the good days
are those days that
schoener Goetterfunken
in spite of the noise
Tochter aus Elysium,
the naggings
wir betreten
the sagging weight
of worry, responsibility
the ignorance
dein Heiligtum.
and uncarefulness
deine Zauber
of others
binden wieder
the sometimes blatant
was der Mode
disregard, disrepair
Schwert geteilt
of how the world around
Bettler werden
chooses to conduct itself

the good days
wo dein sanfter
are those days
Fluegel weilt
I can’t hear any of you
for the Beethoven
blasting joyously unrestrained
in my head

© Sarah Whiteley


tonight my mind feels
heavy as rain-soaked linen
tangled in thoughts of what-if,
if-then, why-not,
all useless in the cold face of did-not

tonight my head says
I am made of wasted bits
wasted time, wasted opportunity,
it’s a wasted embrace
if you’re holding the wrong person

tonight I am troubled
plagued by the yammerings
the inner hammerings of too-late,
too-late, too-late
I think I may be too late

© Sarah Whiteley

small thanks

a thousand miles from family
these empty shelves my only company
over a dinner of reheated noodles
still I give thanks
for finding the strength to hold me up
to carry me through this chapter’s end
for the courage to begin again
and for the heart to hope for better days

© Sarah Whiteley


stepping outside myself
away from familiarity
I find myself
stepping back
into other familiarities
a new place
in the old neighborhood
cafes and corners
we once staked as our own
the old haunts
are haunted
but I don’t mind
the company of ghosts

© Sarah Whiteley


I turn myself
inside out
to scrape you away
from the deep hidden corners
I pull you out
by the roots
deep snarled as they are
I prune away
each part of you
once so much part of me
like over-planted earth
I till and weed
and wait
for time to do its work
for a return
to fertility

© Sarah Whiteley

Ode to Mad Meredith

Mad Meredith, the Pirate Queen,
She’ll cut your throat and eat your spleen.
She’s rougher than the worst of men,
A more feminine rogue there’s never been.

Mad Meredith, so slim and lean,
She’ll stop the fight so she can preen.
The worst of cads become her prey
For crossing her path on a bad hair day.

Mad Meredith, the Pirate Queen,
Can’t make her cook, can’t make her clean.
Her rapier wit is sharp and quick,
She’s one bad-ass butt-kicking chick.

Mad Meredith, with eyes so green,
And cleavage so deep it’s almost obscene.
That silk-clad form fools many a lord
And they find themselves at the end of her sword.

Mad Meredith, the Pirate Queen,
She’ll cut your throat and eat your spleen.
When she isn’t fixing you with her damnable glare,
She’s down below, washing her hair.

Inspired by a particularly interesting conversation with a co-worker – I just couldn’t resist. Please forgive the irreverence.

© Sarah Whiteley