Thoughts from nowhere

Paper Keepers of Worlds

The paper keepers of worlds

Always willing  

To take her

Along for the ride

Humming secrets

From closed mouths

She walks down the shelf

Stroking the bindings

Feeling for the one she needs


Picking one

Bright red and gold

She reads a page  

Drawing forth a feel for the story beyond

She closes the world of unknown wonders  

To search for another

The creature of words whispers on

Calling her back to

Limitless imagining

As she places it on the shelf

The sound pulls at her heart-strings

And she questions letting it go

Hoping someone else will treasure

The story of red and gold

She moves on

To another world

Another time

Transported from her present

To encounter truths

Hidden behind

Veils of make-believe


Words Turned to Blood

Holding on to what this world has always known

He walks a road covered in blood

Will we ever see a new way to be?

This boy of everywhere shows his hero face to the world

Posters and speeches–words of nothing

In his heart, the horror of the truth he keeps from all

Ideals of a few send the lives of many

Behind him the bodies of heros

They keep hate going, saying there is no other way

Bodies of boys who in the end, wanted only to live

They tell us violence will bring peace

He no longer believes he has changed the world for the better

Voices of truth silenced by voices of power

On he walks, alone on his road of pain

Truth can only prevail when our voices of truth are heard

His pain will only end when he finds the hope fear darkens

Some will always choose hate

Rest will only come to him when he feels the love hate drives away

We must stand up to hate with truth that will always be

For now, he walks on this trail of blood now mixed with his hopeless tears

One day, they will see our love is stronger than empty ideals

One day he will find the God of truth is stronger than their god of words

And the world will know peace

And the boy will know life

In The Moment

At the first note, she felt the music over take her

A magic that cannot be explaned, but felt with the soul. open to

The beauty that life possesses.

 Living in the moment

Letting go of the rest of the world

A single point in the time

Felt with every fiber

The link of souls

Brought about only in the arts

The giver and the reciever

The creator and the rest

 Left to

Accept or reject the gift

To be inspired


Forever changed

By this one moment

Together yet apart

Even our shared memories are our own

Each feeling as much as they let in

Getting, level with what they gave

She knew few would understand, but

None of that mattered

In this moment

She was alive

The music surrounded her

Became a part of her

Catching hold of her soul

She knew what it meant to her

And everything else faded away

As I See It, So It Is

“Look, Roy. I have tried to change my heart.  I just don’t care anymore.” Tears formed and he saw her wipe them away.

He wondered if he should put his hand on hers. Maybe that was why she rested them on the table, but as he questioned this, staring at her hands, she pulled them off the table and grabbed her coffee. She had yet to take even a sip.

“Well it comes as a shock to me.” He did not mean to sound angry, but it came out as such. “Everything is great on my side. I don’t know why you…”

“That is it. You only pay attention to what you want. When have you ever listened to what I want?” Her brown hair shown in the sunlight coming in through the window. He had to stop himself from reaching out and running his hand through it. This was not fair. Who was she to end it all? He had been good to her. Given her gifts. Been there for her. And now she was blaming the dissatisfaction she felt on him. People who could not get their own problems together always blamed someone ese.

“…Just like right now.” Nora glared at him with her grey-blue eyes.

“What?” He no longer cared if she felt her anger.

“You have no desire to listen to anything but what is in your own head.”

This was true. Sure, he heard what others had to say, but in the end it was his own thoughts that mattered to him. He saw little wrong with it. He relied on himself. That, he saw as a plus.

There was little else to say and in a few minutes the eighteen month relationship, the longest he had ever had, was over. He told himself it all was for the best, but somehow he felt, less. As if part of him still sat with Nora while he moved on with his life.

The change came on in shifts. First he noticed the Venus, his grey white and grey cat rubbing up against his leg less and less. In just a week, she would  only stride up to him and look his way when her food bowl was empty. Go figure, people must be right about cats. They really did see themselves as better than humans. Maybe it was one of those weird female things. Nora had left him and now Venus gave him the cold shoulder. As if blaming him. Still, he fed her, but stopped trying to get her to sit on his lap or let him hold her. He missed watching movies with her, though he told himself it did not matter.  Without noticing it, he soon stopped watching movies on his couch.

The cat had made some sence. She was a cat after all, but when the strange change of wind came over the dog, that it started to worry him. Beetle started spending more time with Venus than with himself. Roy even woke one morning to Beetle feeding himself and the damn cat. He had pulled out of the low cabinet and across the kitchen floor to her bowl and then repeated the gesture with his own food. It took Roy a full minute to accept that this had actually happened. Beetle was so well-trained, he even thought at first, it must have been another dog. Or Venus. Both were  impossible, of course.

It was that day he noticed things wrong at work. No one said hello to him anymore and today, he could not get anyone to have a full conversation with him. His boss even called him by the wrong name and did not bother to correct herself.

On his way home, he stopped to get a cup of coffee at the very place where this madness had all started. Not sure it could fix anything, but at least they would know him. So people at work were jealous that he would be the next to get a promotion and his pets had gone haywire, he would not let it phase him. Roy had to almost yell in order to get the barista to look his way and repeat his order three times before she got it right. When she asked him his name he almost lost it. “I come here nearly every day. You know my name.”

