She’s No Lady – Published

She’s No Lady


Very happy to be published by Dissident Voice again. Please click the link to see it.


Poem#7 Pablo Neruda

This man’s poetry seduces me, he makes love

to my mind and my thinking.

Oh, to have been loved by such a man of

intelligence, passion and integrity.

His books are beside my bed, he exults me as

woman, as other to him. Words put together

as by a sorcerer enchant me. I yearn for love,

I yearn to have known Neruda, to have been

adored by him, to have been his muse.

A man of soul, of depth, of such passion,

he carries me away, as if in his arms, to a

place where love is mine. He reaches me,

oh Pablo Neruda, you undress me and reclothe

me, you draw me after you.

I so wish you still lived.



Sonnet Xvii Pablo Neruda

poet Pablo Neruda

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.


In Space, Spaced Out

Bones lose density without gravity

This is a serious matter, not to be taken lightly

Blood fails to reach the brain

We must bear this in mind

Space cannot be navigated by the light headed

The semi conscious, on a journey with a faint map

Think on this seriously, it is not a joke

Spaceships lost in the heavens is a hellish consequence

Sentient beings drifting half conscious is senseless

Concentrate your thoughts so that we do not scatter

Debris in the galaxies, cleverly made

And stupidly lost.


The Statue

He take her hands in his
she is warm to his touch
and smiles though she has tears.
He leans forward and kisses her
tasting her mouth, salt on her
face. He is hot, she is is soft
as his tongue is aflame, his
stomach ablaze. Snow falls
as she steps back, smiling again.
There are flowers to gather and
snow flakes to catch, she mustn’t
miss her bus.
He stands as she withdraws her
fingers from his fire she turns
to go, he is rooted to the spot,
water running off him as she
catches snowflakes in her basket
and poppies in her hair. She sings
softly a lullaby to herself. He is
planted where he stands, watching
as her hair fills with crimson, her
basket with cool white. Slowly
she makes her way, as his blood
turns to stone in him and he
will never move again. She steps
aboard her bus, she gazes toward
the statue that she touched. It is time
to return to the asylum.
8 January 2016