There are three in this marriage.
He’s not really here with me.
He’s in the room, but somewhere else;
where his mind takes him
varies from day to day.
It’s tragic how someone who serves
ends up being this way
There are three in this marriage.
Shut off from the world,
angry at everything,
staring at nothing.
No explanation seems reasonable,
no interim solution probable.
As my lover becomes more despondent
my self-doubt creeps in.
Have I been a good wife and correspondent?
There are three is this marriage.
Surely he’ll turn this mood around,
shake some of it off,
gradually come back to me;
or keep putting the mask on
for everyone to see.
I miss him so…
Damn the mistress, PTSD.


White as lilies that bloom in the spring
her innocence still proves true.
With hair as black as the ace of spades,
and eyes of sapphire blue.
Words emanating from ruby lips,
are of the kind one can’t disclose.
And when she nonchalantly passes by
you can taste the fragrance of rose.
Wearing a dress of toned taupe wool
that inspires the imagination;
heads turn to view her elegance
yet she demands no recognition.
But that rosy fragrance could bear a thorn,
and the wild tinge may not be tame.
Those exotic eyes of sapphire
could just be evil all the same.
For rare is beauty such as this,
and much deeper grows much colder.
Bearing in mind such elegance
rests on the eye of the beholder.


Children make us smile.

Children in their innocence
                make us content
                they’re heaven sent

Given to us like presents
                they make us smile
                so worth our while

Children in their naivety
                tear us apart
                can break a heart

Some live in depravity
                a world of wrath
                they still can laugh

Children reach their teenage years
                they know it all
                so far to fall

They cause us anger and tears
                we get grey hair
                it’s so unfair

Children drain our savings
                yes heaven knows
                that they need clothes

Trinkets and other cravings
                they cry and pout
                we go without

Careers and jobs take children far
                they’re up and gone
                their lives move on

They discover what life’s about
                they make mistakes
                realize the stakes

Children leave your side one day
                they’re on their own
                no longer home

Then we wish that they could stay
                what’s the hurry
                we fret and worry

Two old people in the park
                a baby cries
                tears in her eyes

Another life journey embarks
                they start so small
                leave when they’re tall

Children make us smile.

The Second Act of Shakespeare

Gazing down at dictionaries,
viewing mysteries above,
my eye does catch a dusty set
of books of lust and love.
And among these old memorial wrecks
I find a Romeo.
So turning to page ninety-eight
my thoughts reveal a show.
In the second act of Shakespeare,
in a scene so rare as old,
along with thee poor Montegue
layes a precious marigold.
In August 1936,
on a hot mid-summer’s day
our town-held yearly carnival
was well along its way.
When suddenly a fair young man
dressed very gallantly
picked, with care, a marigold
and presented it to me.
For five more months he courted me
and showered me with love;
yet at seventeen a girl’s naive
and knows not what war is of.
For one whole year my gracious gent
was gone fighting for his pride,
and once back home I finally said
that I’d be his future bride.
The second time my gent arrived,
with medals shining gold,
he once again presented me
with a dainty marigold.
And I placed it in this fairy tale
with such simple innocence;
and it’s difficult to comprehend
for I haven’t seen him since.
Now I stroke the precious gift
and kiss it with due care;
while closing up the dusty book
I decide to leave it there.
So in the second act of Shakespeare
in a scene so rare as old,
along with thee poor Montegue
lays my precious marigold.


The silent breeze caresses my hair,
I gaze out at the sea.
That’s where you are,
somewhere…out there,
oh please come back to me.
My mind plays continual tricks on me,
as clouds develop all around.
I search for your love,
somewhere out there,
yet true love can’t be found.
As my cloak and scarf contest the wind
the storm dominates the sky.
And I call for you,
somewhere, out there
only to hear my own anguished cry.
Once born at sea a man lives by the sea,
and so should a seaman’s wife.
If I could just see you again,
even somewhere out there
I would willingly trade my life.
I know how the sea has captured you,
and now it pins my aching heart.
It’s another world,
somewhere out there,
thus we remain two worlds apart.


At first he’s fine and laughing,
and then he’s laughing more,
while all the ones around him
are rolling on the floor.
But, then the laugh is silent
and his shoulders cease to shake.
There’s very little movement,
yet the laughter you can make.
A tiny chuckle sill is traced
within a distant frown,
and he tries so hard to smile
as spirits whither down.
Then laughter is so faintly heard
because of rising cries.
So smiles are overcome by rain
as the laughter dies.


I heard a song on the radio,
it was just the other day,
and I felt an ache in my heart
as it continued to play.
Roxy Music filled the emptiness
with the words to Avalon;
your arms around me at Jericho….
My eyes opened and you were gone.

