Saturday, August 20, 2016

Dutiful, Me

I am alone, 
silently sulking in contemplation;
where my imagination, 
can run wild and free.
My thoughts return to the afternoon,
and my devoted obligation, 
for the love of you and me.
The shadows of leaves, moved in the breeze,
through the sunlight that illuminated the room.
And, in our bedroom window, 
the electric fan hummed on low;
Your eyes were closed, and not with me.
They were somewhere far away, 
locked in fantasy.
Yet, I found no reason to anger,
and what may be even stranger,
that I felt only complacency.
I'm not sure when this happened,
and now my mind is full of questions...
What happened to you and me?
The nine to five grind, keeps us alive;
but, what price have we paid for conformity?
I admit the day's end leaves me tired,
Yet, you arrive home with that look in your eyes,
full of want and desire;
And the next thing I know, 
the fan hums on low...
Dutiful me.

©Denise Goodwin, All Rights Reserved

Sunday, August 14, 2016


I picture you in a blackened room,
with moonlight spilling through the blinds.
You are quite alone in this view, 
and that's no surprise. 
Here, the music plays without a tune;
There is no feminine touch, or possessions,
No self expression, or lingering perfume.
Yet, I hesitate to be the judge and jury,
as you describe, in diatribes, words of glory;
for loneliness seeps from your soul.
I am sorry for you, and my heart bleeds;
Though I sadly confess, my heart is like a machine.
Words, you use to describe power and control ,  
Words that exude accusations and hate.
The inverted projection of guilt and shame,
are frequently your means of escape.
Every day is a soliloquy of salvation.
No one, but you, can provide alleviation,
or hold the vocation to find a solution;
For in your mind, you are the keeper of the key.
You spend so much time defending,
your justifications without ending;
told through your cynical comedies.
Suffice to say, we grow weary of your tragedies.
And, you seek no true redemption, 
for your perpetual aggression;
As your truths are your beliefs.
As human beings, we all tout morality,
and bend the reality of our true philanthropy.
We seek the same absolution for our sins,
and all are subject to the same undying wind.
We want to substantiate our authenticity,
and to vindicate our time and energy. 
Then my mind returns to thinking
of you, alone at night, with the moon.
and these thoughts are persisting,
as I imagine of how you must desire perfume.

© Denise Goodwin, All Rights Reserved

Sunday, July 24, 2016


The music of a heavenly violin is fading, 
and the light grows dim;
Vainly, I strained to hear one last note of the hymn.
Yet, darkness spread across the land;
And, the utter silence was invading, 
My attention, it did demand.
Now, the earth is desolate, and bare;
All of humanity has fled in fear.
The land is cursed with atrocities;
No light can penetrate such blackness,
For the dark is so black, its blue.
And yet, despite countless adversities,
A tiny ember of light slowly grew.
A weak obsession to seek the truth,
Compelled to preserve the insignificant,
Of this something called self;
Gave me strength to draw a feeble sword,
to clash iron against the subconscious;
For my own salvation, I desperately implored.
Then, the dark was shattered into countless pieces;
and in the subsequent calmness,
One of which, became me.
For, darkness can be defeated, 
but never destroyed;
As the incarnation of all fear, 
is the void.

© Denise Goodwin, All rights reserved. 

