Tuesday, August 29, 2017


She is a painting. Unclear. Her lines are blurry. Tell her over and over what she is not. See what you need to see. Bared beneath a shining beacon to highlight the very best of her.

Against a stark white backdrop. You pass her by and do not notice her at all. Or you ponder her caress her, are curious about her. What do you see I wonder?

She is lost in vibrant colors. I show you the violet and cobalt. You see past the ebony or the dull white faded in the background. Escaping one reality mired in what she had desired and wanted. Locked in place for all eyes are upon her.

Inside herself she is expression. Glory. Shining in hope. All of her dreams awash this painted canvas in every stroke. Do you see? Her smile is to behold and her soul worn for all to see. She has no secrets. If you ask her. Breaking free of thought and pattern. She is without reason. In her mind she is art. A gift.

She is cinder. Risen from ashes weighted against her ankles. Imagining what could be. 

Sunday, August 27, 2017


In madness she descends 
A soldier of her heart
She will make it rain 
A pawn in his game

From soil she is lifted
Awakened from slumber 
She rises in wait
For he is her fate

In silence transpired 
Winged in flight
In this fury he will bring
To lay down her King


Would this uncaged heart still love?
Does a soul freed still see?
Will an unleashed mind forget?
Tell me how I undo you.
To unlearn what is known.
To fear not what is familiar.
To forget what has been felt.
Tell me how I put her back together.
Mend this fractured self.
Find her voice.
Dry her tears.
Tell me how I undo you.

Saturday, August 26, 2017

in her heart

In her heart
You are here. Unreachable. Slipping away.
Icy fingers trail distant.
Your smile fades with the sun.
Sets with the moon.
You shout. Caged. You take flight.
You say all the right things.
Still you push.
She is new. Fighting for her space.
You promise nothing. She gives all.
Words fail her. Her words will not come.
In her heart.

Thursday, August 24, 2017

this is my art

A single crisp sheet of lined paper. Freshly sharpened wooden pencil. A blank canvas. Freedom to express. Here you are who you want to be. Simple lines revealing a wonderful romance, exposing evil.  Sharing intimacies and laughter with a grander audience.

A few words. A chapter. A verse. Musings or drawings. The art of creation exploring invisible worlds reaching beyond what you know to what you believe and capturing it. Awakening this fantasy, taking your story to the streets.

There are no boundaries. Colour outside the lines. You choose – you are the architect, the designer. Spilling furiously out to the furthermost corners to get that last word, last thought captured. Wholly captivated driven in the process.

It is an emotional journey taking a character borne solely from imagination to life. Exploring who they are, discovering them as you would yourself only in printed form. Hiding nothing showing everything. Examining every little nuance of personality. Carving them a spot in your reality. Giving them breathe and humor and sorrow. The depths to which you can build and shape this person to your reality simply magical.

And when they see your words or your picture they know him. They know a piece of you. They feel. Laugh. Cry. I often look back to some of my stories weeks and months afterwards. Wondering how it came to be. What was I feeling or thinking quite in awe that this jumbled mass of words now is a piece of me for all the world to see. Disbelieving that I ever had it in me.

Taking a word and making it fit with another and another until it becomes a clear thought. A direction. A story. This is my art. This is my passion. Sparking your imagination from the fire of my own!

Wednesday, August 23, 2017


This heart. Unanchored.
Her soulful crown.
Longing for strength.
Weary of hate.
With eyes unseen. 
She fumbles.
Upon a burning road. 
She lay.
Defeated. Broken.
And from her ashes.
She is risen.

Monday, August 21, 2017

fear not

Fear not the man. His hate kept close. Or his anger. For he is fearful. Frightened of what he does not know. Alone. Broken.

You are responsible for your story. Your voice. Your words. Someone may read a passage from your book. Shout familiar to the sheep who flock to his gospel. They remain followers. Weakened in false prejudice. 

Let him take your page. Let this be all he takes from you.

You are consequence only to your choice.  The sins of the father do not lay at your feet.  You are free to wear your mistakes as experience. Be not imprisoned or victim to the masses. Forgive those who have wronged you. Hurt you. Betrayed you. In this you forgive yourself. Do not let hate win.

Know your beauty. Inside of you. That gives joy. Laughter. A gentle soul. Kindness of heart. Give of yourself freely. To those deserving. And those less so.

This one life. Where magic is created. Be your truth. Fear only those who force your will. Do not let fear rule. 

Saturday, August 19, 2017

inside me

Thoughts. Rampant.
Courageous. Wild. Striving.
Do more. Taking chances.
In my head.
I try. Being. The best of me.
In you I see perfection.
In me I see failure.
In my head.
I chase you.
I lose me.
Keep trying.
In my head.
I fail. I cry.
I am lost. I scream.
In my head.
I wish. I hope. I dream.
I am living.
In my head.

