There are some truths too quiet to say out loud. They live beneath the surface, dressed in competence and success, hidden behind the applause, the promotions, the practiced smile. This poem speaks to one of those truths—the relentless, invisible weight of never feeling good enough. Not because of failure, but in spite of achievement. It's written without the word I , but make no mistake—it’s personal. For anyone who’s ever worn the shape the world asked for and still felt like an imposter beneath it, Chameleon Skin is for you. Chameleon Skin Not for lack of effort, nor talent braided into bone. The hands did what was asked. The voice bent in every key. Smiles were painted precise. Mirrors practiced them well. In boardrooms, applause. At home, a quiet too vast for words. Always the first in, last to leave. Deadlines dissolved under fingertips worn thin. Still— not enough. A name on plaques, a corner office view, the slow nod of respect that never pierced the shell. Each rung climb...

It was only yesterday that I discovered a group of butterflies is called a kaleidoscope, and I had to put that in a poem. So I started thinking about all the beautiful, strange, and poetic names we give to gatherings of animals—murders, parliaments, flamboyances—and how each one carries a kind of quiet unity. This poem is what came out of that wondering, and maybe a little loneliness too.  The Ones Who Gather A kaleidoscope of butterflies, turning air into stained glass, wings brushing wings in a hush of color— they move as one, a prayer held aloft by sunlight. A murder of crows circles the edge of dusk, black-threaded thoughts sewn into the hem of sky. Even in omen, they arrive together. A parliament of owls sits in the cathedral of trees, silent but listening, wisdom not as one voice but many held in counsel. A pod of dolphins— spindrift and shimmer, laughing through salt and wave, mapping the world with echoes answered. A mischief of rats in the alley’s forgotten script, bol...

 There are moments in life when the choices before us aren’t clear-cut—when we’re not deciding between right and wrong, but between two difficult, uncertain paths. Some are quiet, personal crossroads: whether to stay or leave, speak or stay silent, act or wait. Others are much larger, woven into the world’s violence and velocity—choices that ask who we are, and who we’re willing to become. The Narrow Path is a poem about those in-between places. It's about walking the line between action and retreat, resistance and resignation. It's about the tension we live with—individually and collectively—as the world asks more of us than certainty can offer. This piece doesn't aim to provide answers. Only to hold space for the questions, and the weight of walking. The Narrow Path Photo by Rachel Claire: https://www.pexels.com/photo/narrow-road-between-fields-with-plants-4993212/ We walk the line where shadow slips beneath the trees, not night, not day— but the hush between. Not the ...

 The world around me shapes my words and thoughts. Today, it was the story of a young woman— the valedictorian of an Ottawa high school—being punished for speaking out about the evils of this world. The same education system that taught her to think critically, to speak with conviction, is now trying to silence her. Unclouded They say the young don’t see the world for what it truly is— but maybe they see it better. Not yet blinkered by the cataracts of life: compromise, comfort, the slow erosion of outrage by daily bread and discounted dreams. They see with eyes not fogged by history, not dimmed by the weary math of what will sell, what will pass, what won’t rock the boat too much. We sit idle in the couch cushions we’ve moulded to our shape, not noticing how long we’ve sunk there, how the springs gave out years ago. But the young rise, refusing to settle long enough to shape the world to their laurels, choosing instead to push against walls, and break down barri...

 Walking the Edge Of Silence He walks the edge of things, not for thrill, but because the center holds no welcome. What was once a life now drags like loose thread— unraveling in silence, no protest, no plea.   Friends became ghosts long before they left. Family: a word too large for the absence it holds. He stopped trying to explain. They stopped trying to care.   But the dogs— two tired shadows at his feet— still follow him through wind and winter. They ask nothing. They know everything. Their breath keeps time with the broken metronome of his heart.   He tells himself he stays for them, and it’s true. He could not bear to vanish while their eyes still search the door, while their paws still trust the earth to bring him back.   To leave them— is to sentence the loyal to bewilderment and slow hunger. It would mark his soul with a wound that no grave could close. He would carry their pain through whatever came next. And he will not do that to them.   And th...

 Strings We enter this world as fallen puppets, limbs sprawled across the stage of existence— no strings to lift us skyward, no master's hand to guide our dance. Born frail and feeble, we draw strength from those around us, grasping at invisible threads that promise to pull us upright, to steady us as we move through the world. The first string to attach, for the fortunate, anchors in the heart of a loving mother— silver-spun and strong as steel. It lifts our chin, straightens our spine, teaches us what it means to stand. Then comes family, bound by blood or bond— the strings longer, more flexible, but still supportive. Friendship’s golden wire finds hold next: laughter’s crimson cord, the emerald thread of first love that makes us leap and spin. We gather strings like promises, each one a reason to rise— mentors who guide our gestures, passions that animate our purpose. For a while, we dance beautifully, suspended in a web of care. Every movement gr...

 As I embrace the life of a hermit, a recluse, and a writer , I find myself engaging more deeply with the world through ideas , not presence. These ideas don’t always arrive fully formed—they come in fragments, in twilight hours, in dreams I half-remember. You’ll find them in my books, my quiet thoughts, and sometimes, in poems like this one. Photo by Pixabay: https://www.pexels.com/photo/sunset-across-seat-301494/ Worlds Between Worlds I’ve lived my life, Many lives, In the twilight. Not that space Between day and night, When the sun escapes Over the horizon, And the moon shuffles To its nightly observation post— But the space between my eyelids, Blocking out the day, Preparing to transition me from one world to the next— From the world of the living, To the world of the subconscious. The twilight is the world that exists Between those. It is that world In which I have so many lives. A rancher, a recluse, A holy man, a hermit, A lover, a fighter, A man of power, a man of me...

Some words arrive unexpectedly—unattached to any story, yet too vivid to be left unwritten. Over time, I’ve found myself collecting these fragments of poetry, pieces that don’t belong in my novels but still deserve a life of their own in the world. My blog has already welcomed one of these wandering verses, but  Fragments of Frost and Fire  is a home for these untethered creations. A space where fleeting thoughts and deeper reflections take form, shaped by ice and flame, stillness and fury, life and loss. Some will stand alone, while others may one day find their place in larger works, but all will linger here, waiting to be felt. Wounds That Won't Heal  You flinch, As It cuts deep, Opening you up, Exposing the nerves, Every wisp of air, Flowing over the wound, Triggering those exposed nerves, Ramping up that pain.   But it’s only for a moment, You hope, As you close up that wound, Wrapping it tightly, So no one can see it.   Someti...

Introducing: Fragments of Frost and Fire Some words arrive unexpectedly—unattached to any story, yet too vivid to be left unwritten. Over time, I’ve found myself collecting these fragments of poetry, pieces that don’t belong in my novels but still deserve a life of their own in the world. My blog has already welcomed one of these wandering verses, but Fragments of Frost and Fire marks the beginning of something more—a home for these untethered creations. A space where fleeting thoughts and deeper reflections take form, shaped by ice and flame, stillness and fury, life and loss. Some will stand alone, while others may one day find their place in larger works, but all will linger here, waiting to be felt. The first poem under this theme is The Slow Bloom of Ice , a meditation on death not as a sudden force, but as something that seeps, grows, and takes hold from within. The Slow Bloom of Ice  It flows in all life, A pure, primordial element, From which life emerges, The sus...