My Soul

I see my soul in your eyes,

You are the best in me.

And the kindness that exhumes from your being,

Is the best of whom I could be.

You lead the way and I am to follow.

My love,

my heart,

my soul.

The blessing that was given to me for whatever the reason,

I am never to forget.


Careful Now

Careful now,

you eyes give you away.

Careful now,

your walk is telling us all.

Careful now,

the whispers are forming.

Careful now,

your mouth began it all.

Careful now,

the regret will be your own.


Confidence sees no duty in hubris.

Confidence sees no need for boastfulness.

Confidence is amused by those who try to break them down.

Confidence abhors lack of understanding and respect.

Confidence relies on no one to define them but enjoys the company of others.

Confidence is kindness and graciousness.

Confidence is the ability to maneuvre within a world of many worlds.

Confidence is the perfect state of being.

The man with the knapsack

The sky was lit with colours of romance;

soft purples, pinks and pale yellow with tiny hints of scarlet.

The road paved of little stones came up and split in two.

The man with the knapsack stopped.

He drew in a breath, a decision to be made.

He looked behind him from where he came;

his view blocked by the horizon of the hill.

He looked down the path to the left;

a little down the way a spiral swirled in colours of silver, gold and black.

Yet on the right he found the path just that.

It did not call to him nor make him feel alive.

And then he it came to him and 

to the left he started.

As he moved the sky began to darken,

he arrived at the spiral and looked up at the twinkle of the sky.

Some time passed as he stood in front.

The stars had become abundant.

They reflected on the silver and gold the swirl was reminiscence of a jewel.

In his hesitation, it started to swirl faster revealing the vastness of possibility.

He drew a breath, his heart quickening.

He did not feel afraid.

His hesitation dissipated he took his step –

As he came through the sky began to lighten and brighten as the sun began to rise.

The sky revealed the clearest blue and the sun gave way to the its warmth.

The man with his knapsack grinned.

He continued on his way with life in his eyes and a dance in his heart.

A story of romance

Within the heart of one stood the rise of another.

The gentle flow of her hair,

the well formed strength of his arms.

The warm crinkle of her eyes,

the twinkle of his.

They see each other across the way.

Time bends to slow its pace.

He moves towards and her smiles reassures,

– Fate intervenes –  a car screeches.

And on the ground he lays,

with his heart for all to see.

She runs to his side.

He reaches out with one hand,

he caresses the softness of her face.

Her tears fall on his palm.

“I love you” he breathes,

“I love you” she replies.

There in his blood and in her arms,

 he smiles and falls asleep forever.

The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes

Today I wanted to share with you one of my favorite poems. Hope your are enjoying your weekend.

The Highwayman


The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.   

The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.   

The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,   

And the highwayman came riding— 


The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door. 

He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,   

A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin. 

They fitted with never a wrinkle. His boots were up to the thigh.   

And he rode with a jewelled twinkle, 

         His pistol butts a-twinkle, 

His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky. 

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard. 

He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred.   

He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there   

But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter, 

         Bess, the landlord’s daughter, 

Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair. 

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked 

Where Tim the ostler listened. His face was white and peaked.   

His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,   

But he loved the landlord’s daughter, 

         The landlord’s red-lipped daughter. 

Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say— 

“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night, 

But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light; 

Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,   

Then look for me by moonlight, 

         Watch for me by moonlight, 

I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.” 

He rose upright in the stirrups. He scarce could reach her hand, 

But she loosened her hair in the casement. His face burnt like a brand 

As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;   

And he kissed its waves in the moonlight, 

         (O, sweet black waves in the moonlight!) 

Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west. 


He did not come in the dawning. He did not come at noon;   

And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,   

When the road was a gypsy’s ribbon, looping the purple moor,   

A red-coat troop came marching— 


King George’s men came marching, up to the old inn-door. 

They said no word to the landlord. They drank his ale instead.   

But they gagged his daughter, and bound her, to the foot of her narrow bed. 

Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!   

There was death at every window; 

         And hell at one dark window; 

For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride. 

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest. 

They had bound a musket beside her, with the muzzle beneath her breast! 

“Now, keep good watch!” and they kissed her. She heard the doomed man say— 

Look for me by moonlight; 

         Watch for me by moonlight; 

I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way! 

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good! 

She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!   

They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years 

Till, now, on the stroke of midnight, 

         Cold, on the stroke of midnight, 

The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers! 

The tip of one finger touched it. She strove no more for the rest.   

Up, she stood up to attention, with the muzzle beneath her breast.   

She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;   

For the road lay bare in the moonlight; 

         Blank and bare in the moonlight; 

And the blood of her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love’s refrain. 

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horsehoofs ringing clear;   

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear? 

Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill, 

The highwayman came riding— 


The red coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still. 

Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!   

Nearer he came and nearer. Her face was like a light. 

Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,   

Then her finger moved in the moonlight, 

         Her musket shattered the moonlight,

Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death. 

He turned. He spurred to the west; he did not know who stood   

Bowed, with her head o’er the musket, drenched with her own blood!   

Not till the dawn he heard it, and his face grew grey to hear   

How Bess, the landlord’s daughter, 

         The landlord’s black-eyed daughter, 

Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there. 

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky, 

With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high. 

Blood red were his spurs in the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat; 

When they shot him down on the highway, 

         Down like a dog on the highway, 

And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat. 

.       .       . 

And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees, 

When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,   

When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,   

A highwayman comes riding— 


A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door. 

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard. 

He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred.   

He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there   

But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter, 

         Bess, the landlord’s daughter, 

Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

A story about a girl

She imagined her life was fullfilled,

until she looked up oneday.

Instead of a wide open sky, 

she saw a limited view through the bottom of a hole.

Vaguely recalling falling in but never paid much mind.

As she continued to look up,

flashes of the past pushed into her mind.

The sheer volume made her look away. 

But something was different, she didn’t drive them away.

Rather felt an acceptance of all mistakes and bad choices.

Then a lightness within began to form.

The more she let go of all of the past,

the more lightness she felt.

She sensed gratefulness unlike before. 

Her heart illuminated.

The freedom radiated.

And when she was able, 

she looked up and there it was,

the wide open sky as she remembered.

The hole now beneath her.

She smiled and walked forward.

Heavy Head

Heavy head.

Enticed by the bitter sweetness of hops.

Looking at his reflection through a fun house mirror.

Everything seems to sway.

The dance of intoxication is beginning.

Laughter is ringing much louder than normal.

A mis-step and the ground comes up to meet him.

“Excuse me sir do you need help?” a blurry humanoid asks.

He stammers “I’m fine”

He pushes through the gravity and staggers on his way.

A screech penetrates deep into the depths of his mind.

He slumps down beside his car as his child inside is needing.

Crescent of the moon

Crescent of the moon,

its tear drop slips

and cuts in two;

it rains upon the earth.

The earth well feed,

something grows anew.

Crescent of the moon,

sharp edges finds,  

its grace and vulnerabilty;

for it too will disappear,

and yet becomes abundant.

Always with past journeys.

Always ready to begin de novo.

Crescent of the moon showing us the way.


There in the light you stood,

and in the shadow I waited.

Your light grew brighter;

the shine would shade me from black to grey.

So I stayed and waited,

thinking oneday you would see me.

But in your light you were blinded.

And I stayed small and faded.