The Children of Manchester (poem)



Gather, Children
the ghosts of years long passed have come to bear witness
to the tragedy in Manchester
those who’ve been struck from the earth when hate and fear and anger took them
in war, and famine, and with fear’s iron hand
now stand side by side in a silent Reveille

Gather, Children
and bear witness to the pale faced human wraiths whom
by the millions are flooding the streets of your fair city
who’ve risen from the graveyards of history
who stare forward with eyes filled with sympathy, empathy, and compassion
for those who yet live
and gather unto themselves those who do not

Gather, Children
and let your eyes bear witness to what happens
when dangerously simple and prejudiced filled minds try to address the worlds ills
the results of which are drawn out to their terrible conclusion
this great example of what hate, fear, and confusion
wrought forth
when it seeps out of the cracks in our heart’s
shadowed places

Gather, Children
and turn the tide of inevitability
hold back the swift hand of death – this spectre and respecter of none
Regardless of rank, and station, and life long ambition
Who comes for us all – in the form of a friend
or in the shape of our enemy

Gather, Children
be ye young, middle aged, or with more days behind you than before you
and cast your heart, and your tears, and your fears, and your faith, and your eyes downward
and take a long hard look at what hate and malice, and malcontent, and fear, and retribution does when it infests the soul of a person
who then causes the innocent to lay silent at your feet
What a tragedy, What a waste

Gather, Children
and see when the spirits of the other side of mankind’s legacy
walk your future back down those narrow streets
only to disappear with the breaking of the sun of a new day
and while you mourn for those who are gone from this earth
Remember to weep for those who yet remain


Authors note: Pope Francis was quoted as saying, “You pray for the hungry, then you feed them, that’s how prayer works.” Manchester, my prayers, and grief, and hope, and love are with you just as they once belonged to France after the mindless terror in the Bataclan, as they were with those in Orlando at the disco.

I don’t know what that equivalent of Francis’ words are, here. But whatever it is, however it is, it has to be better than what we’ve been doing.

Objects in the Rearview Mirror (Book)

Hey y’all.

I had a couple of positive reactions and sales from my last self promo – So I figured I’d take a shot again and see if anyone would be interested in another book promotion.

This is another ghost story.

Objects RvM


Blurb: (Still hate that word)

Their new home on Frederick Street in Clay Center, Kansas, was supposed to give writer Jonathan David and his husband, clinical psychologist Dr. Eddie Dorman, an opportunity to enjoy married life. Jonathan has just released his first major bestseller, and he hopes to finally escape his traumatic past and find the quiet existence he has always craved. Eddie has taken a job at the Kansas State University psychology department, and they intend to begin anew.

They have barely settled in when the nightmare begins. Noises, disembodied voices, and mysterious apparitions make Jonathan’s life hell. Part of the house has decided to bare its teeth, show its jagged edges, and bring back the worst of Jonathan’s past. At first, Eddie cannot perceive the spectral events and fears for his husband’s sanity. When he’s also affected by the haunting, he’s unsure of what to do but refuses to be beaten.

Together, they seek a way to fight the forces trying to tear them apart. The world is a frightening place, but confronting their fears plunges Jonathan and Eddie into absolute horror.


Buy Links:


Thanks guys

25 1/2 Hours and 18 years ago (Poem)


(Photo by Bart Anestin)


Twenty five and a half hours from now *plus eighteen years ago* I stopped walking the Streets of Detroit looking for you.
Your two kids were upstairs waiting for you. I called Rick and told him.
And then went home to bed.
I got up for work the next day, worked a full shift, came home and my dad walked into my room to tell me you were dead.
Heroine and Booze is a deadly cocktail and according to the autopsy report – your heart stopped so suddenly you didn’t even have time to brace yourself before you fell.
It was a hard life lesson for me.
One that says love doesn’t always win.
It was the first time i’d lost someone that meant a great deal to me.
You were a friend when i needed one the most.
But you had your demons.
It’s okay.
Everyone does. I understand that, now.
Goodness isn’t a person, badness isn’t a person, these are states of being. Transition places like happy or sad or mad.
You were good – you just had a weakness about you – a handicap.
I miss you. I think you would have liked the way I grew up.
I thought about you in that fuzzy place between wakefulness and sleep.
Suddenly, you were there after all this time.
I’m glad you are. It was nice to see you again.
I love you but i’m sure you know that, now.

