cirque de la nuit

The inky journey of a modern day Troubador


It’s risky, speaking out.
You may be

Maybe misunderstood, maybe shamed, maybe judged..
Maybe you are just a private person, maybe its just your business alone.

Maybe it was a steamy night, a midsummer eve with the crickets chirping outside the open windows of your (then) favorite bar.
Maybe you’d had three acidic bitter beers in an hour. Trying to burn out the pangs of the week.
Maybe you had invited a friend along, because he was smart, funny, and easy to be around. Maybe you’d known him for a year or so.
And then maybe you were perched at the bar in your kick-ass leather skirt, and uncrossed your legs to lean forward for your next beer.
You’d felt it maybe.
his hand, sliding up your thigh, between your legs reaching towards the peak.
Startled, of course, you swiveled on the stool away from the hand and drew your knees together.
The conversation had continued and he never missed a beat.
So you’d re-engaged.
but maybe 15 minutes later you were looking for chap-stick in your purse, and you’d felt it again.
This time forceful, pushing apart your knees and roughly jamming the hand up to your vagina, barely guarded by a thin black lace.

In a crowded bar, maybe you stood up, or rather fell back off the stool away from the hand.
maybe the cold sticky bar floor was better then the seat next to your friend.

Maybe you don’t remember much of the rest of the night except the mad dash home. Ignoring his pleas, and faux concern.

Maybe it’s not the first or last time it happens.
because maybe a friend, if you’ve known him 3 years…or 30….
will feel entitled to your body.

and maybe you’ll still talk to him, be friends with him, have dinner with him.

Because what are girls taught as they become women, if not that their bodies are public domain.

To have a body as a woman, is to own a piece of property that depreciates with every touch, and is subjected to perpetual, unchecked appraisal.

Maybe, there is another way.

via Daily Prompt: Risky





Forgive me, lover.
I noticed the battle scars on my weary skin
and took time to heal them
covering them with self-salve
and sewing them up with my writers needle

I wallowed in a muddled puddle
of sorrow and shame
I cauterized the pain with far too much whiskey,
spent late nights at the bathroom sink
burning away all the evidence of the lost one.

and I came through the other-side

with a smile as bright as the stars
and laughter in my spirit
once more

I embraced the world with open and
kind arms.
Chasing down everything
that made me feel alive and free.

And I found you lover.
We tumbled into something
so sincere and true.
That I forgot.

Please forgive me, lover.

I thought the rage was gone,
quenched by the weight of familiar
How could I have known that the pain
wedged itself next to my beating heart
like an arrowhead?
Sealed in by my cured cicatrices.

That it would again be inflamed
by my rational fears.

When I become stony and benumbed
to the ardor of your affections.
It is not you, dear lover.
Not you, whom I spurn.

But the memory of the lost one
who blemished my soul.


I’m not for the now
and constantly have to remind myself of that

an emerald rug

in the silences of conversation
when I say something
that instantly reveals my ancient soul.

an old riverboat

Thousands of lives, both real and imagined
are tributaries
to the ocean inside me.
They cackle and sneer with malcontent
as I pour myself into the needs of society–

maple syrup on the snow

Because water can fit anywhere
it can trickle into cracks
and create puddles in concrete
over time, it erodes all things.

glass beads

The strength isn’t in the drop
it’s in the patient steady stream
drifting through time

well worn phrases

If water is primeval
then so am I.

A Cat, A Cauldron, and some headphones

(。•̀ᴗ-)✧ via Punziella

My mom asked me what I want for my pending 30th birthday.

“Double, double toil and trouble; 
Fire burn and caldron bubble. 
Fillet of a fenny snake, 
In the caldron boil and bake; 
Eye of newt and toe of frog, 
Wool of bat and tongue of dog, 
Adder’s fork and blind-worm’s sting, 
Lizard’s leg and howlet’s wing, 
For a charm of powerful trouble, 
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble. 
Double, double toil and trouble; 
Fire burn and caldron bubble. 
Cool it with a baboon’s blood, 
Then the charm is firm and good.”
-Witches Brew- Macbeth


When the first crisp gush of air breathes chilly.
I feel mischievous
and alive.