Nights in White Satin, tears in my eyes
when I turn up the radio.
Memories tease my faithful heart
from a time so long ago.
I never realized that The Moody Blues
could trigger a moment’s pain,
and yet I wanted to call the station
to ask them to play it again.

I’m happy and my life goes on,
and I would never trade
between what you and I had once shared
and the life I have since made.
But then I’m lost in the voice of Benson,
singing Unchained Melody.
We’re slow dancing in the darkness
as I give in to the memory.

Last night I thought I heard your voice
as I turned out the bedroom light.
A message through Eric Clapton,
“You were wonderful tonight.”
I wished the song could’ve played again
for it was you I longed to see.
Whoever thought, after all these years,
you’d still be such a part of me.


The Love Bird sings a song of sweetness,
singing it strongly – the song has no weakness.
Clear and bright it will be forever,
fragile, like a crystal river.
Bright as light, clear as air,
the song creates stillness……everywhere.

In your eyes a sign of death,
a touch of frost floats on your breath.
Although its song is crystal clear
from where you stand you cannot hear.
Here, from the bushes within,
you cannot hear the Love Bird’s din.

In the mountains it rises to heaven above
when it sings its song of undying love.
Although its voice is full and clear
those of ill-repute shall never hear.
Stay! Come no closer; you’re too full of sin
that the song would die if you disturbed it within.


If the brick wall is up,
knock it down.
Climb over the wall of fear,
Together we’ll find a way.
                   I will hold your hand.

If the barricade blocks your path
push on through.
Open the door to clarity;
Together we’ll walk through it.
                   I am on your side.

If the water is too deep
stay in the boat.
Navigate the storm.
Together we’ll find the shore.
                   I will teach you to swim.

If the room is too dark
stop, breathe deeply.
Simply say my name.
I will guide you to the light,
                   and love you forever


No one knows what words can do,
they cut so deeply yet leave no bruise,
nothing tangible, no apparent clue,
no telltale signs of ritual abuse.
A prisoner in their own home,
living through each spiteful ruse.

Over time the words cut deeper,
and slowly normalize the oppression.
Object, sex symbol or housekeeper?
Criticized for any mere transgression.
No one hearing the crying
while sinking deeper into depression.

Truth, lies and false realities
all become inter-twined,
with erroneous credibilities,
looking free but quite confined.
They believe the unbelievable
while they slowly lose their mind.

The battered, they have lost their voice,
there’s a freedom they can’t conceive,
yet they have the power to make a choice
and the fortitude to believe.
Not only will they love again,
but loves themselves enough to leave.


I really don’t want to be here,
but where else can I go?
It’s best to keep the mask on
so no one else will know.
I can hide my insecurities
and bury my depression;
I’m getting good at changing face,
at smiling and supression.
I take a somewhat guarded stance
with this crown I now discern,
with the fear of being centre-stage,
from their comments and concern.
It’s easy to be invisible
and blend into the wall,
to continue like I’m busy,
yet getting nothing done at all.
What would they all think of me
should they see through my charade?
Would they understand my plight,
or think that they’ve been played?
Some days I’m so close to tears;
it’s hard to hold them back.
I hope nobody notices
as I fade into the black.


I think she knows about us.
I can’t do this anymore.
Please, don’t say another word,
as we’ve said it all before.

Maybe she will understand
my dilemma and confusion.
She’s so much my reality
while you are the illusion.

I want to stay, but have to go,
yet you know I might be back.
Although she’s my inspiration
you’re my aphrodisiac.

Please, don’t force me to choose
between what is love and lust.
Don’t lecture me on commitment,
nor on fidelity and trust.

I’m choosing to walk out the door,
you need no reasons why.
Please, don’t say another word
as I try again to say goodbye.


As the clock chimes in the hallway
she tries to lift her early head,
yet nothing feels as quite secure
as the comforts of her bed.
While the wind rattles all the windows,
(it’s much louder than it seems),
the rain beats constant on the roof
and she drifts in and out of dreams.
In the world beneath her covers
she can feel his warm embrace,
and she wanders throughout her fantasy
though she cannot discern a face.
When she awakens in the darkness
she then feels the aching pain.
There’s no one there to talk to.
and the clock chimes once again.
She’s afraid to remain awake too long
in such a room of quietude,
so she tries to succumb to the dreams again
to relieve the distressing mood.
The silence around her intensifies
while she waits for her journey to start.
The sound of the rain is deafened
by the pounding of her heart.
She truly wishes she had someone
with which to share her empty home,
as nothing sounds so empty
as the sound of being alone.


Like an ocean,
he surrounds me,
always there to revive,

He has so may parts
yet I view him as whole.
Lost in his vastness
I discover my soul.

Like an ocean

I feel his breath on my neck,
his body taunting me.
I try to escape,
but he captures me.