Friday, July 15, 2016

The House Down the Lane

The hours have slipped away,
since I walked the stairs in mid-day,
to subdue my restless isolation.
For my curiosity was piqued, 
upon the discovery,
of an abandoned house, down the lane.
I beheld the former glory, of an old story,
as I slipped in, secretly.
Surprised by the revelation, 
that was beyond fascination,
I explored the old house and home.
Another flight of stairs, I ascended;
with all human decency suspended
to the attic, for all was unintended,
like a neglected catacomb.
I expelled a heavy sigh of wonder,
as I begin to inspect and plunder,
the refuse of a long-departed man and wife.
A beautiful waste-land of a forgotten paradise.
As I opened the weathered curtains to splay daylight,
and to replace the rays of faint, dusty white;
Floorboards creaked under my weight,
as I moved to investigate
the candlesticks, clocks and old photographs,
held captive in a labyrinth of a cobweb's grasp.
Chests, carved ornate, with dates in wood,
long forgotten, yet, time has withstood,
Another's keepsakes and memories.
Opening an old diary, was a rare discovery;
As I bent to read her words of affection,
Where, betwixt the pressed ferns and leaves,
Evident tears, sprouted flowers of aged ink.
The musty pages revealed her dreams and reflections,
and methinks, she wore her heart on her sleeve.
Yearning for more information,
I implore the hidden apparitions;
To give explanations, of this bygone time.
Speak to me, Stranger, have you any advise?
From nebulous corners, I hear faint whispers;
and confessions of love, in cherished letters, 
still smelling faintly of perfume and myrrh.
Instruments are still, their melodies unheard;
I unveil gilded portraits, long undisturbed.
Yet, no answer is given,
Here, in the midden, of the loft and garret;
Save, the soft drone and buzzing of flies.
As I fondly adore this caged retrograde;
I caress jeweled goblets,
and smell the fragrant roses
that once filled a silver vase.
As I envision the soirees and jubilees,
Gentlemen wore neutral suits with ascots,
and women mindlessly hand-spun lace.
Trunks are filled with olden treasure, 
and, reveal rugs of bearskin and leopard;
Monogrammed hankies, and feathered pens.
From an age of the dainty and sublime;
Etiquette was established and society, refined. 
Day turns to night, and the sunlight fades,
I'll return tomorrow, I quietly say,
to where the mysteries and phantoms wait.

© Denise Goodwin, All rights reserved.

Thursday, July 14, 2016

From The Wreckage

I romanced every notion of growing older...
Envisioning myself in fine clothes and jewelry;
All would gather to hear my clever anecdotes
and stories, told so beautifully.   
Holding a sparkling cocktail in my hand,
as the life of the party, I would command,
the center of attention.
But the truth is, a sad reality;
I only created tension,
as conversations veered into other dimensions.
My laughter increased, like a contagious disease
and soon my devotees turned,
like tortured detainees,
and drifted into corners.
Inside me, the wolves would begin to howl,
as I crept with readied arrow, on the prowl.
No one was safe, and they slowly escaped
my sudden piety or drunken rage.
Years have passed, as have the guilt and the shame,
Yet, invisible threads still holds a blackened heart.
It ties knots in nooses and still reduces 
me to little pieces, 
and, the seams still come apart.
Lo, from the wreckage, I have built a ship;
and I embark to a new horizon,
without the fear of repercussion,
as the spirits have lost their seduction.
No longer must I rise from the depths,
where I had sunken.
The sands shift, and I'm still adrift, 
and though, I am not without resentment;
Each stitch I slip, 
is a gift, called the present.

© Denise Goodwin, All rights reserved.

Monday, July 11, 2016

Venus Sleeps

He gazes at his Venus,
His statue Saint;
Through the cold of winter,
when berries and branches
crack and splinter;
and through summer's dog days,
when the fire of the sun 
burns and blisters;

He waits.

Eternally mesmerized 
by her marbled eyes, 
where no light has ever shown.
He longs to touch, one last time
her skin now captured in stone.
Half-blind inside his tormented mind;
Possessed with a celestial notion,
He laments for one last kiss.
Enraptured with macabre devotion;
Sitting at the foot of her mossy crypt. 
Obsessed like a soulless, spinning spider;
lying motionless in wait,
to inject it's sweet, tainted poison
onto it's victims lips.
Yet all the while,
She gives naught a smile
as she stares into the abyss;
Beyond Heaven,
past the great ivory gates.
She wears a gown of verdant frosting,
sprinkled with daisies
and Queen Anne's Lace.
Slumbering silently beneath,
where flames lick her feet.

Venus sleeps. 