Between Us – My first foray into the World of Self-Publishing



I am super excited about this.

Back Story: Last year, I think, I wrote a short story called “The Scarecrow” for Halloween and posted it for free on my Facebook Page, Goodreads Page, and blog. I really loved the story, I loved the freedom of writing something short and not having the pressure of sending it off to a publisher to wait the 9 weeks or so before I got word on whether or not it was approved.

I also liked the idea that I could be as crazily creative as I wanted to be without feeling the urge to have to explain myself to an editor etc.

This year, I wanted to do the same thing. However, my husband asked me ‘You work so hard on the stuff that you write, you spend hours plunking away at it, so why are you just giving it away.’ I guess he’s right. So this year, I decided to write another short story and self-publish it to Amazon.

And I realized a couple things

  1. I really appreciate the work my publisher puts into putting out novels. I had people volunteer to edit and volunteer to make cover art for me and I love them dearly for it. However, mistakes were made and some stuff was missed. It’s an imperfect book.
  2. I’m probably never going to be a J.K Rowling. And I have to be okay with that. I write a niche subset of a niche genre. And while my books are good (All above three stars in review) they don’t call to a large audience.
  3. This is something I think I am going to do every once in awhile. The Amazon experience is pretty painless. Load up this, fix this, do this, hit this button TA DA! And so, once in a while when I feel a short story going on in my head, I’ll throw it up on Amazon perfectly imperfect. Because, let’s face it, Amazon lets you do it for free, but editors, cover designers etc. are expensive. And for some, prohibitively so.


Anyway, if you like gay romance and spooky stories I have one for you. I am totally excited about this little story and look forward to writing more. Here’s the blurb:

When Jeremy, a tall, hunky, ladies man begins to explore his bisexual attractions, he realizes he loves his best friend and college roommate Roger.
Roger secretly loves Jeremy back but is holding on to a secret of his own. A terrible one.
On Halloween night both men are invited to a party where the truth of each other will be revealed in a horrific way. Will they survive a night of terror? Or will it rip them apart forever?

Buy the book by following the link. Thanks!

And most of all, Happy Halloween!


Message in a bottle (part 2)


It’s hard to sleep at night when voices of the past come back to talk to you. Like ghosts stepping out of the wall, they kneel down by my bed to whisper memories of what had transpired in my life. And like the little kid in the Sixth Sense, I used to close my eyes and wish them away.

But by the time my husband goes to bed until sometimes after The Witching Hour has passed. I am in a deadlocked argument with these memories while I stand in my kitchen and my eyes see the faces of those memories from long ago. And instead of clenching my eyes shut I open them wide and receive those spirits into my presence and we do battle.

And every night it’s different scenes. A different cast of characters who step out of the void and between the hours of midnight and three a.m. I do battle in silence with them. Sometimes I write poetry during these times and post them on social media. Bits of the conversations with dead things that I’ve had with rhyme and style.

But there are other times when I look over at my sleeping husband and I am so moved by him. By his love for me. By his willingness to show me who God really is. And his presence in my life gives me the courage to face down all those ghosts. And then I’ll write a poem for him. I’ve never known love of another person or the love of God so much so then when I started to leave the old ways I’d been taught. There is this old Muslim poet who once said, “Do not seek love. Remove the things in your life that keep love from you.”

And for me, that is a constant, daily, nightly, endeavor. I feel like some kind of monk in a monastery somewhere saying his prayers and reciting his scripture and singing his hymns.

It’s such a strange thing for me. I should hate God. I should hate everything he is and stands for. But I don’t.I just don’t think the abuses men wage on each other – even in the realm of religion – has anything to do with God.  And I don’t mean to be sentimental, but I feel God put my husband in my life to show me who He really is. That wherever love is, he is. And I know that goes against Christendom in its majority, but like Dr. Angelou once said, “I have heard, and I believe, that one with God constitutes a majority. So I commend you on your courage to come and face me.”

I survived fifteen years of physical abuse which I believe was tantamount to torture. I’ve watched in horror as my sisters were hurt or thrown out of the house. I suffered in silence in their absence. And lived in dread as each one of them departed and like a prince in the midst of some white trash Shakespearean play, I would be the next in line for my crown of thorns. And my parents didn’t disappoint.