Its the season of curious black cats
and warm folk beats
It’s the whisper of possibilities
and summers lament.
The crooked grin
that lets me know.
We can begin.

Cicada Heat

I was born in the sandy desert plains

with white snake slithering out the radio

where you had to use a forearm to roll your window down.

Nautical twilight was around 530 am, when I was born.

I was born in a place sans merci.


Outlaws escaped with this destination on their chapped lips

they spoke of it in whispers

as a promised land

So I was born with wildness in my veins and lawlessness

in my dusty soul.

which is maybe why my parents had me running barefoot on hot concrete

and sleeping on the floor of my bedroom when summers swelter set in.

I like my hair short.

It froze in icy crystals in the depth of winter,

when I grew it long.

I grabbed a fistful in my hands and it crunched like the black ice underneath my feet.


I rode my bike over dirt patched roads

and past empty fountains with bone dry fountainheads

everyone had lawns that were slowly dying

year by year

My throat was parched and my eyes sunburnt.


You don’t know how a place shapes you though

until you leave.


Which is maybe why I wither in this cicada heat.



Daily Prompt: Solitary

I grew up immersed in books.
The kind of books that won Newberry Medals in the 70s and 80s.
The kind of books that touched on divorce, loneliness, suicide, depression, and all the confusing things young adults would encounter.
The kind of books that shaped me at an early and pivotal age.
The kind of books that I am sure are partially responsible for my intuitive understanding and compassion for others inner feelings.

The kinds of books I don’t like talking about with other people because they are so intrinsically linked to me, that they feel personal.

I was not a lonely, or depressed child, I was well adjusted, well loved, taken care of and privileged in almost every way save the color of my skin and my gender.

But I still hold these books as close to my heart as if they were words from my own private diary.

One such book I will share, though I hate to let it go– A Solitary Blue. by Cynthia Voigt.

I don’t do book reviews…I suggest you go read it and if you have ever had just a tinge of melancholy to your personality, you will love the subtleties to the writing.

As a child, I adored this book. and the word prompt of the day immediately made me think of it.


i feel it all More

via Daily Prompt: Solitary


Stunning, this piece really took me to a certain place and time today. A bittersweet memory moment, I’m so grateful for artists that can paint your past with words!

Eyes + Words

Written by Carol J Forrester

the city tinges the evening
and pumps the colours brighter,
like carbon monoxide fruit,
laid out in brand new kitchens
on the pages of a magazine,
well thumbed in dentist waiting rooms.

When you asked me if I liked it,
I pretended to smile
and told you it was beautiful.

I did not mention it was different
to the ones back at home,
where gritty haze doesn’t hang
morning, eve, and night,
and the hum of silence
echoes differently in the darkness.

I pretended that here
I was happy,
and that other place
did not matter,
and I think for a moment
you believed the words,
despite the wet on my cheeks
and your hand loose in mine.

Photographer Unknown

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Non Compos Mentis

via Daily Prompt: Delivery

We are taught
from much too young an age
that something outside ourselves
exists that can save us
from this hell.

This hell that you must
never acknowledge.
While it swallows you whole
and spits out your ghostly bones,
you must busy yourself
with the search for that
which can save you

from this hell
that is NOT hell.


We grasp at love and affection
fumble through labor and toil,
trying to find a moment of emancipation
and purge the burning from our souls.

We hope for something to deliver us
from this hell on earth.



pssst…..pssst, down here! Look down!
even lower….–climb down here.
We have a secret for you…
a way out.
Listen carefully.
It might confuse.

It’s in.

the way out is in.

you can build your own airship of light and sound
ornament it with your greatest ambition
craft it from your free will

and float away from this hell.

The only sane people, are the ones who
come unhinged.

Light Balloons | Robert Cornelius


The solar eclipse 2017 is approaching.
It was the topic of discussion last night at an impromptu dinner party we had at J’s folks homestead.

We sat outside sipping alcoholic beverages,dodging mosquitoes, and tossing around a discussion on antiques and auctions.
Then someone mentioned the looming solar eclipse and I remarked that it will be a total eclipse, though we won’t see it from our weak vantage point. It will look more like two ships passing harmlessly.
We were vaguely reminded of song lyrics that resembled our topic of conversation to which J of course supplied the song title “Total Eclipse of the Heart”

As we drove home, dusk was setting in. J was quiet so I flipped through the radio and a song from my childhood came on. We arrived and J turned the car off but we sat and listened to the rest of the song.

