Slow muscles. Vital. Tiny muscles. Vital.

Talking to you. Vital.

In a new way. Vital.

Finding the way. Vital.

Finding the words. Vital.

This way, a different way. Vital.


From the heart. Vital.

From the Soul. Vital.

Twisting and turning. Leaping and lurching. Vital.

Dark and torturous. Light and sweet. Vital.


Finding my way. Vital.

Tracing my steps.

Unspooling my thread.

All vital.


This other language. Vital.

From the looking glass. Vital.

Over the rainbow. Vital.

Through the mists. Vital.


A song to hear, a vision to see, a heart to hold.


Only in this way. Vital.

The portal opens,

The key unlocks,

The puzzle fits.


Only in this way.

Only in this place.



The pleasure is found.

The stories unfold.

The power surges.

Only in this place. Vital.

Keep writing – in this place.



You know. You know.

Like the blind one finding her way.

Like the taste of the wind.

Like the dog on a scent.

You know. You know.


The magic happens.

The magic happens.

The magic happens.


In this place.



Skins I Have Worn 

What is the story whispering at my shoulder tonight? Circling at the entry like a hungry dog, begging to be let in. What woman weeps, waiting for her turn, like a wraith at the crypt?

What is the password she must speak, before she flows out onto the paper, like so much ink?

Whose voice swirls in the abyss, waiting for her turn, her number to be called?

They are circling the well, the eye of the needle, waiting to come thru.

These are the skins I have worn. These are the women I have been.

Come join me this evening. Come sit at my table and tell me your tale. My tea is hot, my hands are warm. And the paper drinks up the ink of your stories like red wine.

There is an old story, a new story.   Echoing into the chamber. Bouncing off walls.  Like flint and fire. And in the mist dissolving, a shape takes form. Perhaps she is known and perhaps not. Perhaps she speaks with that voice, and perhaps a new one.

I feel her breathing behind the door, whispering, “Let me thru.”

The image drops into the slot, like a giant bingo game.


White Knight

When I was younger, so much younger than today, I lived with a man. Not an ordinary man, it turned out. A drug dealer it turned out. Though I didn’t know it at the time.

One night, in a fit of fury, because I’d tossed his baggie in the street, his white powder in the street.

He picked me up. Not in that romantic way. Not in that fairy tale way. And carried me to a window. An open window. And threatened to throw me out.

That I went back to him afterwards colors my world.