These Stones: a poem

i let myself fade to you
knowing the anchor is not through

it presses upon my hollow chest
no will to fight or protest

it dares me not to cry
as I push back the ache with an empty sigh

my head swirls, words circling, once again falling prey
as the rapture returns with its needful intent to slay

haunted by my own thoughts and the words you slur
from frustration and stubborn pride we both continually stir

resentment and desire to throw it all away, gives us constant whiplash this thing we promised
never to betray

what lies beneath us, the darkness that makes you and I
has always been our savior, never to stray away from or lie

yet we are challenged it seems every day
to embrace what we have, instead slipping further and further away.

i know not what rests in your head
if you’ve willed it away or wished it dead

as for me I cannot explain this bond refusing to break
perhaps fate found me you to cure this ache

or maybe a stepping stone for my soul to mend
from the torture I’ve caused it, unsure how to bend

or perhaps I to you to show you the way
beyond the path you thought you’d stay

or maybe the tool to purge a mind
from all that baggage trailing behind.

so when i let myself numb the world and think of you
the first thought I have is were your words true

from all that we’ve shared
it was always obvious to me just how much we cared

but it’s hard for me to accept that we have failed
after chartering waters neither of us have sailed.

how can we just let it all go after having the courage to let the most darkest pieces of ourselves
show?

emotions can be such a powerful drug
that can force us to push feelings under a rug

or cause us to act in disarray
react or say things we don’t mean to say.

insecurities own us, blind us to what’s really there
prisoners to our minds, stripping us bare.

i know this thing I feel is something all together new.
it’s that thing inside that keeps pulling me to you.

there it is the world, coming back into view
i push my thoughts away again, as I repeatedly do.

bewitching happenstance: a poem

She knew all along
it was there
dormant yet waiting
to kiss the wanton air
to dance out of the darkness
to own the light
to taste every demon
and soar in its delight

one day twas happenstance
he came along
singing to her soul
a bewitching song
that linked to every emotion
she’d hid life long

each fiber within came awake
silently beckoning for him to embrace
what she knew she always wanted
but too scared to face

grief

i know not the lengths of this journey as time, unbeknownst to me, shall likely coil it’s precious and vile moments within the ruptures of my brokenness.

hear the tumultuous cries but leave me to dance in my seemingly motionless state

watch me glare into nothing yet as if the narration of my life is before me

grant me this nirvana where I shall run to the shadows for solace to bleed, to smile, to weep to laugh, to burn, to soar…

image of “Grief” taken from Rock Creek Cemetery in Washington DC. Sculpture created by Augustus Saint-Gaudens and listed on National Register of Historic Places. To read more about its elusive history read on…

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adams_Memorial_(Saint-Gaudens)

Poe Places: An historical East Coast journey in the footsteps of Edgar Allan Poe: Baltimore

It’s taken me over three years thus far to travel up and down the East Coast in search of the places entwined with the history of poet and writer, Edgar Allan Poe. His works have been such an inspiration to my own pen muse and he birthed my love of poetry. And since I’m OCD about everything, it makes perfect sense to divulge in every place Mr. Poe once lived, visited or has some historical tie to. Right? Right.

Edgar was born in Boston, Massachusetts to David and Elizabeth Poe. He had two siblings, older brother Henry and sister Rosalie. The children at a young age found themselves parentless as their father abandoned them and at the age of three, Edgar’s mother, a then actress in Richmond, Virginia, died of tuberculosis. The children were then separated. Henry was sent to live with his paternal grandparents in Boston, Rosalie to the McKenzie’s of Richmond and Edgar was adopted by John and Frances Allan, also of Richmond, Virginia.

While the places I have visited thus far are all of importance and have their own individual connection to Poe, they are not in historical order and notably the states of New York and Massachusetts I have yet to be visited which I hope to do in the future.

This stop brings me to the home of the Ravens…Baltimore, Maryland. Poe left quite a legacy to this bustling city so much so they honor his memory by naming their NFL team after one of his most popular poems. Poe spent a lot of his life here and fate it seemed was deemed the place for him to die.

My first stop had to be the most notable place that Baltimore offers. His grave.

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What more fitting a place for Poe’s final resting place than that of Westminster Hall, a converted gothic style church built above Westminster Burying Ground, creating catacombs. Upon discovering them I was disappointed that time wasn’t allowing me the opportunity to take one of the tours that the church offers.

Not only is Poe buried here but his wife Virginia and her mother Maria Clemm as well. Historically however Poe originally was buried in the back of the church grounds in an unmarked grave that today has a stone memorializing his original resting place. However just like all things Poe, rumors grew of the accuracy of the move. To read more about it, check out http://www.eapoe.org.

Because I’m a geek when it comes to Poe, I already knew this upon entering the church yard and knew exactly where to go hunting for the original memorial. Some other fans that happened to be there at the same time as myself, clearly weren’t as obsessed….errrr prepared as I was and didn’t have this little tid bit of information so naturally I offered to show them. My daughter took a picture of me guiding the tourists so as to memorialize my Poe geek status reaching its all time high. And no, I will not share it. Grrrrr. But I will show you where I took them.

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Because I have a natural love for cemeteries, not only was I snapping multiple pictures of the grounds but I found words brewing and wrote this as I came upon this corner with the broken stones.

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The church and the grounds were quite lovely and offered a moment of solitude amidst the extremely busy streets of downtown Baltimore that pretty much nearly swallow it.

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Located on the same street as the church just a short drive up the road is what is left of the home that Edgar lived in along with his Aunt and wife while in Baltimore.

