Cnaejna’s Song

Come with me to the skylines of Chicago, New York, London.

I am rejected by God for good reason but come with me.


See the steeple, pierced deep and dimpled down between the

Steel and glass scrapers of the sky that are dark now like me.


Take my hand and feel the ice cold sorrow of what life is for me

I’ll allow you to think that you can save me.


I’ve seen so many years, so many attempts at power and vindictiveness.

I didn’t relinquish my hope of heaven for any of these.


Violence and its shock do not soften by its frequency -not for me.

Is that why you can pity me?


My motive was to live.  My motive is to feel.  My desire is now.

Listen to my siren voice if reason cannot defeat fear.


She did shine like a star even as a child.  Her green eyes glowed and her

Red hair was brilliant like the sun and the mist could not defeat her.


I summoned her like all young girls that had potential to survive the

Long years of life and the idea of hell in the end.


But she loved. She loved impossibly and I knew but he did not until

The end.


Such girls are wasted on men, wasted on love.  I was her escape to leave

Pain, gain knowledge and learn a wandering, wailing peace.


Come with me to the skyline of London, the dark murky shadows and

Man’s pitiful attempts at lighted darkness.


Come with me to set her free or to end me.  For she has chosen

Her enemy in me; neither of us beautiful, neither seeking peace.


Come with me to feel the vibrations of life’s power on which I feed.



The Love of Silence

Take heart for the cold of hatred is brief in fury

Though I would prefer the cold of nature to bury.

Take heart for the cold of hatred is brief in fury

Though I would prefer the cold of nature to bury.

I have heard of such places, the wind wicked cold

The water hard, so hard it cuts.  My sister, my sister,

Who lives there prays by the fire that keeps the winter at bay.

The men of that country, she says, glide upon the water

The water takes all the men away and they sail beyond the sun.

The water, all fresh and cold and haunted keep the men away.

She sits there and talks to God and speaks to Him about me.

My sister, says she to God, will know of me some day.

Our children are of one or the other; for me in their graves

For her never started.  We say little of their missing laughter

We say little of their missing sisters, brothers, and their play,

While in the daytime as she spins the thread that twists and curls

And I weave the nights away.

My sister steps out of her old stone house and listens to the rain

In Spring, while I listen to the sand and heat slide in a secret sacred way.

She thinks of me in the dry seasons and she prays.  I walk beneath

The dome of the universe and sing to the man that once shared

This cape of love with me – and listen to what God says she prayed.

During the day, while in the heat I let salt water drip from my eyes,

Once brilliant, clear, in pools white as milk and my husband would gaze at me

Amazed.  My sister has never known such love, such passion.  I have

Never known her days of silent peace.  We pray for one another.

We keep faith with God and wait to know the day we meet.

I will teach her to weave and love, she will teach me the love of silence.


Talking Pens, Traitor Pencils

Don’t stop trying

and then the pens all laugh in unison as the papers dishevel themselves.

I know very little discipline and animated, inanimate, man-made animals.

I pray that the pencils will speak to a wily and sneaky snake but I feel they have already fallen from grace since they are man-made.

I lay out my clothes at night and try not to think of wolves at the door and being late.

Always, always I fear the light, the heat,

the roof will disappear as my parents certainly taught me. It will happen if I did not assert myself.

Thinking of writing,
I’ll be honest there are times I think I cannot tap the keyboard and watch the letters bounce into the dullness of gray weather and me wonder where the Countess Olenska has gone.

Where has the Bohemian gone?  The ones who could afford to be poor and fail so admirably?

Oh, the deep cut wit of a slower world and the upper world of who knows what.  Certainly, their fountain pens did not talk, their pencils did not lie.

No, of course not.


No Make Believe

Makes little difference to me, the lifting wind that brushes the sun darken oak leaves up. The sylvan world moves from dark to light in shifting shades of green-

Makes little difference to me, the lifting wind that brushes the sun darken oak leaves up. The sylvan world moves from dark to light in shifting shades of green-

Means little to me.

I care not for the song of the lark or the longing flight of the cardinal for his mate. The scarlet dark against the shifting green all directed by who knows what; so why care for the cause of a hidden effect?

I could care less.

And I do not mind the boom of guns nor the crack of the whip that separates me from those I should love. What does their life matter as I have been taught that only my life should revolve my world?

What matters the words written that saves souls?

I think little of peace or what contentment is and soon all theses distractions I mention will falter due to lack of attention.

How could the world continue to spin without my permission?. Oh, and by the way, I most certainly don’t believe in evil.


Dance for Me

A turbid small puddle of whatever mirrors the dim lights of centuries ago – no, no perhaps just a block or two away, the lights and no time sways.

A turbid small puddle of whatever mirrors the dim lights of centuries ago – no, no perhaps just a block or two away,  the lights and no time sways.

But time is more distant than the miles we count.

Leave be the mud of place and cleanse you with the ideas of where your mind has taken you.

I’m left here to contemplate the depthlessness of this place because centuries from now, I’ll read about it.

I hear you dance about me upon the grimy cobblestones.  Who do you hold in your arms and how does she keep the hem of her dress pristine?

I scribble away upon this wooden box, a quill and an endless supply of ink.

I begged for the writing box on a birthday so many years ago, and I’ve followed you about sketching out your life of beauty and gentle love.

How is it you haunt me?

How is it that I cannot push you away despite the many distractions I beg for each day.

I want nothing, nothing from you and yet if I could, I would ask you to stay.

Dance for me.

Dance for me.

Take her slender body in your arms and gently lead to music that I can only imagine, in a room of marble and admiration. In the end, my envy and depravity will exhaust my efforts and I will sell my foolscap upon the corners.

A word picture of you in the lush white of winter immortalizing, in physical beauty, the lies of the age.


Art and Photography

At last

At last
Photography has become the accuser of Art.
Paint it as you see it and let’s have at the discourse that’s a trap, a humiliation.
But now photography has come to the rescue — we can blur the vision as water onto the page bleeding ink into a smear.
We then can decide that no one is wrong, everyone is right according to the dictates of their heart.
The human picture is gone in stark reality and we refuse to see it. So smear the oils real or electronic and refuse to speak the truth
We really have missed the obvious in art (never was Art) and photography. The human has disappeared.

Pillar of Salt

never has

Regret found you

Roger’s City and Alpena

The sunrise side

Of cold, cold mourning

Head down, no warning.

Mists of Huron

A grip so soft

yet so unrelenting –

What lies of

Beautiful dreams

Do you have for me now?

What passion

Can you wrench from

Me so as to mock

The salt that I am

And you,

You Huron, are not.

Never have you turned

Around, never has

Regret found you

Above sin, above passion

Like being in love

With a marble


And I love you.

Sincerely, I do.