Tale of Devon Lee (inspired by the poetry of Dr. J Ridenhour of the famous “Cornerboys” and “House of the Yaga” – check them out on Youtube!


At the end of the lane

There stands a perfectly poised cottage

Where all lies still under the fully round moon


slumbers Devon Lee

Her copper curls askew

And she dreams of the woods my friend

And she dreams of the wood


“What a beautiful woods dear Mother !  An endless green, an ocean for me to sail”


“Beware dear daughter, the woods are clever and trite.  It entices and deceives as it feeds on human flesh my dear and takes each life with ease.  It takes each life with ease”


The rumor ‘bout town for those gone missin’

Lead to the woods where evil lurks with suspicion

They say it lures the young away

Their young delicate flesh is their prey

Their young delicate flesh, their prey


Oh, but Devon Lee did not take heed

To the warnings and pleas

As she awoke in the night to a song

Filling her ears with euphonic melodies

And promises of what could really be

Her reality a dream of dreams

Her reality her dream of dreams


As slipped from her bed

And stole through the night

Toward the woods and the promising delight

She stepped ever so closer to the green

And stepped closer to the green


“Oh what wonder and joy awaits me”

Devon Lee pondered with widened delight

The wood’s sly welcome ever so soothing

Her small padded feet barely moving

Taking her to what she knew not nor where

Deeper and deeper she did stow

The moon above no longer shines

Its sliver crescent pointed and jagged

A sharp and menacing knife

And poor Devon Lee begins to fear

To fear my friends

To fear



The velvety vines wrap around her waist

As the thorns draw her ruby red blood

And her eyes shine up to the moon

Glistening wet

Wet with tears

Her eyes shine up to the moon




Poor Devon Lee

And she’ll never be married

And she’ll never be heard

And she’ll never venture from the wood my friend

And she will never venture from the wood



The garden in the sanctuary had rows upon rows of white roses.  Tamra carefully pruned each rose removing their unforgiving thorns, thinking back to the white of that snowy day.

BEFORE THAT, Tamra smiled sweetly at the orderly as she pretended to swallow her multi-colored assortment of pills

BEFORE THAT, Tamra’s parents signed on the dotted line as she stood in the entrance-way of the sterile , white, two story building

BEFORE THAT,  Tamra’s mother helped her pack her suitcase and load it into the car.  Just two hours later, Tamra stared blankly at the sign that read “Denbigh Asylum”.

BEFORE THAT, the pastor gave a moving eulogy about Tabitha’s life cut far too short.  Tamra could barely make out the coffin and the dozens of white roses strategically placed around it.  Her eyes swollen and unable to focus.

BEFORE THAT,  Tamra, her Mom and her Dad paced the hospital waiting room praying for a miracle.

BEFORE THAT,  Tabitha’s body lay in the snow.  The snow reddened.

BEFORE THAT, Tamra’s excited laughter turned to screams

BEFORE THAT, Tabitha leaped from the top of the roof

BEFORE THAT,  Tamra dared Tabitha

BEFORE THAT,  They were laughing in a blanket of snow

What is inspiration ? ( I wrote this one last year )


What is inspiration?


Is it a bluebird with a golden tipped beak?


Delivering messages to the quill to write


Or is it a spade to aid you in digging deeper


Into your own mind


Perhaps a gift


A lens we were all given


When focused to perceive


A glimpse of inspiration will be revealed


When touched by something unknown


This event itself can lend us inspiration


Will it be a bigger, brighter concept never tangible?


Whatever the gifts


We must guard them with care


As it is the delicate match


That lights our candle of inspiration