Soul on Fire

[The title for this poem was inspired by the Ferdinand Foch quote, “The most powerful weapon on earth is the human soul on fire,” as quoted recently by The Better Man Project Blog (here). Everything else is my own.]

First, the recurring
Exposure. The residual
Re-experiencing of a scene
Witnessed. Directly.
Lived. Personally.

The correlating stress:
Reactive. Dissociative.
Persistent. Intrusive. A heightened

A diagnosis: internalized.
Acutely disordered. Insecure.
Inhibited. Restricted social
Engagement. Avoidant attachment.

She is remembering her
Self. Her soul is
On fire and this
of words
can’t describe the inflammation
caused by the friction
of her
still burning


Wrestling with Owls

Words- flung forward into
Sunshine days
With force enough
To slice through
fear, yet still too fleeting
To last longer than the shadows that stretch
Across the lawn- will wither
wilt, melt away, so


with the owls
over moonbeams meant for

Hieroglyphic footprints
Where the snow
Forgot to melt

Through the window
The breath
Of summer nights
Hung bright with lights, when
Laughter collapsing
Into sighs
Escaped our hungry lungs.


Seven Things Poem // Versatile Blogger Award


So, I was recently nominated for the versatile blogger award. Instead of listing seven things about myself as the rules suggest, I decided to write a poem that articulates seven things about me and then I accidentally included more than seven things because- what can I say?- sometimes I get carried away. Anyway. Here is the poem.

Seven Things and then Some

Youngest in a family of
six and a native
of New England, she prefers the quiet
Grey of dawn to the
Deep silence of
Midnight. She sleeps with windows open and dreams
in German, but speaks
With her eyes and laughs
Like a child. She
Delights in the magic of
A good view, is held captive by
The grasp
Of a baby’s fist and when the world
Feels hazardous, she soothes
Her soul with the strings
Of her guitar.


Snow Day

Snowflakes slam

against red brick and bare

feet roam the hardwood

floors. The rasping rustle

of pages being turned drowns out

the memory of soft honey hands

holding handfuls of hair in a mutually forceful

act of fusion; an attempt to feel

the sweet burden of exposure

forgetting the step when we look into

each other’s eyes and accept

the risk of a beating


snow day