Thursday, August 17, 2017


What do you see? A girl who says too much. Says nothing at all. 
Tells you she is happy. When she is sad. 
Still she is truth.
What do you hear? She laughs. In spite of her tears. 
Her sorrow hidden. 
Expose her and she will break. 
Still she is brave.
She is her reflection. No less. And more if you choose her. 
Still she is real.
When you create her in your image. If you define her. You judge her. 
She doubts who she is. And she falls into herself. 
Still she is beauty.
All of this noise. These voices shouting at her. 
Seen through your eyes. 
Drawn with your ink. She becomes a story. 
Still she is her truth.
There is a girl. She stands before you. Do you really see her? 
Do you see her at all?

Tuesday, August 15, 2017

Oh the places I have been

A little girl. Hoisted upon the wooden bridge spanning the gully. Hopscotch squares scribbled upon gray tar. The perfect flat rock. Double-dutch on the faded rocky schoolyard. Stone steps scarring the century home gateway, post elementary built. Three stairwell tiers to the battered library. Collecting each morning on the main landing to sing and praise, glory be to our almighty.

Worn dusted roads running the length of the railway tracks. Lifting toes firmly planted into the small triangle of the metal outpost to thrust ourselves to hobo status. Walking the length fearful of an oncoming train listening cautiously. Humble steps through wooded parkland climbing the embankment to our suburban high school.

The flat handed palm unto the padded worn tennis ball kissing the brick side wall in the complex. Our 'inner city' handball. Concrete speed bumps barring any forceful foray into our little village. Stolen kisses. Capture the flag. Cigarettes butted out in the playground sand. Wishing for a few more stolen moments before the street lights glared.

Crates for end tables. Make believe school house in the unfinished basement atop overturned cardboard box desks. Pigs roasts. Sunday figure skating late afternoon. Penny black balls by the paper sac full.

I remember Sunday school – we were boldly called out as “Dogans” in spite of our Irish Catholic heritage.  And still my mother sent the three of us to Protesant Sunday school at the behest of Dr. Nancekeville (sp.) the community doctor. But it was grandma who would rise at the urgent rapping at the side door force us into our streetwear and hand us each a quarter for the collection can.

Lori the eldest would wholly contribute her quarter. Lucy and I would ping the side of the can making a tinny sound reminiscent of coin dropping onto coin. Keeping the quarter. Following an hour of gospel and story we would escape to the small town's centre with prime intent to spend our ill gotten monies furtively.  And without guilt mind you, my parents utilized this two hour reprieve to sleep in.

Born in Oshawa I have lived in approximately 17 homes in my life – attending I am quite certain every Catholic School in Durham Region. Our experiences make us – tell us inherently what works and what we need to work on.

I do not rue my upbringing. I celebrate and equate my diverse introduction to this world to my innate curiosity and creativity. Face it head on. Learn from it. Celebrate. Look back and go WOW this is who I am and how I came to be.

Monday, August 14, 2017



You die a little inside. Pieces of you lay broken scattered across the floor.
We walk around it. Pretending not to see. 
Ravaged your body slumbers. Your mind frantic. 
Searching for peace. Time heals.
Where there was light lives darkness.
Physically numb. Spiritually bound. 
Your soul empty and broken. Raw.
She will rise again. 
Her heart battle fatigued. Quietly she mourns. Wearing her armour.
She smiles. She pretends. 
No one really sees her.
A little girl lost. Get up her father cries.
But he does not catch her. 

Sunday, August 13, 2017


In ourselves we are power. This outer shell embodies good and evil love and hate. In all of our wisdom our wants our needs our desires unbridled. Constrained. Held tightly fastened only by our thoughts our decisions. We are capable of everything, what ravages our hearts and fuels our fury lay dormant easily unearthed. Passion. Ardor. Curiosity. Driving the soul to a certain madness. Capitulating a frenzied feeding of our senses claiming insanity. In mere moments. With one choice.

Complacency the evil of ordinary. Acceding, giving our voice to the demons of false reasoning. Precariously tethered to a life they knew. Stifling. Controlling. Distance festers breeding falsehood. Displaced reality further from the desperate reach of what was asked. A new story written. In a foreign tongue. Misunderstood.

With you. A profound clarity. Friendship. Compassion. Souls entwined locked in goodness. In discovery she fears less. Demands more. Seeking solace. Rejuvenation. She touches you. Your hands. Your face. Making sure you are real. An angel unmasked. Injured. Two broken pieces. Joined. Unbound, her fury unshelled. Joy permeates a battered self. She is found. 

Friday, August 11, 2017

love me

just love me
when I am happy
when I am sad
love only

Wednesday, August 9, 2017


I am to blame.
My ideas are my own.
I am capable.
My will is my own.
I am not complacent.
I am responsible to self.
I possess reason. Thought.
My mistakes are mine.
I had a choice.
I blame me.

What would I say?

