A daubed memory:
a singular tin soldier
stands guard in the rain.
A stained memory:
battles wage with wooden swords
in an oak’s shadow.
A scrubbed memory:
a voice sings through lightning bugs,
it’s time for dinner!
A lost memory:
weapons resign in the grass;
the foe dissipates.
© 2016 Stellular Scribe
A paper title
taped in neon on my back;
read by all but me.
© 2016 Stellular Scribe
Take back your feathers,
for I’m too heavy to fly.
You’re too fast for me.
© 2016 Stellular Scribe
Such sweet melody,
unchallenged by time and tear —
so is love’s caress.
© 2015 Stellular Scribe
Splitting the heavens,
a deluge of might and right —
so shall be my reign.
A tempest of time
governed by the clouds’ reach —
a gale without drain.
Ripe with roars and blasts,
thunderous they’ll swarm to aid —
marching with my strain.
If I were a star,
would the night tide notice me-
a dust mite in dusk?
In a sea of suns,
how can one speck stir the sky?
Am I bright enough?
Untied by time’s touch,
sun and stone and sky and sea
become kin to me.
Here the mountains sing
softly, like a brother’s hymn-
humming, I listen.
I watch life unfold
from my seat up in the stars,
distant, but not far.
Sometimes it’s painful
to think that book characters
aren’t in phone books.
Fantasy, I think,
is reality saying,
“Look how I could be.”
Books aren’t escapes;
they’re mirrors of what we know-
just more exciting.
I think that it’s cruel
how fiction has a way of
slashing my heart out.
Each word is drawn red,
torn from my heart, raw and wet-
I bleed on the page.
Just a short haiku for today. I was inspired to write this when I came across the Ernest Hemingway quote: “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”
Nothing but paper,
crumpled up and tossed away-
used and rejected.
Leafed through and let loose,
I sift through the wind’s hair
as my contents clear.
Erased and released,
my words are tossed off, for I’m
nothing but paper.
Stellular Scribe 
