Miss Charlotte

A poem about the film "Hush... Hush, Sweet Charlotte," starring Bette Davis and my idol, Olivia de Havilland.

Young Miss Charlotte Hollis was forsaken by her lover.
Most say 'twas she who killed him and her daddy was the cover,
for no one could deny the bloodstains found upon her dress.
Still, Charlotte swore her innocence- to crime she'd not confess.
But given what they knew, the town saw only one solution:
Charlotte was the culprit in her lover's execution.
And so, from that day forward townsfolk whispered and they talked,
laying down a quilt of eggshells on the ground where Charlotte walked.
And all she had to fill the gaping void within her heart
was a music box John gave her when their love was at its start.
It's sweet piano rhythm lulls her to a land of dreams
where hope hangs pungent in the air, and nothing's what it seems.
'Tis here that she can dance with him and feel his love's embrace;
and it's here that she speak with him, and touch his gentle face.
But morning's light shall bring her to the truth and day begins.
Once again upon a cross, repenting for another's sins.
But is it true atonement when there's nothing to atone for?
Should they throw these stones when there is nothing to throw stones for?
But how could she defend herself when she knew not the truth?
These lies consumed her innocence and stole away her youth.
Now in her crippled twilight years, she needs another's care.
For this she calls upon a long-lost kindred spirit fair.
How sweet her cousin Miriam had always seemed to be.
Yet one eve Miss Charlotte found out something unbeknownst to she.
Dear Miriam was not the sweet and lovely saint at all,
for many moons agi her kind demeanor took a fall.
Charlotte knew her secret now- she'd blackmailed Mrs. Mayhew.
She let them blame young Charlotte and great riches were her thank you.
Tell the truth or walk away from this was Charlotte's twisted plight.
Alas, she knew what she must do, and that it must be done this night.
She's spent er life in shadows, but tonight she'll grow new wings.
What a tangled web we weave; what solace retribution brings.

America's Queen

Written for Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, inspired by her strength and poise after the death of John F. Kennedy.

It's a gaslight situation,
the downfall of a nation.
Gunshots bringing more than death to just one man.

The tears were in your eyes
but, for the world, you didn't cry.
The strongest of them all, you held his hand.

His final moments dragging on,
you told yourself you must be strong,
and you hoped that Caroline would understand.

Your only other bother?
Little John would have no father.
There'd be no one there to make that boy a man.

Cameras flashed like lightning
catching images so frightening
that, to this day, they still affect our land.

But it was bloodstains on your dress
that told the world he was at rest.
Then there was grief that, for this country, you'd withstand.

You never told the story
that is Oswald's crowning glory-
you took the past and buried it in sand.

It was your grace that kept our nation
from collapsing in Damnation
and, to you, we give an everlasting hand.

For even in your death you're seen
as the past, the present, and future Queen
of a nation that, because of you, still stands.

And written on your epitaph
is "In darkness she had made us laugh."
For, when no one else could, we said "Jackie can."

Suddenly, Last Summer

Inspired by the Tennessee Williams play of the same name. (This one is longer, making up for the briefness of last week's piece.)


She screamed-
she screamed so loud the earth shook.
But no one heard her;
not one solitary look

toward her pained, contorted face.
They're consumed in their kill.
Her heart an empty space
as she watches, and her cries fill

the humid summer sky.
No one will believe her
when she tries to tell them why
the young man had to leave her.

So she locked it up inside
and now she can't remember.
Her spirit's well has dried,
her soul's become December

morning frost.
No one understands her.
The memories she's lost
hold the painful, bloody answer

to the questions they have asked.
But she contests to tell them
the truth, which she has masked
with the lies that she will tell them

in her desperate attempt
to bury what she's seen.
Her contrived, yet plain, contempt
labeled only as obscene.

She's cornered now-
sedated, forced to speak
of what she found
atop that mountain peak.

They devoured him.
Or, to her it seemed that way.
They took her sound mind with them
when they sucked his soul away.

The world they knew had ended
to the beat of one lone drummer.
Her insanity, distended
suddenly. So suddenly, yes... Suddenly, last summer.

Come Early Morning

Disclaimer: Contrary to your first thoughts once you read this, it is NOT about sex. I repeat, NOT ABOUT SEX!!!


I await the sacred hours daylight falls behind the trees-
a momentary chance to sing in perfect harmony.
I smile to myself, for I'll see you breathing soon,
and we'll dance our twilight waltz beneath the ever-watchful moon.

My heart is growing heavy as each moment passes by-
another second closer to the early morning sky.
The instant when the sunlight tears our fragile souls apart,
and leaves us once again to heal our wounded, bleeding hearts.

The Tamer and the Shrew

A poem about an old friend, and our unhealthy relationship.


