A diamond in the rough
Both feet in depth to help it up
But no matter how much I scrubbed
I couldn't wash off the mud
Though my teary eyes could see its bright form
It's wrapped in mud so I gave it up
I have had nightmares of demons and hallucinations
in the pitch dark of night
leaving me paralyzed
with fright and fear
unable to speak words but screaming
unable to move away
from a hellish imp creature
his skin like a slithering snake
his voice a hissing in the night
a head upon a fat distorted body
oh, horrible disgusting creature
and another creature hovers
the hidden shape of a black horse
friend or foe
internally I am frozen and unable to wake up
I am stuck in a terrifying scene
everything in my bedroom is surreal and distorted
with the power of will I wake
weeping in my bed
I can smell him
feel his hands on my body stroking
I must have a shower to wash off his stink
that is when I see the bruises and hand prints
how is this possible
now, I keep the lights on
have become sleep deprived . . .
Your touch still lives in my skin,
a sickness that hums beneath every breath.
I hate it —
the way it crawls back,
the way my body remembers
when my mind screams no.
Sometimes the noise inside is too loud,
and I do small, desperate things
to quiet it.
I chase a different kind of ache,
one I can control —
a pain that belongs to me.
It never lasts.
The silence breaks again,
and I’m left shaking,
hollow,
counting the seconds
until the ghosts fade.
If I could tear out the memory, I would.
If I could wash off the feeling of you,
I’d drown it in light.
But it clings,
and I keep breathing through the sickness,
waiting for the world
to finally go quiet.
Where I reside is more than just
a house; my haven's here -
a place to wash off worldly dust
and shelter those most dear.
From worries I can flee,
for at home I feel free,
and friends can welcomed be.
May love abide
where I reside.
You can wash off
your fingers
but never the print
You can polish
an apple
but the worm still within
You can take out
the trash
but the smell’s in the air
You can falsely
deny
— but the memory’s still there
(Dreamsleep: January, 2026)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
First, the shovel bites dirt~
a clean incision where grass
pretended the world
was always this green.
Dad’s hands, knuckled
like roots, twist the spade deeper.
He doesn’t speak, but I know
this is the language of a man
who trusts the ground.
We kneel, pressing seeds
into dark, damp pockets~
each one a buried secret
waiting to unravel.
His fingers, thick as carrots,
brush mine by accident.
The sun stretches our shadows
long across the turned soil,
two bent figures stitching
the earth back together,
one row at a time.
By dusk, we are dirty
in ways that won’t wash off.
The garden doesn’t thank us yet,
but the love and gratitude
between Dad and me
is soft and growing.
I do not knock.
I arrive —
like a whisper wrapped in thunder,
like dusk that forgets to ask the sun for permission.
I wear no perfume,
but the winds carry my scent.
No flag,
yet kingdoms remember me.
I speak in poems,
but my words are carved in stone.
Not to impress,
but to remind you
what stillness can awaken.
You may never touch my hands,
but you'll feel them in your spine.
You may never hear my voice,
yet you’ll wake up dreaming I whispered your name.
I am distance,
and desire.
The thought that lingers after goodbye.
The ink that won't wash off your soul.
And when you read this,
know this wasn’t written —
it was transmitted.
From the space between my breath
to the core of your being.
You crawl under my skin
Again, uninvited this time
Drinking my sorrow
Your tail whips around my heart
Drawn in by the cold
Darkness you know so well
To look but not to touch
A sad spectacle to visit
But visit is all
Soak up vulnerability
Bathe in the grief
Wash off, walk home
Leave me with the well
Where undrinkable water lives
Crumbs to decorate it
Furtive missives of absolution
Dig and scrape to pry you
Draw you out from under skin
Let you down so slowly
To silently await your return
Lynne is a cute girl with a calico skirt
Hanging clothes on the line, to wash off the dirt
She is observed by a young lad visiting called Bert
What is her name? He asked his loving Aunt Gert
Aunt Gert went to the window and looked to see
That girl by the clothesline? She belongs to Dolly Lee
But what is her name? Asked Bert, who wanted to know.
You cannot go out there, she would be embarrassed so.
But why? Asked Bert, as he continued to stare
Because said his auntie, Lynne has curlers in her hair
This was in the old days, when etiquette was real.
When being caught with pajamas or curlers was a big deal
maybe you didn’t physically touch my skin,
but the evil in your eyes when you would look
in my direction was enough to make it crawl.
you may not have laid your fingertips on my
innocent body, but the thought of knowing i
was a room away was horrifying to my young brain.
maybe you didn’t breathe on my neck, but knowing
how your eyes looked as i would turn around is enough
to make me cry when i look in the mirror. you may
not have struck my young self with your hatred-filled
fingertips, but knowing the intentions you had in your mind
as you hugged me are enough to burn my body as i wash off the
sensation of your hands on my delicate skin.
Wind, come surround me with your timeless gust.
Freshen up my numb body so I can move again
Sun, direct your rays to unfreeze my brain.
Lighten up my clouded mind so I can be reasonable again
Moon, sparkle my nights along with the stars.
Shine through my darkest hours so I fear no more again
Water, splash me with your ever cleansing power.
Wash off doubts in my soul so I can trust myself again
Fire, warm me with your burning flame.
Melt the madness so I can cry tears of joy this time
Rain, drop less than usual on my way.
Sprinkle me lightly please so I can have myself space and time
When night is over, another day to conquer.
And it goes on and on all the time.
The night I met you, I was deeply afraid,
terrified, my nerves were badly frayed.
I pulled you from the party crowd.
My confidence, you allowed.
I cried to you. I wasn't proud.
We both had too much wine,
my bloody valentine.
I knew that your feelings were sincere.
Soon, you would always be near.
Your gentle understanding showed.
To your charms, you gave the code.
Your love, to me, bestowed,
I gobbled it like a swine,
my bloody valentine.
Thinking too much of myself, I was.
What I could offer you wasn't love.
It was a deplorable crime,
I can't wash off this guilty grime.
I should be doing time,
burning in a hellish brine,
my bloody valentine.
I'm haunted every Valentine's Day,
a lifetime sentence I have to pay.
There is every reason for your hate.
It's less than forgiveness I await.
Take my conscience off your dinner plate,
as your ghost does me, malign,
my bloody valentine.
A new tomato burst
beneath a blade, its juice
streaking my wrist,
mimicry of something I swore off
years ago.
Seeds scatter like liquid mercury
across the cutting board,
smallest of reminders that life spreads
even if it’s cut short, stunted.
I keep slicing,
pretending the stains
will wash off this time.
When I was a kid, pistachios
Had shells they dyed bright red
And sure enough, that color
To your fingers quickly spread.
It didn’t wash off easily,
But left a tell-tale clue
About what you’d been snacking on,
That bright red proof on view.
Today, I cracked pistachios
And wondered, as I ate,
Why someone once decided
To disguise their natural state.
No matter why, that dye is gone –
Red fingers not the answer.
For all we know, pistachios
With dye might have caused cancer.
All good deeds stem from a belief
That we can effect change and bring relief
To people in need or those in grief
Hope gives us motive, to be brief
Eternal springs hope in the human breast
To this the lives of great folks best attest
No hope and life’s heart will forthwith arrest
Hope sends you high atop life’s crest
None but the hopeful can weather life
In troubled times and in strife
When despair pours in thick and rife
Cut through it fast with hope’s knife
In darkness find a ray of hope
To help you with problems cope
Wash off doldrums with the soap of hope
Get up afresh and up your lope
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