Huge thanks to Poet Rummager / Slasher Monster for this reblog of my poem “Gaslighter”. WILL YOU JUST LOOK AT THIS ARTWORK?? Just LOOK at it!!! amazing….



GaslighterTCard-1Illustration By Poet Rummager

“Before the feeble dawn of gaslight and tea…” ~ Patrick Hamilton

Gaslight – (verb) : is a form of psychological abuse in which the victim is manipulated to doubt their own memory, perception, and sanity. (Wikipedia)

I told you I was sorry,

I promised to be better,

but the words dissolved like the sugar dust on a hot funnel cake,

and I meant them for as long.

You all think I’m a monster, a bastard, a fiend…

and I can’t argue.

My heart seems quite fine without beating,

and I can carry the leadweight sitting lumpishly in my chest,

like a huge and stupid bird that won’t learn to fly,

quite easily.

You are waiting for me to buckle I know,

waiting for a tear to well and my throat to crack,

and an abject shaky apology to spill out

that you can replay…

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The Keys Series

Keys ~

Her hair was full of stars
his eyes were full of secrets
and both of them had keys to hidden doors.
behind one of them; a stairway to another land
where she was a princess and he was a frog
but that was alright because they both loved the water
behind the other one
nobody knew…
because as soon as anyone living drew near
the deep and ravenous growling began
while the door thudded as if a large body hurled itself 
how they both came to possess the keys is a story best told another time…
but there are an infinite number of doors 
and a limitless array of unique and surprising
and enterprising
most of them unlock and lock
some only lock
the maker of Keys gives them only after very careful consideration
and his eyes are full of secrets also….
Keys II ~

There are doors which remain unnoticed by people hurrying past with their lists and their phones and music
none of them show up on blueprints
or have nameplates
or doorbells
although sometimes on certain nights
they glow…
There are keys that will unlock them
but not the usual type
you don’t get them from hardware stores
they never allow themselves to be lost
they aren’t tagged with souvenirs from an island vacation
or a rabbits foot
and the people who keep them
won’t tell you who it was that gave (gifted) them
or what they unlock
or much of anything else…..
they just smile quietly
and even when you try and focus you 
to see

and this amuses them….

Keys III / The Door ~

Climb the steel staircase
round and dizzying round
at the top there is a door
you may have to look with other eyes to see it
but it’s there
trust me…
take the key, the one you don’t like to think about much
the one the Keymaker gave you
the night you met 
and you knew him in an instant
and loved him a breath later
although you didn’t know who
or what
he was
and the key seemed like it had always
(loved) belonged to you
Use it
open the door
walk in
no – 
stride in like you own it
(for in truth you do)
and what you find in that place
behind a door that is not there
opened with a key that isn’t possible
will be as familiar as your own shadow…


The Keys  IV / The Keymaker ~

Before time

before doors and locks

there were keys

and there was the Keymaker

with the knowledge to call and create

a deep metallic binding

a friendship

in his kin, his keys

some he fashioned

others he just delivered

but every one of them imprinted by his hand

Death was well pleased when he received the keys 
that secured the mighty doors of Hades

and thanked the Keymaker

offering him a boon, a favor

but the Keymaker knew better than to accept

for death may be a gift in its proper place and time

yet it is never wise to draw his attention…


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At Sea

I have lost track of the days at sea, 

and I have forgotten what dry looks like, 

and the sky and water meet edgeless and endless, 

and my eyes see the lines in the clouds and follow them like street signs.

My heart drives the sail of me 

and if my blood flows like the ocean 

then I must rise and fall with it too,

and try to find something solid to hold on to when the tempests swell.

If you were at the center then I could tell you that you need to move,

to be pliant,

that the tree that doesn’t bend will crack,

that there is no honor found in allowing yourself to splinter.

Even the ocean knows the moon demands its sway,

and under its pendulum finds rhythm,

 and the dance of water and light,

have become poetry for the ages.

Without understanding voices sing of it,

 responding to the call and pull even at a distance,

of time and circling seasons.


I time my breaths to the rise of the boat,

 its hard floor beneath my cheek and listen, 


for the beat of its heart.