Right before I got out of the car the intro to another song played in and J instantly started singing along…not really knowing what song it was, but knowing the words somehow.

I Soundhounded the song, and it was “Total Eclipse of the Heart” -Bonnie Tyler.


But it got me thinking about the music of our youth.
How it bleeds into us without us knowing it and inscribes itself on our DNA.
We won’t know who sings it, what the title is, what album it’s on or even what year it came out— but we will know all the words to some song we heard our parents play, or our aunts and uncles, our friends.

Do you remember listening to the radio in the car? Sitting unbuckled in the back seat of your mama’s big red blazer, with the windows down because the a/c was broken? The seat buckles were made of a shiny metal that absorbed heat and burned your hand to touch. Besides the sound of the wind rushing past the windows and the dull rumble of cars on the road, the radio was a constant sound.

Do you remember Smooth Jazz 95.7 blaring through the speakers? The relaxing lull of the DJ’s voice as they introduced the next song. The comforting sound of the plaintive saxophone or the gentle pluck of acoustic guitar.

I do. Music is the scrapbook of my childhood.
Whitney Houston takes me to mornings before school.
Anita Baker is the Saturday Morning cleaning songs, her voice could outdo the vacuum cleaner every time.
Sade and Michael Jackson are for long rides in the car.
Enya was a peaceful meditative drive to the bustling playground.

When I hear a song that holds a place in my childhood, it eclipses my present and for the 2:30 of that song I’m back in time where the entire world lay before me like one giant unexplored horizon.

Why I’m over your brand of humor.



I’ve noticed that most humor is couched in critique.

When your friends are ribbing you
when a comedian is commenting on society
When a TV show handles a touchy, sensitive topic.

We hide our vulnerability with humor.
We hide our mean-ness with humor.
We hide our fear with humor.

Suddenly humor seems less humorous to me.

Through humorous teasing in a group,
I have seen a starry eyed dreamer
apologize and scramble to defend the parts of themselves
that aren’t easily understood.

Harsh criticism disguised as ill-timed humor
has caused a multitude of wandering spirits to
force roots down
where they cannot grow.

Stop using your wit to create amusement
where it ought not to be!

Stop poking jocularly at a persons character
to disguise your own flaws.

We are all flawed and witless at times.
Deal with that idea out in the open
without the facade of comedy

and find yourself free of society’s saturnine burdens.


“Cause it’s a bittersweet symphony this life
Trying to make ends meet, you’re a slave to the money then you die.
I’ll take you down the only road I’ve ever been down
You know the one that takes you to the places where all the veins meet, yeah.”

The word Symphony comes from the Greek (title of this post)
Some linguists liken the word to “agreement”
The creation of a symphony piece is an agreement of sounds.

I listen for the cello or the violin
then the percussion.
I follow along like a leaf floating on the surface of a drifting stream.

When I am at my best, I listen to symphonies.
Because I miss the forest for the trees…

If there are lyrics, I will hear them
I will replay a song
over and
until I understand their

Then I can listen for the music
once my word-filled soul is appeased.

But Oh the delight of the symphony.
A quilt of sound
that I can lay beneath and feel every strand
at whim.

And how true the words of The Verve song:

It is lovely to live in the thrill of
what may happen next
and to strive
to survive
despite it all

In pursuit of that fleeting thing
we call happiness.

But like a symphony, it all converges on
one note
on one

Full stop.



via Daily Prompt: Symphony


If tomorrow
I wake up blind

Would I still know you
to wake up next to?

Would the rough texture of your beard
be enough to calm me in
my eternal darkness

Would I be able to find you
through the lengths of our
feather white comforter.

And would the unexpected static shock
of flannel sheets
not surprise me?

Would the warm beckoning
scent of my favorite coffee brewing
be enough to safely guide me
down the carpeted staircase.

Would your smooth, soft skin
still excite me to kiss

if I couldn’t see your
lopsided grin?

I turned the photo challenge into my word challenge.
Sorry/Not sorry 🙂

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