See, in our religion which is the Christian equivalent to Brokovich’s Hexavalent Chromium, there is a pecking order. The man is the head and absolute authority in the house, the women are to be silent and obey her master, and the children’s WILL should be broken. Some of the ‘intellectuals’ in our brand of fundamentalism – people like Dr. Jack Hyles – believed that you could beat a child as early as infancy to accomplish this. He even wrote about it in his book, Rearing Children. It’s available on Amazon. It’s similar to the book written by Michael and Debi Pearl called, To Train up a Child. This book has resulted in three known deaths of children due to torture. Torture that includes:

  • Using plastic tubing to beat children, since it is “too light to cause damage to the muscle or the bone”
  • Wearing the plastic tubing around the parent’s neck as a constant reminder to obey
  • “Swatting” babies as young as six months old with instruments such as “a 12-inch willowy branch,” thinner plastic tubing or a wooden spoon
  • “Blanket training” babies by hitting them with an instrument if they try to crawl off a blanket on the floor
  • Beating older children with rulers, paddles, belts and larger tree branches
  • “Training” children with pain before they even disobey, in order to teach total obedience
  • Giving cold water baths, putting children outside in cold weather and withholding meals as discipline
  • Hosing off children who have potty training accidents
  • Inflicting punishment until a child is “without breath to complain”

I went through some of that, including the infliction until I couldn’t breathe to cry anymore.

I was not a Martyr (willing or otherwise) for my faith because I didn’t die. I am a Confessor for my faith. And because of what had happened to me, to my siblings, I despise those who did what they did.

Like Henry the Fifths daughter,I think,  who when asked how much she loved her father told him: “I cannot heave my heart into my mouth,” words fall short in describing the loathing I feel toward these people. Perhaps this would clear some of this up, If there were an Anti-Christ with his eyes set on these people. I’d gladly hold his coat.

I’ll write more when I can.


(P.S. It’s relevant to note that both children of Jack Hyle’s kid David, are also dead. I guess it could have been worse)



A ghost ( Poem)

I once went to a cemetery
on an outing to hunt spirits, wraiths, and ghosts
to my surprise, on this dark and humid night
I found that there was division, out there, amidst the stones

See, this place was segregated
divided betwixt poor whites and poor black
and as i stood there among those who had come with me
I was astounded to see an iron gate that ran between this and between that

There were headstones of the same or similar color
both races had been buried six feet down
both had loved ones at one point visit
both had been missed when they were no longer around

I stood at the edge of two worlds literally one foot on either side
and asked my questions
a plead and a beg
that if a soul was present with me
to feel free to show me a sign

Well, black or white it didn’t matter
nor did it matter that the moon was full and high
No did it matter what skin color or station
of the spirit when he/she/it decided to pass by

But I do know where the tug on my pant leg came from
it came from my left, in the black section you see
and it was later when i was wiping the fear off my brow, my scream from my lips
that I realized it had been a black spirit who had been kind enough to come and answer me.

Ghosts (poem)

As clouds gather on the horizon
And lightning flashes across the black anvil clouds
They come again, the storm watchers

I can see them
Right outside my periphery
A glimpse of Shadow in the flash
A pair of eyes
Here a moment, and then gone

only to return in greater numbers

Another face
Another and another

Charged by the electricity in the air
They push closer to the veil
Disturbed from their sleep by the frosted hearts of man
Slaves, master, courtesan
Man, woman, child
Their mouths gape in silent words

They’ve come to witness the storm
As drums of mankind’s discontent beat like rolls of thunder
And they’ll be there as the bow breaks and the cradle falls
As the clouds burst forth and man pours out his anger
to greet the surprised to their new realities

I can see them
Oh my God I can see them

They stand in blood soaked garments
Whip marks fresh still upon their backs
Nooses tied limp at their shoulders

A man with numbers tattooed on his arms
Frowns deep as caverns
Still as the grave
Watching, waiting, with eyes accusing, disappointed and hard as stone

I can see them
In life they were separate by station
Ranked from best to least
But death makes us all equal
And shoulder to shoulder the march out of the dark

Oh, my soul I can still see them

Oh sweet Jesus here they are

And they’re not happy