How do I loathe thee?
Let me count the ways:
I hate your moonless, pitch-black nights
and your cloudy, rain-filled days.
The sun is up, the sun is down;
we never seem to once agree.
In a circle, round and round,
on a carousel are we.
You starve me like the raven
and you beat me like the slave.
I'm forced to sit and listen
as you ramble on and rave.
You have deemed me so unworthy
of the slightest vague attentions,
making nothing of my efforts-
all my greatest of intentions.
You have forced me to my knees
in a customary bow
but I'm determined to break free,
and that's my solitary vow.
You say I am unruly
but, dear, many disagree;
they see me for my softer side-
the lonely girl in me.
You've cracked your whip to break me,
make me something you could love.
You contrived for me concealing masks,
like hands within a glove.
But I'll not be distorted,
for I'm not your molding clay.
I won't again be garnished,
for I'm no one's art display.
In this game, you stand as "Tamer"
and, I, the unloved shrew.
But I won't change my wicked ways
to be good enough for you.

A Lighthouse On the Harbor

For Olivia de Havilland, who has inspired me to never conform to anyone's standards. She is a prime example of what it means to stand by your convictions, and bow down to no one.


I went searching for a lighthouse
that could guide me to the shore.
There once had been a glimmer
but, alas, it was no more.

The sky was dark and moonless
with not a star in sight,
the wind was whipping harshly,
and the cold began to bite.

The waves were crashing loudly,
and the tide began to rise.
The undertow had pulled me
farther from the midnight skies.

I was drowning in my sorrows,
pulled under by despair.
I felt my body thrashing
but I could not meet the air.

I felt the end draw nearer
as each moment passed me by.
With no hope for sweet salvation,
I heaved one final sigh.

I let myself sink lower,
'til my feet did touch the floor.
I could feel the sand beneath me
as my soul shook to the core.

But something jerked me forward,
and I was raked across the tide
until my body broke the surface
and my hands did touch the sky.

I looked on the horizon,
and to my utmost glee,
I saw a lighthouse shining,
and an angel beckoned me.

I swam with vim and vigor,
eager to meet land,
and my heart swelled with great rapture
when my fingers touched the sand.

I stood up and I smiled
when the angel touched my face.
I was grateful for this second chance;
moreso for her grace.

I'd an angel's light to guide me
from a sea of wrath and fear
to a shore where hope runs rampant,
and reflections stare back clear.

I once was so transfixed
by all the reasons I stood out
that I never learned to love myself,
and was overcome with doubt.

I began to slowly purge myself
of gluttony and sin
until all the mirror showed me
was brittle bones and skin.

No soul behind my eyes,
and no heart within my chest,
I became a perfect robot,
but I was sicker than the rest.

For in my journey to conform,
I drifted out to sea.
My secret almost drowned me
and I nearly ceased to be.

But then an angel called me
and led me to a mirror
where, for the first time, I did see myself,
and the truth became much clearer.

I hated what I saw,
for that girl was not alive-
she had purged into oblivion,
her beauty was contrived.

Olivia, the angel,
had that for which I longed:
a beauty that came freely,
not by doing oneself wrong.

And so, her hand in mine,
I walked a winding road
towards health and love and freedom-
things Bulimia forbode.

The journey made was long,
and I took many a wrong turn,
but I made the greatest effort,
and I've so much left to learn.

For I'll never be so free
as to say I do not suffer,
but I'll stay so far away
as to say things could be tougher.

And I'll always have my angel,
with her halo and her wings,
to steer me down this narrow path
amd remind me of these things.

My angel is Olivia;
she's the reason I'm alive,
with her smile sweet as candy,
and beauty one could not contrive.

She saved from myself
in the very bleakest minute.
She showed me what I could be,
all my heart, and what's within it.

And you still hear it beating,
for I overcame great strife
with the help of sweet Olivia,
for she gave the gift of life.

Silent Is the Night

I wrote this poem about the toll attachment issues take on one's psyche and personal relationships. It comes from a personal place- the fear that because someone didn't answer when you called, or didn't reply to your text, they just don't care about you. It's about that constant fear of the slightest rejection.


I spent so long throwing stones at your window
that I never knocked on the door.
I'm forever haunted by silence not broke;
there came your sweet voice nevermore.

'Twas wrong to believe, still, 'twas wrong to deceive,
so it was falsely I adored.
I should have gave in but, instead, was drawn in
further each time I was ignored.

I was so mesmerized by twinkle star eyes
and a smile bright and sunny
that the strong medicine most would grow to despise
tasted much sweeter than honey.

As I spoke to the air, I stood with a stare
blank as freshly fell snow.
It just isn't fair that, although you don't care,
I cannot let this go.

It's so hard to refrain from loving in vain
when it's all you have anymore.
To trust, so afraid, but, intrigued, I had stayed,
and, thus, was shaken to the core.

A love that could heal holds a world of appeal;
so much that it matters the most.
And sometimes I feel like, to you, I'm not real-
nothing more than the feint of a ghost.

The years I spent throwing stones at your window
wouldn't change had I chose the door.
I called and I called; just silence would follow.
There came your sweet voice... Nevermore...