Poem Updatetetetetete!

Whelp, I certainly have been keeping a bit busy workshopping my previous poems, getting them whipped into shaped thanks to my writers’ club feedback and critique. So below this are links to three more short poems that have received the ol’spit’n polish. As usual, all and any feedback, comments and such are more than welcome. Cheers! 


This Dance
Came A Deer (previously Spoke The Deer)
Ivory Memory (previously Ivory God)


Simulacrum in G Minor

Oshora knows the feel of ivory. Her slender fingers barely brush the keys of the black piano, only enough for her sense of touch to be set alight. This. This feels like a dream. The room is large and bare. There are no flat walls, only a long, uninterrupted, curved wall that wraps the place in its cocon of plaster and white paint. Cracks on the surface spider at random intervals, creating rivers of decay between large swaths of pristine nothingness. The room’s domed ceiling is made of glass. Light pours in, washing the room’s centre with its radiance. The piano is the black hole at its center, swallowing the light so the edges of the room are bound by shadows.

It suits Oshora. Her mind is at the tip of her fingers, dropping thoughts over the piano’s keys. A melody stirs awake from some corner of memory, untangling itself from the bondage of her own forgetfulness. Air is slowly sucked in, the dust motes stir in the air as the light shows their ceaseless dance.

The piece begins to unfold itself from the piano and out into the room. Oshora’s heart beats with each note as falling light shimmers over her slender figure and, for a brief moment at least, nothing else matters.


She abruptly pulls back from the piano. Gasping, her chest rises and lowers as she stares at it. The keys still move, continuing to fill the space with melody for a moment and then, as it began, it stops. Timidly, Oshora half turns.

“I was just playing a bit…no one else was using it.”

An older woman dressed in white metallic robes looks at Osha with narrow eyes. “You know the rules: you need a healer to be with you at all times in case you need assistance.”


The older woman’s eyes become less narrow and some wrinkles form on the corners of her mouth.

“It’s such a lovely day outside, and you need your fresh air. Come.”

She turns around and glides smoothly across the floor. Oshora follows her, glancing back briefly to the now-mute piano.  As she steps out of the room, her arms flicker then disappear.

Piano Man


“Order coming up! Cheeseburger with fries on the side, hold the mayo!”

The plate went from the server station to the wrinkled hands of Gracie, the waitress, a veritable veteran of thirty years at Lou’s Diner. She could balance four plates on her hands and forearms at once when the place was packed. Which was never nowadays. 

“Thanks, hon. Customer at table five was starting to give me the lazy eye, if y’get me.”

Frank grunted in acknowledgement, going back to work on a backed up order of chicken and waffles (not too oily). He was thinking of the letter that arrived today.

Rejected again. Fucking Hell. 

Without warning he gave the stove’s bottom a swift kick that made a loud clanging noise.Squeaky sneakers were heard approaching over the black and white tiled floor. A moment later Gracie peeked into the kitchen window with a suspicious look, “Jesus, Frank, you fall or something?!”

With a shrug Frank just dipped the chicken into the frier. Filling the cramped kitchen with smoke and the sound of sizzling. Gracie stared at him briefly before clicking her tongue and going back to serving the tables. She was in no mood to humor one of his foul moods tonite.

Frank gripped the frier’s metal handle tight with his right hand, the surge of anger was slowly subsiding. Nothing more to do but write to them again. With a sigh he pulled out the chicken from the hot oil.


The moon was high in the sky as he walked home, after closing time, to his little shoebox apartment in an old brick building that had seen better times once, long ago. When he opened the door and walked in he cracked a faint, tired smile.

“At least I have you.”, he placed a hand over the keys of a small piano, snuggled in a corner of his tiny studio apartment. Pulling a bench in front of it, he sat down and started to play Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata.

Yes. He would write again. And again. And again.


The ivory keys of the piano stared in silence at Francesco. He could not play for the life of him. Murmurs began to rise like a tide among the crowd. A lone spotlight shone down, bathing him under its harsh light; the stage was set for his confession. Lupanaro had been right all along: he could only perform after he got his fix. His chemical muse had been taken away, and left him a frightened ruin of a man. If only the sweat cascading from under his chin could drown him.