“What’s my name?” She asked, clearly not ready to deal with costumers. Even if that was half her job. Her manager shook his head. “Sorry. Name?” He gave it to her and stood back to let the next person by.

Finally he got his coffee and cinnamon pastry. He never used to eat many sweets, but lately he seemed to be losing weight, and with his long, slender frame, that was not a good thing.

Back at his car, he had trouble starting the engine. As though it would rather stay put than to take him anywhere. A mad idea, of course. It was a car. But he felt the indifference toward him all the same. Drivers really did seem to be getting worse. It was as though everyone wanted to hit him. At home, he put his key in the lock and for a moment wondered if he had the wrong house. Surly this was not his. He stepped inside and a wave of disquiet washed over him. A stranger’s house. It had all of his possessions inside, but somehow it was no longer his.

Nora’s words came back to him. “You only pay attention to what you want.”

He walked out of the house. Venus and Beetle were long gone. He knew, without searching for them. He wandered on. Nothing to his name. A wisp of a man, floating past people he had never cared to notice before and who now only saw him as a passing shadow. A fading soul. Less than a memory. For at least a memory is possessed by someone. He was a substance unnoticed by the world. And day by day, he drifted, and his likeness to those of the world (of which he had never let himself  truly belong) waned.

Saying Hello

Grant’s first thought it was just being on the road that was the cause of his back pain. Walking along the road till someone stopped to give him a ride, sleeping on cots in hostels. If only he hadn’t looked in the mirror, maybe it would have gone away. Maybe he would have woken up from to finds everything normal. But the second he looked at his face in the mirror, the impossible dream became his reality.

The face that looked back at him belonged to him. It had his features, but they were obscured by time. He was old.  Not that he was young in any sense. He was down right old to many of the people he now worked with in Hollywood. At forty-two, even thought there were many older than him, the film business had begun to feel like a world for a much younger generation. The winds were changing.  The man the mirror showed Grant had to be in his sixties. He looked much like his father had at his death several years earlier, but with the soft outline of his mother. His skin had lost some of its color, the wrinkles lining it, deeper. Under his eyes were soft puffs of slightly darkened flesh.

Grant’s heart must have been racing, he could hear his blood pumping in his ears. But none of his parts seemed to be working right. His breath came and went in harsh bursts. He could not feel his feet, but surly they were on the floor. If only he could make them move. 

For a second, he had hoped he as in a dream. It felt like one he would have, but he knew it to be useless. He knew reality one always does when in it.

His mixture of practicality and fantastical nature actually helped him in this scenario. He had often wondered what his reaction would be if something catastrophic happened to him or a loved one, now was his chance to find out. It felt like hours before he stepped away from the mirror. His mind racing. How it had happened, he could not fathom. Besides, that was the last on his list. Step one, accept, he had done. There was no other road when it came to that. He had aged, fifteen to twenty years. Denying it would only drag him away from reality.

Looking around the room, everything was the same as the night before. He had paid a little extra for a private room. His door remained locked and had not been disturbed. Whatever had happened to him must be him alone. He called his agent who told Grant he sounded a little tired, but other than that the conversation was nothing out of the ordinary. That was that. The world spun on. Only he had awoken in the body of his future.

He walked to his bed and sat down. His body, worn and aching; his mind reeling.

This surly was the end. The beginning of it, at least. For if this happened today, it could happen any. And so little had he done in his life. The master piece he envisioned in his mind, lay there, waiting for Grant to write it. But instead he had written those which his agent said would get his name out there. Only then was it safe to break the rules. But these new kids did just fine breaking the rules. And now his time waned.

Panic struck.

Time. What a fool he had been to disregard it. All his life, he had listen what he would do “one day”. The list had grown and hardly anything had been marked off. And now, all of those years of planning for a life had caught up with him. the years wasted had built up, crept up, and taken over his body.

He called his agent back.


“Grant? Are you okay? You just called.”

“I know.” Grant paced the room as he talked. “I just called to say, I am going on a trip.”

Laughter came from the other end of the line. “Is that all? I know Grant. You are researching for…”

“No, I mean I am taking a holiday.” He paused. “I have always told myself I would go to Sweden.”

I took a minute for Becky to respond. “Sweden. You are going to Sweden? Right.” She said, not sounding convinced.

“I mean it. I have done nothing in my life for myself. Everything has been this great build up. And to what? I’ll tell you… old age.”

“You have plenty of time to travel, Grant. But you need to work on the script. They are depending on you.”

“They will have to wait. Or find someone else.” Grant packed his bag, holding the phone to his ear with his shoulder.

“What is wrong? You don’t miss deadlines. You don’t run off. Is it writer’s…”

“You know I hate that term. No, I am not blocked. You are right, I do as I am told, and I never take chances.”

“I didn’t say…”

“You said enough.” He waited for her to respond. “Take care, Becky.”

“That sounds like a goodbye.” A hint of irritation mixed with her confusion.

