Personal Writings

Poetry

Upon this page are my personal writings; reflections of my thoughts, moods and emotions. The following poems were written in the year 2006.

Silent Sentinel
Long, endless hallways leading nowhere.
Shadows slithering seemingly without care.
A sudden sound makes the heart twitch.
Gasp for air causing a painful stitch.

Walking, walking, no one around.
Alone, a guardian, hearing every sound.
Creaking door, blinking light.
Peaking round corners, keep out of sight.

Night, the silent sentinel keeps vigil.
Particles of soul left as residual.
Sensing, catching the slightest move.
Stillness, the nerves will soothe.

Again, the sound, down the darkest hall.
Skittering, crash, the skin does pall.
Stay away, do not be forsaken.
Run, before your soul, too is taken.

Nightly Quest
Misty rain floats among the evergreens.
Obsuring branches reaching to grab.
Scurrying feet upon still moist leaves.
Raising senses, ever watchful.

Slowly they walk through the haze.
No fear, vigilant, set on a task.
Snap of a branch directs amber eyes.
Watching the prey as it parallels by.

Downward they stay, divide and conquer.
He is strong, she is fastest.
The swift one commands the pace.
To the mighty one, the victim does race.

Out of shadows, he emerges now.
Clamp of jaws upon a fine neck.
Wild eyes daze, a red, frothy scream.
Mates feast for another dark night.

The Village Sacrifice
Winding through the forest primeval.
A path leads to the dragon's lair.
In these times, so dark and medieval.
A sacrifice of the most lady faire.

In yon village, a lottery held.
No daughter spared, poor or rich.
At noon, hear the tolling bell.
She is chosen, all wonder which.

Upon each left wrist is tattooed a mark.
In a barrel, the picking stones are cast.
All gather, silent, not even dogs bark.
Three slanted lines choose the lass.

Wails from family, she grabs for her dad.
Waiting guards come to her side.
Villagers hide relief behind faces of sad.
A waiting cart will be her final ride.

To the gnarled oak the cart does go.
No further will other folk wander.
She walks alone, feet moving slow.
Silently, her fate she must ponder.

At his entrance, hesitate.
She calls to him, "Come, I am here."
"Why", she asks, "must this be my fate?"
His deep voice answers, "I am none to fear."

Large is he as he exits his lair.
Stares down at the maiden, standing proud.
Comely face, silken hair.
"You will not be wearing death's shroud."

From clawed hand three gemstones fall.
"Take them, you bear the mark of three."
Perplexed, wrapping the stones in her shawl.
"Go seek a new life, from me you are free."

"To your village you cannot return."
"Unless you seek death from your kind."
"For as a witch you will now be burned."
"As only magic can release the bind."

Storm clouds darken the sky.
Nodding, turning to go, she understood.
Yet could not help but begin to cry.
Missing her village beyond the wood.

The dragon sighs, as only a dragon can.
A wisp of ashen smoke, his nostrils flair.
He thinks, oh how stupid this creature called man.
For a meal, why not an ox and mare?

The Dominatrix
Leather, my second skin.
Lacey gloves, transparently thin.
Spike heels tap upon the floor.
Smiling, knowing you'll beg for more.

Cuffs enclose your manly wrists.
Anticipation, hands balled into fists.
Snap!! Hear the whip unbound.
Snap!! Your pleasure is found.

"Yes Mistress", say it again!!
I am your master, not your friend.
Please me with your cries of pain.
Giving you more, I will not refrain.

Done, sated, limp against the pole.
Punished, forgiven, cleansing of your soul.
"Thank you Mistress", a whispered tone.
Resting now, fallen prone.

Upon one knee, fingers pinch his cheek.
"You're sniveling, pathetic, oh so weak."
"Thank you Mistress", he can barely speak.
"Quite welcome, see you same time, next week."

In May of 2006, I traveled to Moab, Utah with my husband. The Moab Desert and the Red Rock Canyons are known as places of healing and spiritualism. Working with the desert spirits; climbing among the red rocks, I came closer to understanding the actual meaning of my own life.

Desert Working
These sands know no hourglass.
Years of time seen to pass.
Bleached bones of those done dying.
Scorpion hides while spying.

Among the red rocks, drawings are found.
Indian tribe driven from sacred ground.
Kokopeli plays his mystic flute.
Healing lands, the spirits did suit.

Walk the desert, soft breeze caress the skin.
Noble people, not mine, yet like kin.
Release the illness, soothe the flesh.
My soul, with the spirits, did mesh.

Hold the stones, feel the power inside.
Lie upon the rocks, let time slide.
Renewed, a fresh healthy start.
The desert, now deep in my heart.

Rescue
Cold, tired, losing desire.
Seeking warmth, distand fire.
Walking slowly, heavy feet just shuffle.
Silent scream, throat dry and muffled.

Small clearing, flickering shadows on trees.
Pushing them to move, buckling knees.
Low voices, ghostly stories being shared.
Nostrils flare, eyes open wide to stare.

Falling, strong arms take me.
Darkness comes, dimming eyes hardly see.
Pulling closer, those arms to the fire.
Mind fighting, cold and death do conspire.

Ah, the warmth feeds my bones.
From parched lips, soft moans.
Not alone anymore, no fear to keep.
Guardians of the night, watch over as I sleep.

The Balance Ball
Come forth darkness, heed the call.
Both young and old walk this hall.
Come forth those of fallen grace.
Sit beside those of heavenly face.

Music plays, a dance begins.
Non-judgmental of those with sin.
A smile, a nod, a wink of knowing.
All are happy, faces glowing.

Arise, go forth hand in hand.
Instruments in flight, invisible band.
Demon, Angel, Wizard, Witch.
Dance in time, steps without a hitch.

For all that is dark, there is light.
For all that is wrong, there is right.
The Balance Ball, a daily event.
To those of open minds, the invitation is sent.

Will you RSVP?

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