Snow Angel
Spreading her limbs, she is a snow angel
beneath the willow. Each crystal creates
a new pattern on her nakedness; clings
to the tip of breast and fullness of thigh.
The wide arc of her arms expands her wings;
the motion of her legs, straightens her skirt.
Winter’s breath, carried to her across fields,
kisses away the cold to warm her skin
from pale to rose, leaves her heavy with sleep.
Ice-curled branches dip, encircle her
bed of white with a lover’s tender touch.
Ready to take flight, her eyes close, lips part,
and with an exhalation, she soars high
above the ground; silhouette left below.



Waiting for One More
A veil of mist hangs across eyelashes
and cheeks; caresses her top lip as a
lover’s tongue might – an enticement to keep
her eyes closed and savor the sensations
rippling through. This fog rises up from
her midnight dreams and the soft edge of sleep,
where she lingers, waiting for one more kiss,
one more touch before allowing the heat
of day to burn away the memory,
leaving her exposed – and wanting…needing.
Shifting into routine, away from him,
she walks the dog, sips coffee, and gazes
across the daylight hours into night
where she will visit him again in dream.

© Siobhan
June 12, 2009


No Reply Necessary

I write words as if I am waiting

for a response –

they disappear in the ether

the words mine alone,
no reply necessary.

I whisper into the darkness
hear an echo of what might have been.

I stroke flesh as if I am waiting

for a response –

it’s the sensations lost

that I am missing the most,
no answering caress.

I reach out into the night
feel the emptiness surrounding me
– know it is my own touch
– know it is my own voice

understand, no reply necessary.


Memory’s Voice


The wind whips and pulls me away from here,

not light enough to fall off

                                                the world’s edge…


in spite of what they say, I really have

not wasted away to near-nothingness.


It may be just trying to tug my wits

away, knows I’ve too much to think about.


I’m lost, have become forgetful – some times

especially when you are on my mind.


It is a day for curling on the couch,

wrapped in blankets, with popcorn or red wine,

old movies, reading a really good book,

or perhaps napping to the sound of rain.


Memory’s voice plays between the storm clouds,

whispers lead me astray – and I vanish.



© Siobhan


She Keeps on Writing


Glamorous at thirty-four, she was young,

flippant and free.  You’d never guess she was

a single mother of rambunctious boys –

two charmers – their father’s eyes and her smile –

a dangerous combination for life.


Slipped into silk, or satin or black lace,

green eyes sparkling, she took on the world,

her imagination the written word.

She danced beneath the moon, believed in love,

friendship wrapped with passion and desire,

and a dash of lust for late night romance.


Attractive at forty-five, in her dreams

excitement exists, life holds promises

yet to be found with opportunities

undiscovered – so she keeps on writing…