My lovely top chum, Miss Prosecco, quoted Seneca in an email to me last month: 
"They lose the day in expectation of the night -- and lose the night in fear of the dawn."

It struck me that the fearful mentality is one that has chased me around as I've grown up, like some bloated predator. 
And indeed, it's remained a frequent visitor for too many years of my adulthood. 

Happily, I've made myself a promise recently and stuck to it: 
While I can't banish Mister Fear from my home entirely, He is no longer welcome at Chez Buffy. 

So there. 


Is a virus 
That spreads thru the mind 
Causing anxiety & depression. 

But confidence 
Is a flame 
That spreads & ignites dynamism; 
It burns hot, bright & beautiful. 

Presently, I'm empowered. 
And, like the gorgeous phoenix 
I'm mightily thankful 
For the flame.



Shh... listen. 
Can you hear that?
It's the ethereal sound
Of spiritual magic
In the whispering woods.

Shhh... listen. 
Can you hear that?
It's the ambrosial sound
Of enlightened laughter
Deep in my soul.

Shhhh... listen.
Can you hear that? 
It's the rapturous sound
Of the cogs of my creativity
Whirring into life.

Shhhhh... listen. 
Can you hear that?
It's the celestial sound
Of my prison bars
Slowly dissolving.



Hi there, 
I'm afraid I've not been in a 'chummy' mood for some time. 
[ Issues too close to home, you see. ]
I've not wished to be cryptic. 
At the same time, talking at length makes me feel as if I'm simply complaining.  
But never mind.
Another 5-7-5 extended haiku...


It's 'coming out' time: 
I'm the sad long-time victim
Of a Narcissist. 

Trapped for many years
In an invisible box; 
I'm tired; I'm ashamed. 

In other bad news: 
OCD has played its part
In keeping me weak. 

An inmate for life? 
Is this the final chapter? 
Or maybe there's more? 

I am no hero; 
Greatness is not my buddy; 
But could we still meet? 

Never rate too low
Intestinal fortitude: 
The Power of Grit. 

With sheer force of will
Perhaps I can still achieve 
The impossible?



Six verses; six syllables a line...


I've been trapped in a cage.
But until recently
I hadn't seen the bars. 

I've been utterly blind.
But until recently
I'd thought my vision sharp. 

I've been drowning in tar. 
But until recently
I'd believed I could float. 

Older, sadder, wiser?
At least the middle term
Remains open to change.

Eyes open to the light: 
Is it ever too late
For illumination? 

Thinking on this question
I say now, loud and clear: 
Never. Never. Never.



So what about January, mes amis?
This month's been awfully chaotic for me. 
Can't deny it.
[ Mostly circumstantial, though. ]
However -- I'm still optimistic. 
This month will be the worst month of 2O18.  
So there. 


Talking in riddles?
Parading my woes? 
Speaking in a deep shade
Of sweet purple prose? 

Spending my own sweet time
Treading that fine line
Between self-expression
And self-obsession. 

Sweet January blues; 
"Dreary" is my situation.
But I'm not choosing
To spread the desolation. 

Today was a bastard
And tomorrow will be cold.
But the future? That's mine: 
I'll transmute it to gold. 

Blog me some blogging; 
Fight the good fight. 
Step by step upward
Towards joyous light.



Inspired by yesterday --  
A Monday dedicated to waiting:


Impatient pacing. 
An urgent uncertainty.  
Elongated time.

Wellness from illness? 
Hating high-risk surgery; 
Endless afternoon. 

Grim grinder of teeth;
Fingertip table-drummer.
Finally? All clear.

Something to sup, now?
I'd prefer a pint of air. 
Bolt for the exit!

Drinking in deep breaths;
A large, luxurious calm. 
Doom? Another day.




The rancid Queen scowls
On her decaying throne
Of brittle-dry bones.
A realm in bloody chaos;
Us peasants drinking in the pain. 

The kindly King? Sickly. 
Sour reward for age and indulgence.
His ennobling, enabling nature
Approved a new reign of terror.
And now? Eaten alive. 

He spends gentle days wasting away
Like the fisher-king of Carbonec; 
The foulness of his fat tumour
Reflected in spasms of hatred
Throughout the putrid land. 

No chosen one? No miracle? 
No Perceval? No Galahad? 
Don't you trust the storytellers: 
Life's rarely as romantic
As they - or we - would wish. 

Without a beacon, I stagger
Boozily thru the stinking streets;
My throat dry from anger
I hesitate to state:
"Long live the Queen." 

Tyranny always ends? 
We can only hope for hope. 
Now, I do all I can: 
Placing one trembling foot
In front of the other.