Everything we experience is a lesson.  Value in each fallen tear broken heart and inability. A master plan beyond our reason our understanding that forgives transgression rewards curiosity. A puppet master of the gods striking us with sign and meaning blinding us with light filling our empty souls with energy.

And yet we are our masters of this world. We reap our havoc tender our mercies. Creators of our truth and our destinies. He who pulls the strings rules his world is not hidden or fabled in the pages of the greatest book ever written. We write the stories turn the pages with strength and courage or in falsehood and blame.

Physical perfection is not blessed. Differences and challenges are markers in time telling our battles. How hard we fought. Our victories and our losses. In the eye of the beholder we are judged and valued. In love we are validated. In ourselves we are truth. Love. Believe. Have faith in the wonderment of oneself.

I define my beauty. I am the only person who can give up. I choose to cry. I mourn my losses my failures. Yes we must empathize and feel and understand the suffering and joys of another. This makes us human and kind. We must not carry their burdens as our own.

Forgiveness brings upon openness. I am not my mistakes. I am learned from the choices and decisions I have made. We are the hardest on ourselves. Self-loathing makes us victims mirroring to others this is who I am. Shatter your illusion of yourself and defend the very best of you.

Stand naked in front of the mirror and proclaim. I am beautiful. I am kind and I am honest. I am sweet. I am funny. Tell your story. Our talents our abilities are gifts from the soul. The actor the singer the athlete are labels. Our character how we treat ourselves and live our lives define us.  Who are we really inside?

The wrapper tells the world who they think we are. Shiny or dull. Brown black white red or yellow. Loud or quiet. Tiny big curvy thin. Our flavor comes from within. We can alter the wrapper. Bend shape mold and accessorize morphing a new outer me. Still I am strong beautiful sweet and kind. My wrapper does not tell my story.

Comparison and envy the evil that lingers in our darkness tell us she is better prettier thinner. Her wrapper is her voice her choices her beauty. What she believes she simply is. Embrace the different and the unique but it must not take from you or your value your self-worth.  Be your very own best-seller.

Friday, August 4, 2017

In this moment

You held my hand. Filled my mind with colour and delight. Painted pictures with every story. Every fable woven beautifully. I believed. I imagined. 

We struggled. You never showed sorrow. Fear. With you I felt safe. Free from worry. Mighty and strong you simply were how you raised us to be. 

A boy abandoned. Your childhood taken at thirteen. A man by reckoning. Success if it were to be measured by what you had overcome and what we had built. This perfect life. A reflection of what you wanted us to see. Broken glass revealing all that was false all that had been untrue. Built upon what you had desired. Fiercely guarded our familial blocks crumbled. All we were simply another tale, another chapter in your book.

Amid the rubble and stone I fight to separate truth from pretend. In the light of day and with passing of youth I finally see. Rather there was struggle. Loosened roots dusting an earth unsettled. Betrayal and so much hurt. A foundation unstable built upon lies precariously fragile. Fools, worshipers of each spoken word as gospel. Your words; what should have been your gift became your medium for our falling.

Still she loved you. Kept you untarnished a hero. My false idol upon whose altar we prayed. Untruths in every darkened corner hidden in every letter every closed drawer unmasked before our eyes. Your new life. The burden of falsehood crushing making staying impossible. And we mourned. Oh how i raged my tarnished angel. Disbelief and disillusion borne of our sorrow our tears. Clinging fiercely to one another victims in your game.

My unburdened soul finally free from the madness of your deceipt. The world you so carelessly shed unwanted risen from the ashes stronger and healing. This doting young heart who claimed you for her very own superhero breathes once more. Her heart guarded. A spirit united in self; knowing she like the mighty oak stands resilient. This storm too shall pass. We are defined by the strength of what we survive. Loved by those who stayed. 

Because of you I am.

Wednesday, August 2, 2017

What I See

Silence thick between us.
Words cannot push through.
I love you.
Do you hear me.

You are truth.
Who is this girl.
A heart wide open.
She is good.

She is knowing.
She is beautiful
Her story is freedom.
Her voice matters.

There is no hate.
Seeds of love.
She is truth.
In you she is found.

A soul consumed.
With great wings she soars.
She can fly.

Tuesday, August 1, 2017

Your story

Who defines meaning. The path you choose. The road you follow. Your choices. Your journey.

What you value simply is. Time. Distance. Love. Fueling your desire. Passion dictates your destiny.

A picture. A poem. Graffiti on worn brick. What moves you pushes you. Creator of your world.

Laugh more. Feel more. Do more. All you have in this moment. Today. Is your doing.

Paint what fills your dreams in slumber. Write what consumes your soul.  Reaper of seeds sewn. A plentiful harvest in full bloom vibrant with colours and textures you pick.

Desire nothing. Want for nothing. Ask for nothing. Free yourself. What steals your conscious? Make valuable what matters. Be accountable for who you are.

Live. Laugh. Love. I am all in. #iam