The War of Glass Animals

The squares are filled and in line we wait,
soft bellied mannequins,
secure in our appointed space,
our borders.
Who will be the first to cross?
What paint, what slogan will rise like a balloon and clutch the senses,
if for but a moment, in shutter speed.
Who will break the line?
Who will stand motionless?
Putting their faith in their painted blind,
believing it waterproof and impregnable,
until the rain washes them away,
and that spurious security is thrown aside like a wrong number.
I read your fortune in a handful of dust,
in a flame that burns sere green and yellow,
the words borrowed from someone elses mouth,
filed and fitted to the need in yours.
Do not thank me for this,
in the war of glass animals
all will be broken,
all flames will burn higher,
fed by ink and paper
 rising one last time,
into the crowd,
who only at the very last,
will weep for the words dying overhead,
will weep for the sad and broken glass animals,
who bleed to splintered death trying to stay hidden,
to evade the lions gaze,
who blame the knife and not the butcher.
Your fortunes are now scattered in the hot wind, 
and the boxcars are approaching,
packed brimful with the next line of mannequins.
Your war is over,
the fires damped,
 and the shattered glass swept away…
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Strange Days

Strange Days ~
A stranger tells you that you are made of strange days,
that those children fair and full of grace
are not related,
are not for you.
And before you can reply
or with supreme indifference
arched in a sardonic eyebrow,
or just
he is gone.
The street chatter filling in,
closing up the air where he stood.
Why did he say that?
What did it mean?
Why do you care?
Strange days making up a map of nameless islands,
ringed by harsh mountains and
oceans of tooth and claw and smothering seatangle,
here there be monsters….
A stranger tells you that you have no claim
no kin
with the fair and the blessed.
With whom do you align with then?
What kith surrounds you and fills all the roles in your inner stage?
And what part is this dropped upon you
unrehearsed and
unasked for?
The sky still hangs overhead
and the well worn shoes on your feet are recognized,
and the spaces inside you tossing
like a small plastic boat in a draining bathtub,
have settled
and yet your thoughts chase over and over,
the words he threw at your feet and left you to trample.
Why did he say that?
What did it mean?
Why do you care?
Why do you care?
Why should you care?
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Chimera Poetry

“Audaces fortuna iuvat.” “Fortune favors the bold.” ~ Virgil

“Virtue has a veil, vice a mask”. ~ Victor Hugo

Costumed in red and yellow they scamper through the streets
and knuckle the doors
the hot sun pooling,
as if splashing,
molten hot from a crucible,
around their feet
the Carnevale is coming….

Porcelain, peacock blue, emerald green and gold mask the windows,
the streets,
the faces,
and the air is an elixir,
and the very stones smell of chocolate,
of figs,
of sour spilled wine and orange peel.
Stained by magic old and new,
by sex and mystery and rainstorms.

Demons and Courtesans eye each other familiarly
while the golden tower is carried through the square
and a humming cry spirals up from the crowd,
its energy bending and glowing as if the moon were melting.
Beads my darling?
the vendors sing
Jugglers and fortune tellers and disappearing…

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House of Mirrors

Another day in this house of mirrors,
the hallways heave with amusement as your eyes are foiled once more…
A trick of the light?
A trick of the trade?
A mind playing tricks?
Turn here,
not there,
No cheese at the end of this labyrinth only 
the headache that has become your closest friend,
and the signs that could direct you
start spinning like a weather vane
the moment you find passage.
Turn here,
not there, 
Another day,
another line of smudges where you tried to feel your way,
your eyes closed because they can no longer be trusted,
and your nose crinkled against the scent of your panic.
The senses you have left are 
fluttering like a light dazzled moth,
banging like an enraged gorilla in a too small cage.
Turn here.
Not here, 
not here not here not here…
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Falling ~

The cities so far below,


 misted and uncertain,


like a puzzle tossed carelessly.

And we stood together,

you and I,

and talked of long histories made when the sky was newborn,

and names had not been breathed into being,

there was no direction we did not see,

could not see,

so the fall,

when it came,

struck hard

and without warning.

The view of who is good and who is bad,

is largely decided by where you are standing when the world explodes,

for black and white are only shades.

With heart and hands of stone I dug,

through the plains and caverns, 

the high places and lowest of the low,

always hoping for a token,

and sliver of you left as a levee,

 to hold against the tidal wave of knowing, 

that would surely come,

and rend me,

wash me, 

into the void,

with that last question still clinging to my open mouth,

as a sunset holds with desperate fastness to the shore,

until the waters drown it.

Never is a long time.

Never is a vast desert with sterile skies 

and only the music of the dunes to listen to.