And the lines in the clouds blur and re-form, 

 and I wonder what the signs would read,

and if I could have used them to point myself in another direction.

You warned me once you were not solid ground,

you warned me but with eyes so bright and a smile just for me,

that I swore I would learn to love the freefall,

but my eyes jolted open fearing the impact, 

even when awake.

And now the keening of the gulls remind me

that there are always more horizons to cross…

If the journey need be alone,

for this time of breath and sky and salt wind,

then I will hold to the moon,

hold to the center that knows it cannot hold,

and let my eyes trace once more the lines,

the shapes in the clouds that follow like the waves,

and learn to love the storm,

in all its destruction, 

for its own sake.

And listen, 


for the beat.


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The Motley Folk

Tell us a joke and we will laugh and laugh,
buy you a drink and introduce you ’round.
You may look askance at our coats of fine velvet and raggedy edged denim,
our feathers and wool and cameos dulled from too many smokey rooms,
but we lean into you and smile,
like we are the oldest and dearest of friends,
and your quarters walk across our knuckles all the night through,
your astonishment and applause never less.
And then the sun warms the sky and teases your hot and heavy eyelids into unsticking,
and the fading colors confuse you,
and you are alone in a far place on a stone bench,
the pale water washing in and out below.
And your stomach aches and your head and heart too,
and you know you’ve lost something,
but can’t reach out and grasp what it was.
And as you crookedly hum parts of a song you can barely recall
the tears are near the surface now, 
as the sun drifts higher in the sky,
and an idle breeze sounds like laughter in your ear
and you turn your head as if to catch a glimpse of…
disappearing into the last puddles of night.
And you drag your fingernails down the patchwork velvet waistcoat and tug the lapels on the gaudy old jeans coat a little closer,
and wonder what it will take to persuade the water to carry you,
and where it is you want to go…
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‘What Lies Beneath’ by Jaye Tomas ~ available at Amazon and Barnes and Noble

WLB Note1



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What do you get a Chimera for its birthday……


Cake? Amazon gift card? Another really bad sweater? ALL THE BOOKS?

No. Just keep stopping by…..

Chimera is THREE YEARS OLD! Almost 900 posts, some amazing people and three books later here I am! With an oceanfull of gratitude for all of you readers, contributors, supporters.  Yes! even the crabby ones.


(SORRY……couldn’t resist)

But seriously –  I appreciate you all.

I look forward to the next year, you never know what is around the corner! Come and find out with me!


With love and like and some really bad dance moves,

Chimera / Jaye

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Where I Live

Let me show you where I live,

not the house,

not the neighborhood,

not the stairs trudged up and down,

not the spaces I fill and

exist in.

Let me show you where I live.

The halls of memories and mirrors,

the places filled to bursting with tiny boxes,

of buttons and shiny glass and rocks,

and damp handkerchiefs,

and knives.

Pens on every table and

jars of lotion and oil

and books marked “This” and “This, yes” with curls of colored paper.

One wall of hats,

another of masks

and one vast wall all clean white and empty, an uncapped marker dried and forgotten on the floor.

A broken case spills photos across a leaning table,

a laughing girl,

a grimly smiling woman,

and squares of faded blankness,

with smudges in the corners like question marks.

Bowls of water to quell the burnings

and blankets to smother flames and feelings both.

Starlight, moonlight, sunlight; all bottled and labeled and shining in rows,

dried flowers,

bunched and bitter herbs,

pressed letters,

and a doll made of scraps whose face with lopsided smile resembles someone you knew once…

Walk farther in,

farther in,

farther in,

farther down,

where there are no corners,

just slumping curves,

the walls soft and crumbling a bit,

scoured and painted in pale colors with salt water and feathers,

where a goldenwood owl stands sentinel in the middle,

and a small leather book is tucked tidily in a low hanging beam,

worn to a satin finish and pages waterswollen and crisped.

It ends here,

(or begins)

and the light may play games with your eyes,

but focus on me,

on my words,

and you will steady.

Count one



and look…

I am all around you.


This is where I live.





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