with the worm between?
For it’s turn of the year and All Souls’ night,
When the dead can hear and the dead have sight.


And now that they rise and walk in the cold,
Let us warm their blood and give youth to the old.
Let them see us and hear us, and say: “Ah, thus
In the prime of the year it went with us!”
Till their lips drawn close, and so long unkist,
Forget they are mist that mingles with mist!
For the year’s on the turn, and it’s All Souls’ night,
When the dead can burn and the dead can smite.


Till they say, as they hear us — poor dead, poor dead! —
“Just an hour of this, and our age-long bed —
Just a thrill of the old remembered pains
To kindle a flame in our frozen veins,
Just a touch, and a sight, and a floating apart,
As the chill of dawn strikes each phantom heart —
For it’s turn of the year and All Souls’ night,
When the dead can hear, and the dead have sight.”


And where should the living feel alive
But here in this wan white humming hive,
As the moon wastes down, and the dawn turns cold,
And one by one they creep back to the fold?
And where should a man hold his mate and say:
“One more, one more, ere we go their way”?
For the year’s on the turn, and it’s All Souls’ night,
When the living can learn by the churchyard light.


And how should we break faith who have seen
Those dead lips plight with the mist between,
And how forget, who have seen how soon
They lie thus chambered and cold to the moon?
How scorn, how hate, how strive, we too,
Who must do so soon as those others do?
For it’s All Souls’ night, and break of the day,
And behold, with the light the dead are away


Friend or Foe? – Series: Halloween Nights #13

The swirling air whispers in your ear
As if to say it loves you
As it kisses your skin goodbye.
Your feet crack the crunchy leaves
Leaving a trail of crushed corpses behind you
So that whatever wishes to follow you can.
A windy whisper turns into a ghastly whistle and
The moon shines bright through the half-naked trees.
You walk alone,
Or so you think.
You shake the idea from your head and continue on
Into the forest.
You’re meeting your friend,
Or so you think.
The chilly air nips at your ear, now aided by pricks of cold rain.
The once noisy forest floor turns slippery and your feet
Sink into the brown muck.
You’re almost to your friend,
Or so you think…



Poetry Pain

It’s funny
How when you’re broken inside
The best poetry comes out.
The cracks on your insides
Bleed out words
Showing the world just how injured you really are.
You become one with the emotions
That bind you together because
They’re the only things that seem to be real.
Those same emotions, that stick in your sides
Like barbed wire holding your hands to your body,
They are what is pushing your skin apart.
They make your skin crawl
And boil
And stew.
Emotion will keep you alive and human
But make your skin turn blue with sadness and
Red with anger.
And when your cheeks are wet with tears and your body is
Sore and aching from being pushed apart with emotion,
That is when you will write the best poetry of your life.



Autumn Fires

I’ve been in a really autumnal mood lately. The campus is absolutely beautiful this time of year, and I wanted a poem to represent some of my favorite things in fall. I’ll probably write one soon, but for now, here’s a wonderful diddy from Mr. Stevenson:

Autumn Fires

By: Robert Louis Stevenson 

(from A Child’s Garden of Verses, 1885)

In the other gardens
  And all up the vale,
From the autumn bonfires
  See the smoke trail!

Pleasant summer over
  And all the summer flowers,
The red fire blazes,
  The gray smoke towers.

Sing a song of seasons!
  Something bright in all!
Flowers in the summer,
  Fires in the fall!


Thunderstorm Thoughts



Smother me.

Smother me in your love,
Leave traces of your scent behind
So that when I awake I’ll be reminded
Of the soft touch of your hand on my face and
The way your body fits with mine

Smother me in your love,
Pound on my heart like a drum
That only beats for you.
If I have a heart attack
Then I will be gasping your name

Smother me in your love,
Let me in to your heart
And I will give you mine.
Your fingerprints will mark it
Your biological sticky note that says
“Mine. Please don’t touch”

Smother me in your love,
Open my eyes to yours
The green-blue sea I stare into
Keeps me in a trace and won’t set me free
I don’t want to be set free

Smother me in your love,
Press your lips against mine
In such a way that I can feel
Every molecule of your being
Kiss me until it hurts
And then kiss me again

Smother me.



Ink and Pen and Words

It began

With misplaced, commas,

            Capital Letters Where They Weren’t Needed

Creative descriptive words

But no proofreading.



I forgot that, too.

Critical lens after critical lens.

Words, words, words.

“Use strong words”
I thought they were. Oops.

I need to sound more convincing.

            I need to give more perspective.

                        I need.

I need to write.

Creative. Formal. Classwork. Homework.


            Smile, you’re making it better.

            You’re shaping it.

            It’s your craft, writing, that is.

                        You’ve evolved.

Freshman: not quite.

Sophomore: not strong.

Junior: getting there.

Senior: beautiful.

There’s still so much to learn, though.

The pen never stops teaching.

It teaches lessons,

Simple and extravagant.

Ink teaches skill and forces thought.

It took years to understand why people write,

            Although you’ve always loved to do so yourself.

Working at this craft makes a pool of imagination

            With swirling colors and textures

            Character names and stories, in some cases,

                        a journalistic sense

Continue to work. Not only for a future,

But for love of pen and ink. And stories galore.

It began with misplaced commas and capital letters where they weren’t needed.

But, sometimes, I still forget to proofread.            





Do You Have the Courage to Live?

Beautiful thought.

Hanne T. Fisker Photography

On the Edge III

How to fly
when your wing
is broken?
How to rise
from a hidden wound


What if our existential fear is not that of dying, but that of really living?

It’s known in psychotherapy and psychology that we have an existential fear of dying that is the source of almost everything we do. There might be some truth to this, I don’t know, however throughout the years of coaching, creating, dreaming and wandering, I have encountered what seems as an even deeper and far more unconscious (and surprising too) fear in us; the fear of living. What happens inside you when a dream seems close to come true? Have you ever asked yourself the question with awe and a bit of fear-trembling excitement, when you are in front of something great: can life really be this good and easy? Have you ever caught yourself surprised by with…

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