In the space where trust is forged and built,
A dominant’s actions speak louder than words,
Intentions can flicker, but truth remains still.
If they ignore your “no,” heed their stance,
An apology is fleeting, just smoke in the air,
Believe in the actions, not a mere chance.
The cold November wind brushes bones and skin,
rolling off Naadowewis with a chill sharp as glass,
pushing through fog with a restless, relentless force.
Ancient oaks, sentries, rooted deep through centuries,
shed their last copper and gold, their fragile grip released,
each leaf sent dancing in the wind’s careless hands.
November on Naadowewi Read More »
Poetry
The gales of November roar, a wild tempest unleashed upon the Great Lakes,
Waves crash violently against the shore, fierce and relentless,
Clouds gather heavy, obscuring the sun, as darkness engulfs the land,
In 1913, the Big Blow raged, claiming ships and lives in its grasp,
Over 250 souls lost, their stories woven into the wind’s mournful howl.
Winds whip fiercely, howling with a fury that knows no restraint,
A reminder of nature’s power, the Armistice Day Storm, a day of sorrow,
On November 11, 1940, winds reached 80 mph, a chaos in the skies,
Fourteen vessels met their fate beneath the waves, swallowed whole,
The echoes of sailors linger, their memories bound in the restless tide.
When November Roars Read More »
Poetry
In the veil of Halloween, where costumes take flight,
A naughty librarian awaited the night.
With glasses perched delicately upon her nose,
She donned a tight skirt, the kind that seduces and shows.
Her dominant, the professor, wise and refined,
In a tailored suit, with a glint in his mind.
He called for his research, with a voice deep and low,
But the librarian faltered, her focus lost in the glow.
The Librarian’s Lesson Read More »
Poetry
I know with a quiet certainty that no one reads words, and for that, I am surely glad,
since words unravel more than anyone wants to hold, a lace too fragile for calloused hands.
It means no one will notice the way I fumble with ghosts of my past,
and no one will feel that jagged edge, the scrape of regret veiled behind lines unseen,
because no one reads words, they do not care for meanings stripped bare in black ink.
Because No One Reads Read More »
Poetry
Unsolicited dicks on display, such a fucking comedy,
Here are the top reasons for this absurdity.
These fools think they’re clever, they think they’re so slick,
But all that they show is a sad little trick.
A flicker of flame, a dance of light,
A cozy nook on a chilly night.
Waxen tears drip, a silent sigh,
As leaves outside begin to die.
The wind outside, a mournful moan.