I lifted my eyes at the end of it all,

 to meet yours,

your eyes still,   

although strange and hardened by the ground you anchored to,

and leaned into that unnamed wind

 wordless and begging

and your mouth barely moved as you said,

 “You will never forgive me for falling, will you?”

and I whispered,

 “No, I will never forgive you for leaving me behind.”

And then I too



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Servante of Darkness Women in Horror February 2017 Women in Poetry Profile: Jaye Tomas


Wednesday, February 15, 2017

Women in Horror
February 2017
Women in Poetry
Profile: Jaye Tomas

I started writing as a child before I could properly write or spell (the spelling is still iffy). The words I didn’t know I would illustrate with crayons. No one told me I couldn’t but I can’t say I ever got much encouragement either. As a child I loved the older fairy tales much better than the saccharine disneyfied ones. I liked Morticia Adams and vampires and werewolves. My interests as I got older were shaped on the reading that I preferred: old Gothic horror books that I found (and could afford with my allowance) at garage sales. And a few years later new writer had emerged that I read as soon as his latest hit the stands…you may have heard of him? Stephen King. He has been moderately successful….

Life intruded and I left school, worked, married, had children and occasionally scribbled things on scraps of paper and then shoved them in a drawer, showing no one. This was before the Internet, when computers filled whole rooms and had their own a/c.
Yes….I AM that old.

Fast forward a few years (“few” being a fluid word) and I am furtively typing snippets and poems and ….things…into a computer and pushing send. Don’t bother looking, I was A. Nony. Mous.

The Internet allowed me to dabble, to juuuuuuust baaaaarely touch my shrinking toes in the water. And I liked it. (insert MUWAHAHAHAHAHA here).
So….a successful blog (Chimera Poetry) and 3 published books later…here I stand. The fourth book is on hold as I sideline into a new venture; I have written a children’s book. The first of a three book set. It’s done and just awaiting the illustrations. No….it is NOT a horror story! It’s about a charming hedgepig named Mr Fray. No fangs. No zombies. No disembodied voices. Don’t pout.

Books are my passion, my friend, my plane ticket, my warm blanket, my burr under the saddle. One of the best things about being a part of the writers tribe is finding previously unexplored books, artists, authors etc. It can be a little disconcerting to have some one write to me about liking my poems better when they thought I was a man. (Ummm….sorry?) Since my poems aren’t easily slotted into a specific genre I have been known as more of a ‘dark’ poet. I leave it up to the reader to decide, everyone has a slightly different interpretation which I find endlessly interesting.

I write poetry, not novels, so my mind works a bit differently. I am used to producing more bite sized stories.

Writing is just something I do, need to do, have to do. I get a phrase or a song line or an idea stuck in my head and am not happy until it’s (safely) down on paper. It’s the language I love the most, love to lose myself in. Twisty words and lines that turn and shift… and may bite if you don’t pay attention.

I am amused by the resistance to the idea of women writing Horror. The idea that we are too delicate to write ‘icky’. Those people have never spent time in my mind obviously….

Twitter @JayeTomas1

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Heart to Heart

in honor of Valentines Day….a poems of hearts and love…..the gifts that keep on giving…of a different kind. heh heh…..



Heart to Heart ~


I wanted a heart and I wanted it to be yours,

yours by definition means it belongs to you,

so if one was gifted and you had it,

it could be mine,

you might share,

and the beating of it would make us smile as it drummed softly through our conversations and night time tooth brushings and TV watching,

and love,

love making up, 

love made up…? What? 

Never mind.

And I took as many hearts as I dared and left them, 

but you didn’t reciprocate,

you didn’t give them back,

and the stains were the only thing left as your porch grew crowded with people and uniforms and yellow flutterings.

And suddenly any walks I took with you,


You changed your paths,

and your times,

and the places you (we) had coffee,

and the letters I know you meant for me in the cans outside your back door

were gone.

But I knew…

I knew we were stronger and love like ours would never die,

and it was jealous people trying to come between us.

They didn’t understand

that we had other, 


ways to communicate.

Like when I read the words, 

“You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.” 

 I knew, you see,

 that it was a message from you,

and I wanted to give you a sign,

 give you hope and support, give you 


to go on and help you keep us safe and safe and


locked up tight,

so that we could exchange our hearts

in peace.


I wanted a heart and I wanted it to be yours, 

and I have finally found the perfect one,

and I have it in a secret box in a secret room in a secret place,

and you can give it to me,

and we can be heart to heart,

together forever.

And the stains will fade eventually 

and the garden will bloom in memory 

of our perfect








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