Falling

Falling ~

The cities so far below,

cloaked,

 misted and uncertain,

uneasy, 

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

fell.

©jayetomas2017

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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….

https://chimerapoetry.wordpress.com/

https://www.goodreads.com/JayeTomas

https://www.facebook.com/jaye.tomas.7

Twitter @JayeTomas1

http://jayetomas.tumblr.com/

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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,

weren’t.

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, 

higher,

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 

heart

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

veryverysafesafe,

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

giving

beating

love.

 

Soon….

 

©jayetomas2017

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Between The Waking Hours

Between the Waking Hours ~
 
I rise up, 
slow dancing in the rumpled sheets and glancing,
side eyed,
into the mirror to see if it is still me,
or has the dream waif taken me over?
Red berry lips bitten once,
twice,
tousled hair hiding too much knowledge.
Have I fallen down a rabbit hole,
or have the rabbits dragged me with them, 
requiring a new,
 more ambitious,
queen? 
Is this a pedestal I have climbed,
 or steps to the gallows,
hard to tell when
they both lead up.
Whatever copious mounds of gold may rest in chests hidden deep
is nothing piled next to the secrets I hold like red death over all
crushed into pulp in my fists.  
I wipe my hands on the sheets
as I steady,
solidify,
 between the waking hours,
and wonder if the vision in the mirror
will miss me,
or does she laugh victoriously to see me go
feeling that she has won…
©jayetomas2017
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The Spaces Where You Aren’t

Chimera Poetry

I knew you would leave.
I wish it could have been when I hated you.
I wish I could go back in time and break my phone
before your first call,
before I learned the texture of your name,
 and how to call it like music,
like lighting a lamp.
I knew you  would leave and my insides knew you would leave,
 but my skin held them all tight inside and wouldn’t let them speak,
while my mouth practiced smiles like tying shoes,
all knots and sloppy loops.
And if I tried too hard for too long
what else could I do?
The devil doesn’t promise to break your heart,
he just shows you a list and every name on it is yours
and that must mean you matter…..
right?
I knew you would leave and the air tastes different
now that I’m not sharing it,
and the sounds you…

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I Will Never Tell You Who I Really Am

Hemingway said it so it must be right;
‘All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.’
 
Here is the truest sentence that I know;
 
I will never tell you who I really am…
and you will never ask.
 
It’s in the places that I am supposed to belong
that I often feel the most alien.
Where I feel the most puzzled,
uneasy,
unsettled,
unwanted,
uncontrolled,
like driving with bald tires down an icy slope,
like the unexpected hem tangletrip on a stairway.
These people,
 who are the life and soul of the party,
the ones everyone likes,
What a great…….
guy
gal
boss
neighbor
sometimes those are the very ones that make me feel like an aging, infirm wolf,
my eyes closed in ragged supplication
and throat turned up.
I’m tired. I’m sad. I surrender.
I can’t relax with them,
and their slickness,
their glib and their easily trotted out patter,
seems so obvious,
seems so painted-on-veneer phony.
Is it only me?
It’s me.
It must be.
Nudged to the edges,
I sometimes fall over,
(sometimes I’m pushed)
Birthdays never noted,
success never acknowledged.
 
‘What’s that? What accomplishment?
Oh…isn’t that…
nice.’
 with an acid lip crimp that says it’s anything but,
and an immediate segue into their Larger! and Better! 
exploits and feats of wonder.
 
Oh that’s just the way they are…
Forgive
forget
get over
get around
let it go
‘Be the bigger person.’
 
I’m not big. 
I have tried big.
 I can’t fill the shape or the shoes or the role.
I’m small, I’m nondescript and I feel closer,
more connected,
 to the corners where I can blend
chameleon like,
the quiet spaces that don’t interrogate 
and force me to wear this greasepaint,
that don’t squeeze me into an ill fitting costume that bites and pinches,
into ersatz interest in a conversation I don’t quite follow…
and only form answers to hours later.
I cringe,
I creep.
I grin ingratiatingly and nod my head like a vapid bobblehead doll,
and I hate myself for it. 
Every time.
 
I will never tell you who I really am…
and you will never ask.
©jayetomas2016
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A Day of Bones

 

A day of bones

a day of bones

and breaking sticks and stones…

A day of lying undetected

under hot sand and bleaching.

A day of being still

and being hungry and hunted

and sorry…

for in the sand you feel the secondhand warmth,

but can’t ever see it golding across your face;

can’t grasp the light that your eyes crave like a drug,

the trembling fall of brightness, tumbling like motes through the sifted air,

is lost in the rasp

and in the motion denied…

Hold

and the bones stay still

in sin and in secret.

Hold,

and the rods and cones run their machinery overtime

to keep the color locked tight within,

and the bones lock

to keep the trembling at bay.

Burrowing in all soft and fat,

you hold,

hold,

for the sand dollaring,

the hardening of your inner and outer self.

While the curtain calls for retribution not redemption in your rerunning dreams.

For in the simplest and most dispassionate of truths

there is no white charger,

the flying monkeys are out of control,

your knights are trembling with you in other, separate burrows,

and the day plods by….

Your cocoon gently strangling as you helplessly watch the sand settle in more tightly around you

and your bones accept this with resignation

and any brief and random thought of emerging

smothers itself in self-preservation.

A day of bones,

a day of bones,

a day of breaking,

of sticks and stones…

 

©jayetomas2015

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