Moving On

Whispered in voices
Not heard before
Dropping the notes
Of ghostly discord
Turn off your mind
And follow the thought
The one takes you back
To all that you’ve lost
Lost in his arms
In the clutch of his eyes
In the safety he offered
Though thinly disguised
Found in the fall
From grace to the damned
And left on this highway
That ain’t heaven-bound
Bound beneath lust
Held fast by the ties
Of pleasures unknown
Unimagined, untried
And wondering what part
Of love do we keep
Can it whither, yet stay
In our hearts when we leave?
Perhaps it’s about
Healing and time
And maybe your promises
Weren’t all of them lies
And maybe I’ll waken
Here one day soon
And thank God for that day
When I found and met you.

Two Hearts Beat

Both inspired and inspiring, such a lovely verse!

Graeme Sandford


Two heart beats
As two hearts beat
In synchronous time
Together in more ways than one
could imagine.

For an instant
For all time
Fortune tellers
Fore-tell rhyme
and reason
For a woman of the moment
And a man for a season.

What all this means
I haven’t a clue
It’s just letters to words
And sentences
From me to you –
And when my sentence is due
to be passed
Let me be judged fairly
Let me be
And I shall
Until then
Be here with you.

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Standing Still

One day lost
inside the light
which was hope
joy, peace
bland and nothing
masked over the raging
roaring tumult of truth

by wanton eyes
mine or his
two heart beats
or just the one
watching the life
he’d lived without me
flicker by
like a film strip

And I asked him
Is this happiness?
Bodies wrapped in lust
mouths locked
sexes wet
the eagerness
of a touch yet had
And he said, No, Babe-
This is Love

The road is never
there is never joy
without sadness yawning
in its forests
there is never rest
till after the battle
has been fought

But there are these
within the war
when I taste desire
and understand Eternity
when we drift
in an embrace
we know is unbreakable
and Time
for a second
Stands still.


It’s been quiet around here this week. And by ‘around here,’ I mean within the confines of my own skull. Not much going on. My creativity has taken a more visual path, as I play around with a photomanipulation program, and take some pictures. I’ve toyed with the idea of setting up a sister blog for that work, but haven’t taken the leap yet.

Also, it’s spring. Spring on a hobby farm, while small, is still all about maintenance. And sometimes the smaller the acreage, the more work there is, as you try to sustain stock on limited space. For instance, what grass was here was over-grazed this winter, as I went through some movement (or lack of) related health issues with the equine this past winter. So I’ve let the grasses come back, and am mowing and drying the clippings to feed back to said equine. I don’t have ‘mowing’ or ‘haying’ equipment. I have a pushmower and a hand rake. Needless to say, this has taken a major chunk of my time this week. There is also a vegetable garden to put in. And flowers to plant. And all this outdoor work puts me behind in my indoor work.

However, with all this going on, the wheels still turn. And when the rainy day happens, hopefully I’ll be ready for it. I have to say, I’m loving the sun. It wasn’t an easy winter, emotionally. And while good writing comes out of emotional pain, eventually that pain wears you down to a nub. You have to rebuild, even if that means the words are a little slower in coming.





It was not clear what had happened. The body on the staircase, twisted and broken. The only light, a bare bulb hanging from the high ceiling, also broken. Blood smearing the walls down both sides, erratic swipes of crimson that were more umber in the dimness.

He sat on the lower step, face vacant, figure slumped. Once in awhile he shook his head, as though trying and failing to capture a fleeting thought. As people moved up and down past him, he reflexively shrugged against the wall at his back.

The enclosed staircase was narrow, steep, and curved at the bottom. There were no railings; it was an old house, built cheaply and for function in this, the mill district.

“Mr. Barnes? Mr. Barnes, can you tell me what happened? What is her name?” The detective stood with his pen poised, and used it to gesture at the body, now draped in coroners’ plastic. He only knew the man’s name by assumption; it was on the mailbox by the door.

The man turned milky gray eyes upward. Moisture sat on the lower lids but didn’t break; just sat and lended an odd magnification to part of the eyeball.  “She didn’t mean it. She didn’t. It was all a misunderstanding.”

“How so? What did you fight about?”

He shook his balding head. What hair he had was the same color as his eyes. “No fight.”

The detective’s pen scratched. Someone said he had to move off the stairs so they could bring the body down. The detective silenced them with a gesture, and mouthed, Give us a minute. He looked back at the old man. Was he so old? Or had whatever happened here only given him the appearance of age? “Is she your wife?”

Mr. Barnes shook his head.

“What was her name?”

His wiry brows knitted over his wide nose. “Annabelle.”

“This woman is Annabelle?”

“No, Annabelle is my wife. She didn’t mean it. It was an accident.”

“Where is Annabelle, sir?”

“She’s dead.”

“Excuse me?”

Mr. Barnes nodded gravely. His thick hands twisted in his lap.

“When? How long has Annabelle been dead?”


Someone said again they needed to remove the body. The detective reach down and helped Mr. Barnes stand. He seemed no larger upright; if anything, his shoulders slumped more. He shuffled his feet as the detective led him across the room to a straight back chair. It was part of the dining set. He took a chair opposite the old man.

