This is where I exist:

An endless loop

Returning to itself,

Going forward,

Going back,

Swallowing my tail,

Eternal heaven and hell,

Never any slack,

Pushing toward

an abyssal shelf,

no chance to recoup,

simply subsist.


Find me


Find me lying
Lying under the snow.
A wishfully-thought peace
Of mind,
Don’t mind
How I go
But I would rather
Quick! Quick! Quick!
From life, not slow,
For little me
Who never learned to dance
For frightened me
Who never took the chance
For ugly me
Who ne’er accepted love
For stubborn me
Who wouldn’t change enough.
For all my loves
Whose love is just a loss
And finds me lying,
Lying under the snow
Stained dark throughout
And so whiteout
I go
With just one wish:
That I had the gumption
Daring, or even the snow
To accomplish

Your Something Means Something

Your Something Means Something - welltemperedbards.wordpress.com

I see you there
Blue eyes
Pink hair
Peaches’n’cream complexion
And looking like
Butter wouldn’t melt
Whilst I know
Beneath your
Picturesque perfection
Whirls a storm
Of wondering.
Wandering, adrift;
Mapless, or sometimes
Without signpost
And the gut instinct
That maybe
You’ve gotten lost.
Out it pours –
The many-pathwayed
Rush of thought,
Falling into words
In desperate bid to make
Of anything.
Of being.
Of being HERE.
Of being here and who and how
You are, and why
You make a difference.
Which you do.
For as you wander
(And wonder)
You leave a little trail
A smattering of breadcrumbs
A trail of glittering lamps
Within the gloom
Of unknowing
And gradually
With each brave step
You show a way
Of being
Because your Something
Means something
To someone.
Each day
You’re leaving
For others
To consider
Very few people (well, maybe more people than I think, in fact) tend to inspire poetry from me as instantly as this poem happened, but it happened anyway, in response to something my friend Rachel E. Bledsoe, of Misfits of a Mountain Mama, said.

Between the Lines

No Love Lost

And then there are those who get lost
Between the lines; whose lives transposed
In blood, and sacrifice of sanctity –
Of flesh –
Gouge runnels to avoid,
And yet create more, mess…

There are those whose anger bleeds
Turned inwards, for turned out t’would never cease
Or desist, and so ‘tis simpler then
To dig deep,
Watch red,
And be stilled when
It flows and pours away

And then those others whose bruised bones
Don’t shatter, bend, or break;
Whose rhythmic tones
Of thud-thud-thudding
Stay the course of action
To something worse?
To catatonia?

Or those whose muddled heads fill in
So quick with vengeant anguish at their sin
(Whomsoever’s the fault, they take it for their own)
And through disfigurement somehow disown
Their part, for transformed thus
By shame; by scars
Pathetic! Such a fuss
And all laid on their skin to no avail
Except now all can see how very
They fail.

Those white-tracked lines
Those faded, skin-sealed whispers
All combine
In permanent reminder of
This time
That time
One time
Again you cut;
You cut again!
All saw
You cut


Poetry can strike at any time, and on this occasion it was a submitted post over at Sisterwives – The Last Time I Cut – which was the culprit inspiration for this piece.

Each verse I wrote has applied to me in the past (sadly not as distant past as I would prefer to admit) and the lack of compassion therein is only extended to myself. Self-harm is bad news, because it often feels like the only way forward at times, and if you do it, please find someone you trust to talk to about it.