It Won’t

It won’t be the day you leave
not the flashbacks in my head

It wont be the years I grieve
nor the voices speaking back

It won’t be the nights of black
not the dreams I wish away

It won’t be my cold turned back
nor the mornings in no one’s arms

It won’t be when the coffee’s cold
not the untouched gourmet meals

It won’t be as the clock chimes one
nor the unused hung up clothes

It will be
when I go back

to the cliff
you saved me from
— this time alone


~ Emily C.






spent shotgun shells and condoms
litter the stained motel floor

shades parted in morning darkness,
so much for blue sky views

maid came with the cart,
dangling doorknob sign refused

entry reserved for travelers,
come back another day or two

she cleans herself off from him,
face leers in cracked mirror

mascara smeared, she scans;
her current situation clear:

she may have let him in,
but he bust through her door,

took his share and then some,
forced his way into her more

when no was not an answer…
when screams went unheard,

her only hope that shotgun,
his silent body drapes the bed

knows no one will believe her,
options A through Z will fail

system stacked against her,
she stifles tears that fall

for when a girl likes sex,
she must “deserve what she gets”

— fuck that, the truth speaks more
the line was drawn,
the line was crossed

he came
and shortly thereafter

his time.


~ Emily C.



Streetlight is my moon tonight
My warmth on bedding
That melts the ice
Left by a heart
— If you can call it that
A man
— If you can call him that

Warmer than the love he lacked
lights my side of bed in half
dark is where he used to lie
voided by the fire gone to die

Moon of light emitting diodes…
goodnight, my friend, goodnight
a most reliable comfort you’ve been

in the absence
of him

~ Emily C.



Tell Me A Tale

Tell me a tale of the sea, good sir
my body is sore from the journey here
you see, I left my home far away, free
and set out upon my way by sea

Never looked back, did I
just carried my things in this pack, did I
a notebook, a pen, a blanket, a tin
some gruel, a hat, and a pole with to fish

I fear the map was lost in the ocean
my captain swore in all the commotion
he knew the way, but the way he lost
and into the storms we were tossed

Three weeks or maybe ’twas more
one cannot ever truly be sure
as we lost track of the dizzying stars
and the moon was black in the dark

Wind howled as if calling its pack
often I’d resign to howling back
when clocks would stop working
one’s mind would stop working

So ‘till morning came on fateful voyage
many a whale ventured into our visage
rained on our deck with their mighty blow
pounded their blubber upon our bow

Prayers we did utter in humble plea
to save us from our catastrophe
and each narrow escape did we sigh
a heavy heave of missing death’s cry

What mercy bestowed upon me to be
able to share what brings me to thee
for to sit in hard battle-charred chair
relate you my story with greatest care

I’d surely not have breath to speak
you’d surely not be pouring me beer
and I’d surely not be able to ask
for your sea-story to calm this
near-ghost of a lass


~ Emily C.


The Ring

I have too many poems in my head
they fight for front row seat

words tangled in the ring
something’s in my way, I can’t see

Round 1 bell rings
fists of profundity punch

sweat gets in the eyes, stings
a wicked left stanza lands with a crunch

overseeing the dance of metaphoric play
the muse referees with a comical grin

“this will be the bout of the day!”
laughing at all the commotion

I hear the cheers, the egging on
the internal critic forever complains

while the crowd roars at the swings
eager to watch with anticipation

…the voices are familiar, their jeers, too
repetitive chorus of my mind’s song

hearing all the times I’ve doubted
I drown myself in buttery popcorn

No one can recognize this author
the one who threw the words

I hide behind flinging thoughts
waiting for one to be my Balboa

No more popcorn, lights turn on
letters everywhere, words mauled

Up for critique, lone prose stands
alone, triumphantly pants

~ Emily C.




She had left her small town called Petal. She left her town, her family, friends, and fiance.

Petal slept on the northern edge of Washington’s Olympic Peninsula, a coastal town near the forest known for, well…not so known, actually.  Salty air and scent of pine permeated. Views of the Straight of Juan de Fuca, towering mountains and winding roads were dotted with billowing chimneys and nestled farms. So just another stunningly green and beautiful place in the great Pacific northwest that people passed through, maybe stayed in, or escaped to from the big cities.

Everybody wants to escape something to somewhere.

“Welcome to JFK International”  the sign said.

She released a deep sigh as she stepped off the plane. By habit, her left thumb stroked her left ring finger.  Nothing there.  She scanned the terminal in front of her. So far, she recognized no one. A welcomed change.

A six hour flight cramped into absurdly small seats meant for no one with real proportions, she desperately needed yoga. At least she was a good conversationalist; it kept her mind occupied and distracted from the discomfort of her hips pressing into the sides of the seat and her knees knocking the tray table.

In addition, she learned great tips about where to go in her new city for some great food — she intended to eat her way through the city. “Always ask the locals” – was her favorite travel rule. So far, she had never been disappointed by taking time to talk. On her list now thanks to her row mates: BBQ, Italian, burger, sushi places, and of course, steak.

Her whole life, New York had only been a postcard city, sent from others on their journeys; the towering steel buildings, the bridges, taxis, and people. Everywhere. All of the stories, their stories…sounded like dreams from a mystical place that only existed in her childhood imagination, ripe with impossible possibilities.

It was now her turn to see for herself. And just as one must enter Vegas at night and see the lights, so she must enter New York.

The lights beckoned from Times Square like a supercharged searchlight; its own colorful history a symbolic patchwork intersection of world events, where people come to gawk, to celebrate, a congregation of nationalities, a microcosm of commerce.

As New York is the heartbeat of the world, Times Square is New York’s heartbeat.

Hers beat with anticipation of not knowing what was next.

~ Emily C.



Part 1: Return to Sender


My attempt to break past the opening scene of my long abandoned book attempt. 🙂 Can be read stand-alone, or in sequence.

And as I don’t know what kind of story I’m writing, this could literally go anywhere…dark, light, funny, sad, mystical…all of the above perhaps.

Just playing with my brain.  Again, feel free to ignore.


I want to be the woman who wakes up in your bed… 

somewhere in Italia, on an autumn day. 

The rain will have fallen; just enough to bring the petrichor out after a long dry summer, the microscopic atoms of ancient clay carried in the drops that burst fragrance through a cracked villa window. It overlooks the vineyard we would tend to, the soil we would nurture.  

There, the grapes ripen like our love; hung out to dry and tangled together on the vine, sweetened by time in the unforgiving sun – our rebellion.

It would be linens and warm skin, together. It would be creaking wood in the wind, and uncomplicated life. Rolling hills carry my voice, calling your name without hesitating, because you are my native language, the only one I’ve ever spoken fluently. Unlike Italian. You teach me that.

You teach me that with every “Buongiorno, amore mio.”  I drink it like caffe’ latte in small sips, swirled.  My eagerness would only increase your determination and eventually, it will stick. I would say, “Grazie mille, amore mio.”  One day it will be habit.

Conversation is my foreplay. We would talk sometimes passionately, sometimes softly, sometimes only with our eyes. You would speak to me your philosophy, I will challenge you with mine. 

Our sex would stop time.

The seasons would turn, the wine would mature as sunsets coursed over our union in time lapsed waves until we paused to see butterflies mating on a grape leaf.

Lips whisper lines of poetry, drawing me deeper until drunk on your soul.  

I can see you there now, alone, without me. My journey has already begun, first in thought. Next in reality.

You would wait. You would wait without stopping. 

And when you saw me, finally,

you would know.


~ Em C.



In the mood for some creative writing/prose.