Echoes in my Dreams

Whisps of promised help
puff on the breeze
of viral-infused breath
as the screeching cries
of the cremated ill
haunt my restless dreams.

Look out! My steps
tread their harrowed haunts
as breath-deprived shades
wander over desolate streets.

Echoes of the abolished
reverberate in hollow speech,
and dead-tired eyes,
of the medically traumatized…

….and death waits in
beds of the abandoned….

… scenarios that tabulate
life and death choices
morph from dark probabilities
into grimly stark reality.

I wake up with fragments of poems from my dreams.  It seems the virus has its hold on my mind.  This is a 4-word-line free poem.

Whisper in my Mind

There is a whisper in my mind that tempts me to fear….

….as death grips its silent hold

…..and governments slide on their lies

There is a whisper in my mind that tells me to flee….

….as locusts munch us into famine

….and the earth quakes with premonition

There is a whisper in my mind that trains me to follow….

…as whispy markets crash

…and  panicked buyers hoard

Oh rage RAGE against this exponential storm!

For its ever etched trickle,

moves with ominous pace,

ever faster,

collecting inexorably

into a raging waterfall

Obsession (free verse)

I am seized with ailing thoughts

as my synapses loop masochistic hindsight.

I drift in hazy dreams of If-Then……

Oh! Tether present day

to hopeful tomorrow

or I shall drift

into meaningless past

undone by its incomplete script

or tomorrow shall see today’s loss!

These layers on layers

of half written plays gather dust

and I cannot brush away the scattered pages.

Fragmented sentences and words unsaid

give weight to thoughts forever unanswered.

I glide through present day

untouched by feeling for fear

of feeling the pain of a life shattered

as it slowly circles the drain.

I must release this unchangeable past

or go mad from wasted hope.

Part of my obsession is an uncontrolled looping journey into the past.  If I am to overcome it I must break its’ hold over me.

Picture: psychology today

Regret (Fibonacci)

Teetering into an abyss
Memories circling around an event horizon
Conscious choice; slingshot away or fall over the edge to a place of no return

I like to put images on my feelings; regret feels like this to me and sucks me into a dark place.  In these times, I find that reading the Bible and praying are the best tools to combat it, then afterwards get busy.  In DBT, the skill “turning the mind” is important in changing one’s thought pattern.  Getting busy– doing something– and stopping the thought are essential to climbing out of that prison.

Fibonacci poems use the fibonacci sequence (0 or 1, 2, 3, 5 etc)  to structure the number of syllables in a line.  The number of lines are flexible but generally dictated by the limitation in the number of syllables one can use.




Borderline Couplets

Life frenetic

Overloaded log

Interest Apathetic

Brain fog


Emotion drained

Health cost

Over stressed

Moments lost


Unfilled cup

Altered mood

Broken up

Nothing good


Hope lost

Frozen goals

Tempest tossed

Empty soul


Respite need


Soul feed

Suspend regret


Peace and rest

Quiet thoughts

Spirit blessed

Contentment bought


Resilient accrual

Battery charged

Cup renewal

Hope enlarged

I really like to write impactful poetic images using 2 word sentences.  It is a mastery of the soul.  In this, I have weaved many borderline personality struggles with the hope that my faith and rest in Jesus can and does bring when I submit to Him. Much of borderline is about submission of self and putting on some kind of armor to deflect the shards of emotion and life events.  Paul gives a beautiful picture of putting on the armor of God: the helmet of salvation, the breastplate of righteousness, the sword of the spirit.  It is the best therapy if one will only embrace it.

I am in an DBT program and it mirrors much of what the Bible suggests only takes out the power that one can recieve through salvation by grace.  I choose to use both of these tools to improve my condition.

Ode to the Hair on my Chinny-Chin-Chin

Oh wiry, follicular weed!

You are tough as granite stone.

Why do you see the need

to make my face your home?

With manic frenzy you feed

on hormones and keratin.

Like a fertilized spider plant

randomly sprouting from my chin;

with impotent rage I rant

yet you return again and again.

My razor armies ruthlessly lead

the charge to remove, hurt and maim.

I mow and zap you with all speed;

you laugh as I  feel the pain.

Yet sadistically I still have the need

to remove this embarrassment and shame.

I fear my hairless creed

has left me slightly insane!

I wish to be fully freed

from your black spider legged train.

As beauty is our greatest greed

your loss will be my Gain.

One of the “joys” of getting older is the sprouting of wild hair.  These over-“keratin-ized” strands of protein are the superheroes of the hair community.

I can hang like a monkey from mine.

I have tweezed, waxed and home-lazered the little horns with no effect.  Chemo took out a lot of my hair, but not the thick posts sticking out of my chin.   What a fussy lot we are….hair is acceptable in only certain areas of the body and humiliating in others.  Who determines the placement of beauty?

I say be proud and not shy and let that hair fly!

Having said that bravely to my mirror, I will now once again remove the offenders from my face and count my pennies for a permanent hair removal session.  Sigh, I am weak, I am frivolous, and I hate facial hair on women AND men.  My husband grew a mustache at the age of 12 (in a long downward U-formation–ugh) and wore the stupid thing for 13 years straight, resisting all taunts and attempts to remove it until I told him that I would only date him if it was removed.  He immediately went into his bathroom and 10 minutes later emerged a new man!  Well….how could I refuse THAT? I mean, there isn’t a greater act of wooing sacrifice then a man removing himself from his beloved hair, the icon of his identity.  I have had women sighing and sobbing in tears over this sappy story of romantic love….

But I must say that it was also the finest moment of my dating career and a boon to all mankind.

Unfortunately, a couple of years ago, in a moment of extreme weakness, I let him try a beard, and “Facebear” emerged to my intense horror.

Yes, that’s right…he NAMED the thing.  Kissing a mouthful of wiry hair is akin to rubbing my face with a potato brush.  I can get a rash after just 30 seconds of it.  So I don’t kiss the man until it is all off.  And when I give this ultimatum, the tussle between his manly image and his desire for a smooch is palpable.  Hmmmm…..perhaps I should stop obsessing over my chin hairs and rub them on HIM.  So here is my (hopefully humorous) “poem” on facial hair, enjoy!

chin hair 2