“Maybe it is.” Grand hung up. He tossed the phone out the window and watched it fly over the balcony.

“Or maybe, I am finally saying ‘hello’.”

No Longer Seeing You

I told myself

The last time

Had already been

But just now I heard a song

And thought of you

A burning in my eyes

 Blurred vision

From the tears I said

I would not shed


 Those few moments

Looking to

What could have been

What never will

My heart moves on

More each day

Healing a little

With every beat

But right now

I miss seeing you

I miss the friend I once had

All we shared

The words


Or seen in each other’s eyes

I will be fine

It gets easier with

Each passing day

But right now

I miss seeing you

The Jewelry Box

The room smelled of a mixture of lemon-scented cleaner and cotton candy body spray. It looked more like a picture in a magazine than a actual child’s room. What could be seen of the bedspread was bright pink, spotted with small, purple flowers. Over most of the bed lay pillows of all kinds. Bright orange and fuzzy, heart shaped, printed with pictures of Disney princesses. Overlapping, neatly. Stuffed animals and dolls lay in rows worthy of a military lineup. The sight colorful, but not playful as it should. The dolls had a blank, lonely look in their eyes and the pillows puffed as if asking for someone to hold them, as they are meant to be.

A few feet away from the foot of the bed, a white dresser stood against the wall. Photos of a small, smiling family and of a couple young friends, in bright frames, were set against a large mirror. A small jewelry box open to show the prizes worthy of a child’s wonder of the world. The box, the only part of the room that made sense in that unappreciated mindset.

Inside–a leaf, a striking red, pressed between two pieces of clear plastic adhesive. A rock, vaguely in the shape of a heart. A chain of colored paper clips. Candy wrappers. The broken off head of a Barbie. A few notes of “child nonsense”, once passed with giggles and sly glances at an adult in front of the room.  

Watercolor paintings and posters of cartoon characters hung on the walls.

Tracks from a vaccum passed, every way, across the carpet.

Clothes hung limply in the closet. Clean and long-unworn.

The room had been this way for nine months now. The woman, who had not been called “mama” for just as long, lived alone in the cozy, but spiritless house. The man who had once vowed “till death” had left several weeks ago. The unspoken blame that passed between them had grown into an irreversible resentment. 

The woman’s hair, once her pride, now lank and unkept. Her shoulders and head hung, lacking the will to hold them up to their former hight.

If anyone cared to listen, the house would tell that every day the woman could be seen in the room, straightening the pillows. Needlessly smoothing the bedspread. Shuffling her feet as she pushed the vacuum over the carpet. Dusting. Unfolding and refolding the clothes in the dresser. Never once touching the jewelry box. Her face, blank. The tears, she kept for the nighttime. For the woman did not want the child to walk in and see her weakness. A smile never showed on her face. She kept the smile locked away. For the day when the child walked in the door. For the day when they would bring her back to the life that waited, unchanged.

After each cleaning, she sprayed one of bottles of cotton candy body spray that she stored up in her own room. For a moment, it hung in the air. The particles then drizzled to the floor. She stood at the doorway. Her face, she kept blank. But behind the resolute eyes, could be seen the pain of a broken soul. The combination that had driven away those who had once flocked to the house to comfort. No longer knowing how to act in the woman’s presence. Not admitting to any, including themselves, that they wished she would “just move on”. Out of a universal social-awkwardness, unable to ask her to let them help. Help the woman help herself. To see the life the world still held.

The room remaining as it had been. As it always would. For as long as the woman lived, this room would stay. Waiting for the day when the  child’s laughter would pierce the stale walls. Bring life back into the comatose air. And once again, the world would make sense. Once again, life would flood the cold, breathless house.

 And so the house passed in a frozen state. Soaking up all it saw. Screaming what no one could hear. Silent. Unmoving. Forever seeing. Never seen. Giving the answer no soul would accept. Reaching out to hearts that would not take.

The War Machine




The machine churns out

The result of what we put in

Humanity keeps it going

The War Machine


The War Machine

The stench of death

The tears of the innocent




Masses in unmarked graves

Pieces of mankind

Left to rot


What did they die for?

A word

An idea

Nothing that could

Be worth their LIFE


The War Machine

Brings only pain

Always dissapointment

Because somewhere we all know

The payoff could have come

Without the extermination

Without the loss of the most importan thing


We forget the beauty LIFE brings

What is worth the loss of it?




Are they worth the loss

Of the most important thing

Or are they just words

Used to bring in the men the women

Come and die!

Die for this word, this idea, we ring out

And say WAR is the only way to obtain it


All of it

The War Machine knows no truth


It all can end

If we want it

WAR can be

A relic of the past

If we put it there


Open your mind

To the

End of WAR

End of the praising

of death and distruction

Open to the unity we were meant for


The War Machine

Will never bring peace

Forever it will churn

If we let it

If we push our agenda

Put ideas ahead of LIFE

Words can be used

Not only to bring people to WAR

But to prevent it





It can come

If we want it

And we will see an end

See the undoing of

The War Machine