Fragments and frequencies. Where rhythm meets revelation. This is the place for verses — language distilled, raw, and resonant. Not always tidy, never trivial.
Through the gate—
leaves rot underfoot.
Damp roses
and decay hang.
Apple pie,
custard,
toasted almonds
and spice.
This is Samhain—
liminal space.
A horse-drawn carriage
of death
follows a bountiful
harvest.
The crow flies,
a tinnitus whisper
at the edge
of sleep.
The Morrígan
invites.
A predictor of futures,
an agent of change.
She lights the lamp.
Lifts the veil.
She is fate.
Fear has left now.
Only peace remains.
I’m listening.
Anxious, attentive—
others’ inner lives
burrow into
my marrow.
Am I cursed with
eyes for the unspoken
and a vulture’s
sense for moods,
yet I fail once again
to be understood?
The rage I carry
isn’t all mine after all,
but the burden
of those left behind—
unexpressed
and remorseful.
I’ll bloodlet from
the wounds
your soul wants to hide.
I’ll set free the poison
you bury underneath.
I prefer truth
over comfort.
It hurts—
I know.
But it’s what I do.
In dreams,
I return—
to spirit,
to bones.
I come home.
I remember.
I chose this time:
to set down the things
that don’t belong to me—
to us.
Things that don’t want to,
and shouldn’t,
carry on.
I wrote this after I’d uploaded my natal chart into AI and had started digging into what the chart had to say about me. This piece of writing makes me cringe more than anything I’ve written to date. I think it’s because of how sometimes I can ask such pointed questions, often without thinking about how I’ll impact the other person. Bloodletting someone’s inner world without permission isn’t something to be proud of. Also, it’s a bit melodramatic, which isn’t unlike me (The picture tracks!). I’ve considered taking the poem down but I feel it’s probably my turn to feel exposed for a change!
Toned, tanned, and virile.
I shouldn’t be curious—
but I am.
His beau,
a beauty,
at least ten years
his senior—
this I know.
Their proximity,
aflame.
A new relationship,
I’m sure.
Her teen daughter,
an apparition—
disinterested,
yet she endures.
I’m supposed
to lament her—
this, my culture demands.
But instead
I salute her defiance,
while my baked-in hypocrisy
scalds.
Will I ever
scrape my pan clean?
My eyes sting
with its fetid stench.
Meanwhile, I wonder—
is he well-behaved?
Does he allow forgiveness
for millennia
of harm?
Subconsciously,
she mirrors
my position
in her chair.
The cords of sisterhood—
engineered to be,
and to remain,
threadbare.
My guilty interest wraps
around their air like fog.
Why shouldn’t she enjoy
the last of her bodily wealth,
as the sunset of
my own populative use
draws to its final ebb?
To her, a toast—
and to all those women
who courageously scalpel
themselves into being,
a life
the present hasn’t yet woven
and the past
viciously disallowed.
Amphitrite rides the hippocamp.
Her face—
emotionless.
Her spirit—
silent and still.
She is well-versed in battle.
Her sea-beaten face shows
she has slept with happiness,
as she has worn sorrow.
Her hippocamp moves
between her thighs
with purpose.
His intent is smooth
beneath the water.
He carries his maiden
with loyal
and tender care.
She grasps, gingerly,
to his back.
It’s been a while.
Is it uncertainty,
or is it inexperience?
I cannot tell—
as the two
octogenarians
glide softly across
the hotel pool.
Your generation
doesn’t excuse
your racism.
Your ignorance
doesn’t get
you a pass.
“Everyone was
like that”
is not a
reason.
Your words
and attitude
still hold weight
now.
It is not,
nor will it ever
be
OK.
It’s your job
and mine
to gouge it
out.
Because we
didn’t stop
being racist —
we just
got better
at covering
it
up.
If you want
to do better,
then do
better.
I will not
shield your
fragile soul —
like you haven’t
shielded others
from yours.
And I expect
the same
of you
for me.
We own
the knife
we wield.
This reflects an argument I had with my sister at our father’s hospital bedside.
I’m tired of the “not all people” refrain, the excuses we make for ourselves and others.
Let’s do our dirty work.
Reach into our rot.
Get comfortable.
Let’s not
look
away.
I hate racism, and how it’s woven into society.
I stay vigilant for its insidious appearances—and when I see them, I name them.
I stay with the discomfort,
refuse to look away.
I believe racism played a part in the erasure of my mother’s lineage.
I explore this in It Began with a Name—that history still lives in me.
Witnessing and naming it is my reckoning.
The train is packed.
6:30 p.m., to be exact.
Commuters disembark.
A seat at a table,
I spy.
I sit.
The girl—she’s young.
A rail card at the back of her phone.
Her eyelashes thick with glue.
Like a baby doll,
with eyes of a doe.
A bottle of Coke—
she sniffs.
She’s tired.
A festival, perhaps?
But the Crocs on her feet say no.
The man next to her—good-looking.
Much older.
Maybe her young dad.
Greying hair, a silver fox.
A can of Monster in hand.
His eyes barely open—
they’re red.
He coughs,
and reaches gently
for her leg.
They play-fight for a moment.
His remark:
“You’re being weird today.”
She rests her head
in her arms
on the table.
He closes his eyes,
unfazed.
Her sniffing is soft and gentle—
as is the ‘blankie’ she holds.
Worn down to its innards.
Grey, battered, and old.
Her eyes—wet.
His eyes—closed.
Between apathy and sleep,
he reaches out quietly
to her.
But she shirks him.
He sends a text.
She throws down her phone.
The phone rings.
Caller ID: Dad.
He clears off.
“See ya around.”
She answers:
“My phone was in my bag.”
“I’ll be home soon.”
Power and control.
Naivete and innocence.
A good match—
they always make.
My great-grandmother was 16
when she had her first child.
Her partner — my great-grandfather — was 48.
I explore these dynamics more fully in It Began With a Name.
Matricaria,
Artemisia,
the mother—
and the aunt.
Auntie Mugwort
won’t look away
or roast
when you’ve been bad.
“Come, child,
take a chair.”
In front of the fire
she brews.
She strokes the hair
out from your eyes
and makes you feel
at ease.
“Rest now,” she says.
A biscuit
she will offer.
Wheaty, sweet—
it almost tastes
too good.
She’s seen things—
her silver hair,
burgundy dress,
moths in her
wolf-fur coat.
Holding,
sighing,
breathing,
stroking,
slowing—
what
don’t you know?
Her sing-song voice—
in your mind
you’re drifting,
drifting now,
as she slips out—
for a smoke.