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Operating now as a museum by the Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore, the home was built around 1830 and was originally rented by Edgar’s aunt, Maria Clemm along with her mother, her daughter Virginia and Edgar. Poe left his family here however around August of 1835 moving to Richmond, Virginia where he’d been taken on as editor for the Southern Literary Messenger. Around this same time Ms. Clemm’s mother died resulting in a shortage of money and the family was faced with being unable to cover rent. Another family member having heard of their circumstances offered to take her and Virginia in but Edgar hearing the news and perhaps fearing he would lose his family, wrote a heartfelt letter proposing to Virginia at which she accepted and the family was rejoined in Richmond. Check out the emotional letters here. Good stuff. You won’t be disappointed.

http://www.eapoe.org/works/letters/p3508290.htm

The tour of the house includes poems and short stories that Poe wrote while in Baltimore, facts about his life and death and features Poe’s chair, lap desk and telescope. The room in which the items are set up is thought to be the room that he would have slept in so yeah of course, I was needing my salts. To think I was in the same room as the macabre master had once laid his head and no doubt dreamt up who knows how many of his short stories humbled me. It was surreal. Well, for me. And yeah, I stood there for a bit soaking the moment in.

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Upon leaving his home I went next to the Edgar Allan Poe Room at The Enoch Pratt Free Library and to say I was blown away by the appearance of the library itself is an understatement. The architecture geek in me was bleeding a smile. But I’ll refrain from getting sidetracked and sharing the gazillion pictures I took once inside.

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Dedicated to Poe on the 125th anniversary of his birth, The Edgar Allan Poe Room is in essence an exhibit of letters, memorabilia, and a copy of a daguerreotype of Poe by Thomas Corner. It is used as a meeting room and this is where my OCD kicked in when upon arriving I discovered it remained locked unless it was being used and was not typically open to the public. Obviously that wasn’t acceptable. I mean hello. So the determined five foot three inches Poe fiend went searching until I found the biggest security guard I’d ever seen. I smiled and told him without using said words such as geek or stalking or obsessed that I would like to see inside the Poe Room. He gave me a look over, grinned and said “for a just few minutes, follow me.” Ahhhhh and the rebel wins again!

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After snapping pictures like a bat out of hell and speed rushing through my oooooh’s and ahhhhh’s I thanked the very kind giant and continued my journey. I couldn’t help but think he was probably saying “another crazy white girl.” under his breath. I giggled. Yep. No doubt I fit that bill.

Although Poe lived quite some time in Baltimore, many of the places that had a connection with him have over the years been demolished, so those places I skipped this trip as their quite a few. But I got them written down in my trusty notebook aka Poe app. Yes. Poe app. Nevermind that. So lots of pictures of what now might be Taco Bell’s and laundry mats is in my future next trip.

I saved the saddest for last. The site where he died. Such a shame I didn’t have any of my paranormal investigation tools back then. Just saying. At his time this was the location of Washington College Hospital where he was brought after being found near dead on a street nearby. Four days later he was dead. Many stories surround the hospital including kidnapping and body snatching. Of course. You can read an in-depth article about it here. http://www.eapoe.org/balt/poechh.htm

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Thanks so much for reading and please make sure to check out my other write ups as I journey up and down the East Coast to feed my need. The struggle is real…

J

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A picture is worth a thousand thoughts…

I do love when I stumble upon an image that stops me in my tracks. An image that is fueled with so many different emotions where the words just start screaming at me to come out. Below is one just image that will stick with me for a while followed by the words it evoked. The power of art, words and music and the beautiful path where they meet where imagination is born, inviting us on an epic journey…

 

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a bitter heart shall eat it’s owner

to embrace the knowledge

with the pain

shall lead

to the acceptance of that which

we haven’t the power to change…

J

 

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taste this poison in me

this massacre of years of love

besieging pieces once pure

my wanderlust of exquisite self destruction

J

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this world

battling constant choices

listening and derailing a million voices

blistering my mind

how I easily become confined

trust, a virtue I never seem to find its core

most times thinking but a folklore

words deceiving

eyes almost always reveiling

in silence I live

unsure how to give

a constant let down

just when I begin to think I found my crown

resolving to stay away

protecting what’s left from continued decay

J

 

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to the depths of your flame

a madness of lust fueled by your words

a journey past my every breaking point

in pieces I wait…

J

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

my black sun: a poem

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my black sun

how I swoon

as your shadows embrace me

becoming this phantom veil

obscuring the world to this beast

that hides within

and your touch,

your touch

like a tornado meeting a hurricane

the two caught in a trance

both unsure

of relinquishing power to the other

to begin the decent

into the sweet oblivion

where the twisted world we imagine

comes to life between each breath

that is only our utopia

J

 

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Sinful Sunday: ~Propensity~

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for him her thoughts wander

his voice a haunting desire

for he is a propensity to her mind

beyond her flesh he penetrates

evoking a darkness

where only possession will

stoke the salacious fire

beneath her modest smile

J

 

click on the lips to see who else is playing…
Sinful Sunday

the hunter: a poem

 

this piece I wrote some time ago for a writing competition for me had a singular meaning but I discovered quickly as other’s read it, it took on a mirage of meanings and that for me, was a beautiful thing…I wonder what you’ll take from it…

the hunter

Her ivory awaking
an unseemly ache
a crazed fire in his belly
as she stood,
his for the taking

his damnation to defile
peering in awe
unable to turn away
nor a desire to withdraw

a beast in the night
in wait he hid
to profile her steps
with calculating motive
behind every movement he did

for soon the moment would come
to stake his claim
how he dreamt of that second
to relieve his pain

J

 

a walk with you…a poem

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she still thinks of a time when
beneath a crimson moon
upon a path laced with secrets
spilled a desire
a likeness she found in your eyes
to a fire
a flame that scorched
the blackest of dreams
sedating the demons
for a moment’s walk with you

~J~