He guides me through currents
only to drown me with love.
He’s like an ocean,
and I surrender
in a riptide of emotion.

Like an ocean

He pulls me under
and there’s so much to sea;
even the darkness
possesses such beauty.

And he loves me,
Like an ocean.


I take my daughter down to the park swing,
allowing myself to feel free today,
not wanting to think about anything.
Setting feet in the sand to watch her play;
my definition of a perfect day.
Witnessing innocence is beautiful,
my heartstrings so joyously feel the pull.
I know I am blessed, over and above.
This moment in time I live by no rule,
for I feel nothing but a mother’s love.


Abstract an issue, no definition,
pulled back by the nativity of thought,
to rely on just imagination.
Between a fake and real world they are caught,
with limitations of how they are taught.
True happiness radiates on their face,
as they see the world as a perfect place.
Those just like us, yet they have special needs;
others judge in an attempt to efface.
They, their own hero for the simple deeds.


The dinner party went well tonight,
(except for the wine that had spilled).
Although his friends extended compliments
he feels nowhere near fulfilled.
Overwhelmed with such emotion
as he looks down at the glove,
he knows what he is experiencing
is some divergent form of love.
To gain control of these perplexing thoughts
is a task he must try to learn.
He did not want her here tonight,
yet how he wishes she’d return.
Grazing the glove against his cheek
he can smell the perfume of rose,
and he then embarrassingly finds himself
conceiving her beauty without clothes.
He had stood discreetly behind her tonight
just to smell that sexy perfume;
and now he relaxes back into his chair
to let her presence take over the room.
As of yet, no one is suspicious
of these thoughts inside his head;
how much he needs to possess her,
how badly he wants her in his bed.
Her luscious hair, provocative eyes,
and her soft inviting lips…
He loved the way that dress tonight
displayed the curving of her hips.
The thought of her breasts against him
fills him with a searing sense of greed,
and acknowledging the lonely night ahead
just intensifies the aching need.
How can he even expropriate
or express his undying love?
He then strokes the delicate fingers
he so wishes were in the glove.
When she discovers that it’s missing
she’ll probably decide to call;
but he will deny and keep the glove
just to have that over nothing at all.
Knowing he has to rid of these thoughts
and start living a normal life
is difficult, because the woman he loves
happens to be his best friend’s wife.


Across a misty smoked-filled room
I glimpse her silhouette,
bound by webs of uncertainty
no man has broken yet.
I show no heed to my surroundings
engulfed by oppressing beauty,
and I seize my breath as she inspects my way,
although her eyes glance just beyond me.
Fictitious tales have drown my ears
of this widow I now discern.
Men who succeed the widow’s heart
are known to not ever return.
Her poise outlines such purity,
yet she bears the devil’s claws.
She extends no explanations
for her actions deem no cause.
I find myself so mesmerized
from the intensity of my stare
that I descry her just in moonlight
as if it were all she had to wear.
My heart belabours like a drum
as I stiffen in my trance;
for I view through all the hazy air
the reward on my awing glance.
So candid are my intensions,
my confidence I need not redeem,
and I approach this beautiful creature
fully aware of the final scene.


My darling, William Jonathan
it’s now two years to the day
since I got the tragic news
that you had passed away.
I still can’t bear the story,
my darling, William Jon,
that you, my soldier husband,
are not alive, but gone.

It was there in simple writing,
addressed to a widowed wife,
that one Mr. William Jonathan
had bravely lost his life.
That under clouds in far off skies
on a foreign dusty plain,
a soldier, by the name of Bill
was found among the slain.

As it comes on like a vision,
I cannot help but smile
at the memories I’ll always have
to make life worth the while.
And yet my darling, Billy Jon,
as it’s somewhat done in vain,
I ask the good Lord, truth be damned,
to rid me of this pain.

So handsome in your uniform
among the cheering crowd,
arm in arm we strolled along,
the band was playing loud.
My darling, William Jonathan,
it’s only now that I can say,
how truly proud I was of you
on that beautiful summer day.

You kissed me when the time had come
for you to board the train.
I could only hold you close to me
as I could not withstand the pain.
The other women also cried
as the engines started turning.
I just stood there feeling lost,
my soul within me burning.

As the days would slowly pass
I’d start to feel the worst.
I couldn’t help but give in and cry
as sadness was there first.
Yet, finally I showed my hope
and I no longer cried,
but then the whole world fell on me
I found out you had died.

Two years have come and left us now,
my darling William Jon,
since I got the tragic news
that you are really gone.
And there’s our son you haven’t seen,
of course you never will.
A lovely boy, with eyes so blue;
his name is also Bill.

I will make you proud of him
as I was proud of you,
and he will kneel and pray with me
as I will always do.
And as the minutes tick away
and days and months pass on,
I promise to always love you,
my darling, William Jon.