© Denise Goodwin, All Rights Reserved

"It is very rare that anyone will post negative comments on anothers work on here, so I wouldn't feel too nervous about sharing your work, beside's which if this is a fair example of your work you should feel confident." -Write Out Loud
"This is very enjoyable; the idea of cold marble has a sort of de-humanising effect on the senses and you have captured this by making it so wistful and poignant." -Write Out Loud
"Wow - I like this - a lot - beautiful imagery x" -Write Out Loud 

""Sitting at the foot of her mossy crypt." Oh I say!"" -Write Out Loud

""She wears a gown of verdant frosting, sprinkled with daisies" Thats a rather lovely image, though sad.  I have read this several times now and it reveals more on each reading. Although it refers to death and loss it also hits a note of unrequited love. Which in itself is like dying, but slowly. I did enjoy it, thanks."  -WriteOutLoud

Sunday, July 10, 2016

Queen Nefarious

Long ago, a modest kingdom had risen,

When the King took a damsel from a dismal prison.

She became the Queen, as a woman of exceptional beauty;

She secretly sought the throne; and to rule it, absolutely.

She warned the lovesick Lord of a looming threat,

and revealed to him the mysteries of the undead.

Together they traveled to many lands,

To conquer evil; and, Darkness, to disband.

They commanded elite knights, upon which they relied,

To crush and kill the inhabitants of all who defy.

The Queen gave to each, (scores of men), a golden ring,

bearing the Dragon emblem of the King.

And, a mighty kingdom was built upon the ground of the defeated;

They had vanquished the Dark, and it slowly receded.

Ships docked on land with many seeking the Light,

Bells rang daily, to signal the Sentries, that more had arrived.

And peace fell upon the land, like a summer's trickling stream.

A peace so deep, it was like the memories of a dream.

Lo, darkness returned, because the Kingdom was cursed;

Buried secrets, of myth and magic, were unearthed.

For in the depths of the castle lived a secluded mage,

Who knew the Queen was not really whom she portrayed.

She was the undead, who sought souls to feed her hunger,

She must feast on the souls of the young and the tender.

To sustain her perpetual resurrection, I must mention;

That betwixt the silken folds of her sweeping gown,

She detained the unwilling souls of the dead;

And, no one could hear their wailing laments,

For as long as she wore the imperial crown.

And, so the mage surreptitiously warned the king,

Of the impending doom, she soon would bring.

Suspicion and trepidation slowly increased,

And, across the land, returned terrible beasts.

Many who visited the castle, soon disappeared,

And the people of the region, quietly feared;

The King considered how to preserve the land's fate,

He knew he must smother the shadow and tend the flame.

But, the misty veil grew, casting Darkness from dawn to twilight,

As the Queen summoned greater power from the Eternal Night.

The King, knew he must defy and defeat the cursed Queen,

He summoned the Mage and together, they schemed.

Rushing the stairs, she refused to open the throne door;

Challenging his authority, justifying her insatiable lust for more.

The Mage advised the King they must summon a great fire,

For only Light can extinguish her great desire.

And from his cloak, he produced a seemingly ordinary ember,

The dull Light radiated an eerie glow, as if it remembered.

A great wind, from his staff,  the mage suddenly produced,

Igniting the ember, and a fierce white Light was unloosed.

A weak Light slowly fell through the castle door cracks,

Then, lightning erupted and thunder clapped,

The Queen could be heard tumbling, expelling a gasp.

The forged hinges and wood were torn from the threshold,

With tortured screams, and burning with merciless holes;

The Queen collapsed and released the souls that were chained,

Charred soot, and Her crown was all that remained.

And Light grew across the Kingdom, and fires again burned,

The tiny ember still flickered, and, humanity returned.

Now the great King lives in peace, and quite alone,

High in the turret on his majestic throne;

He contemplates both the Darkness and Light.

Pondering their secrets, though, still unknown,

The King keeps vigil both day and night,

For neither truly have a beginning, nor an end.

He tends the dying ember, as each night descends.

© Denise Goodwin, November 14, 2015
All rights reserved.