“Mr. Barnes, do you know the woman on the stairs?”

He nodded. “She’s dead. I know she is.” He looked at the detective with a slight question raising his brows.

“Yes. She’s dead. Did you kill her?”

Barnes didn’t react much, not as much as it seemed he might have. But his gaze didn’t waver from the detective’s. “No.”

“Did you find her?”

He nodded. “Saw her fall.”

“Was she dead when she fell?” They knew already the fall didn’t kill her.

“I don’t know. I just saw her falling.”

“Where did the blood come from?”

“The walls.”

“Excuse me?” No sooner had he said it than he caught his partner’s eyes across the room. “One moment,” he said to the old man. Or the not-so-old man. He crossed and bent his head to listen. He came back. Sat down. “Mr. Barnes, are you hurt? Are you bleeding?”

He shook his head.

“Do you mind if the medics have a look?”


The detective cleared his throat. “Because the blood didn’t belong to the victim. So it’s either yours, or there was somebody else here. Was there somebody else here?”

“I told you, Annabelle.”

“But Annabelle is dead. You said so..” He felt silly, but he humored the man.

“It was the walls.”

He sighed and sat back and studied Barnes. “I’m sorry, but I think you’re going to have to come with me.”

“Are you arresting me?”

“You’re our only suspect, Mr. Barnes.”

“That’s not my name.”

“No? It’s the name on the box. Is this your house?”

“Used to be.”

“But not now? What are you doing here, then?”

“I’ve always been here.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand, Mr.-”

She watched him from across the room. They’d been partners for the better part of a decade,  lovers almost as long. But he was slipping. She wondered if it would fall to her to write this incident up, and wondered if she’d have the balls to be honest this time. She doubted it.

She watched him speaking to the empty chair, stopping to scratch in his notebook.  The girl on the stairs was home alone, and it looked to be a straightforward accident. She tripped on the hem of her nightgown as she came down the stairs and broke her back when she fell. There was no blood. Only a dead girl, Mary Barnes.

I am a Writer

I’ve come to a pretty serious conclusion. It’s been a while in coming, but I had to be certain I wasn’t reacting emotionally to some shit that’s been going on. Turns out I’m not, or if I am, it’s the way it’s going to go and I need to deal with it, or be eaten alive by it.

I’m done with book promotion. Yes, my book (and those future volumes I have in mind to publish) will still be available for sale. But after the past six months of pushing, I got no push left. Yes, I wanted to enjoy some moderate success. I wanted to get my name out there, my words in front of as many people as possible. Yes, I wanted to make a little money. Why? Because, I love to write. I wanted to help my family by solving some of the stresses caused by never having quite enough. I was never looking to be rich and famous.

So I promoted. Here. On Twitter. In ‘Real Life.’ And I’ve netted about $20. I’m not being sarcastic, I am saying I am fucking proud of that. I’m a published author. This is success, the way I define it.

However, the book promotion, the seeking out reviewers, the being fucked over by Amazon, all this stuff, has not only discouraged and exhausted me, it’s taken away any time I had to actually create. Which is why I blog. I blog so I can share those little things I create, with an audience who cares.

On reviewing: I would love to have reviews written by anyone who feels so moved. And if you will send it to me directly, I will continue to grow the Review section of TDNC. I may even come up with a form to make it easy for those who feel compelled to share their opinions. And they don’t have to be positive (though I won’t post anything mean or nasty – my space, my rules 😉 ) Simply honest. The invitation is there, for any who are interested.

I’m a writer. Not a big publishing house. I will continue to do what I’m passionate about, and continue to share it with whoever will listen. And if I sell a book now and then? I’ll go buy myself a coffee and celebrate.

Friday Flash returns tomorrow! I hope to see you there.



You left behind
This beautiful beating thing
This heart
Rich and winged
Unsullied by brokenness
By meanness, hatred, vitriol
You looked away
For a moment, and it was gone
No longer yours
To watch or share
No longer something
For you to cherish, guard
You left behind
Kindness and generosity
The kind of love
Poets sing
And singers paint
And painters write
And writers bury inside
Whiskey and words-the jewelled
Tinges of fucking and romance
You had it in your hands
For a second
But you had better things to do
To see, to experience
Better than this, me
My gift to you-
But when you put it aside
You taught me something
About the soundness
Of love, the strength
Of a pure soul
I meant you no harm
I loved you with every part
And I am stronger
Ever more capable and deserving
Of better.


It ran down the insides of her thighs, branding her with pulsing life, an arterial red touch bleeding against sensitive skin. She was horrified. Horrified at the child fleeing her body.

Horrified at the look on his face before he turned away. Pale and scared- disgusted. Like he wanted to vomit. Like he was watching something unwatchable. He couldn’t look, and didn’t know enough to look away. He didn’t know enough to help, to know what she needed.

“Go clean yourself up, please,” was all he said.

How could he know? How could she blame him when she hadn’t yet told him about what they’d made? It wasn’t his fault, the not knowing. What was his fault was the not understanding what she needed. Never understanding her. Never even trying.

That. She blamed him for that.