New Poem

I’m calling this one Epitaph–and yes, it’s morbid. I’m not sure if it’s considered a prose poem or free verse, though. 😊

I hope you enjoy!


Cry not for me,

when I’m old and senile

with graying hair and wrinkles

and gapped memories

and painfully failing knees.

Cry not for me,

When I have more medicines

Than I can remember taking

For all chronic illnesses

In all letters of the alphabet

That are Hardly worthy mentioning.

Cry not for me,

When I drift away

On silent wings

Of downy dove gray

Colored for my wonders and sins

Filled with joys and tears

Of a life well lived.
Cry not for me,

For I’ve had a great life

Maybe long, maybe short

My regrets remain mine

My annecdotes, around I assigned

In morning recaps, drinking  coffee and tea with ice

And chocolate cookies and triangular pies.

Cry not for me,

When I’m gray and weathered

For I leave behind

A clutch of children

Hatched with every emotion

Ever born across the ocean

To carry my memories.

Cry not for me,

For I’ll always be present

Perpetuated in the actopms

I leave behind

As The legacy of my life.

Copyright © 2022 Jina S. Bazzar

Image taken from Pixabay.

Morning Tribute

My love,


Since the day we were introduced,

You’ve never been far.

Through laughter and tears,

The bad and the good,

You were there by my side.

My love,

There hasn’t been a day,

When you weren’t within reach,

Always giving me a boost.

You run in my veins,

Your fragrance on my skin,

Your taste on my tongue.

I can honestly say I need you every morning,

And afternoons and evenings too.

No cream, no sugar,

I like my coffee freshly brewed.

Image source

Let’s call this a poem

When I was “adjusting” some scenes in the romantic thriller, one of the comments a beta made was for me to add a rekindling scene. While I contemplated what, and how, to add the extra scene, my muse spat this one out. Since I have no room for it in the story, I decided to share it here.

Hope you enjoy!


A Poem

This was tagged as “living on the edge” a shack atop a cliff. Not sure if it’s relevant to the post but it sounded nice.

Down on one knee

with nothing to offer

but a beating heart

and a broken soul

and moments in time

with no guarantees

to happiness or sadness.

Those soft hands

that took the tribute

Served as a cage

with cruel spikes

that poked and prodded

the tissues of the heart

because those fingers

found it lacking

and threw the heart away

leaving behind

a pulpy mess

jagged with scars.

And years went by

and a kind face

offered smiles

and moonlight walks

and soothed the hurt

and proffered to make

the two a one

by trying to heel

the pain and the misery

of a broken soul

who preferred this time

to play it safe

and refused to go

across the street

or near the edge

where it had once been

on one knee

with a pulpy heart

and a broken soul

once filled with love

now filled with regret

of an imagined life

that will never be

because that heart

had never been

whole to begin with.


Suicide – the ripper in the heart

Today, September 10th is World Suicide Prevention day. This poem – yes, dark and morbid – was written a while back and put aside. I’m not sure if I wrote it while feeling down or inspired, but this is the end result:

The Mind, The Heart and The Dark


Standing at the lip of a chasm,

The darkness anticipates, ripples and spasms,

This vast place, like a sentient phantasm,

Beckons you forward with enthusiasm.


The wall has formed, tall and hard,

Around a mind that feels charred,

It’s an empty, though heavy heart,

With many facets and jagged shards.


The wind that pushes and buffets is cold,

The blood pumps like frost and snow,

A nagging flicker urges you to go,

But the darkness has blocked the road home.


You have the actions and locked words to speak,

The key to free your emotions of this deep sleep,

But from this side, none is clear enough to read,

They look dishonest and insincere.


You wonder if there’s a way to resurrect,

The mind while the body is not yet dead,

If the heart still beats but no longer feels,

The love that could both hurt and heal.


It’s much easier to leave and hide,

As it takes strength to free the mind,

To drive away the dark within the heart,

And make the empty vessel shine bright.


The chasm beckons, are you ready to embark?

Snow and frost pump in the heart,

The mind observes, somewhat apart,

Which will it be, the light or the dark?



Every Love

I haven’t read a poetry book since my high school years. But that doesn’t mean I stopped liking it. On the contrary, every now and then I come upon a particular piece that captures my attention and echoes in my mind long after I’ve read it. Every love has many pieces that reverberates and ricochets inside the brain for days after you finish reading.

When I was asked to read “Every love”, I said yes, knowing I was long past due for a poetry book.

This one is the kind of poetry that – I felt – bears the soul, gives glimpses of the sweet and innocent, to the dark and ugly, to the hurt and joy of unconditional love.

“By not saying a word, You tell me all, By the look in your eyes, I’m ready to fall.”

But love isn’t all and life goes on, no matter what we go through and what events will stay with us, what will change us.

“We’re paper on water, we float till we’re full, Drown in the wet, the mess, We bend we fold, Fragile, We trust the hands that hold us, We must, We get squeezed and we crinkle, We get ripped, we tear, A steady state of uncertainty, What mood shall it be? What colors will mark us for eternity?”

I’ve read this part so many times, I’ve memorized it. Isn’t that true to us all?

“ Dress this way, dress that, with faces so polished. Realities masked, real emotions demolished. When life catches up, it’s a slap in the face. Because life doesn’t care about our popularity race.”

Oh, isn’t life so fickle? Don’t we care, even a little, how the world will see and judge us… only to realize, sometimes too late, that we spent too long pleasing others and forgetting that we live only once?

“If time were a bubble we held in our hand, Would it pulse or move, change in color or expand? Would we hold it dear, with love, knowing it’s precious? Or would we consistently poke and abuse, be vicious?”

I picked up this book one morning as soon as I woke – and every one was still asleep. It took me only thirty to forty minutes to read from start to finish, but I’ve gone back twice more since.

Every Love will be released on July 21st, 2019 and it’s a great Sunday backporch evening read. I recommend it – especially to all women out there.



When Dreams Crash With Reality

Every time I try my hands at poetry, something morbid comes out. No springy flowers here.

This is just a little poem I wrote a while back. Hope you enjoy!


I thought I was unique, one of a kind, something new.

I thought I was different, always happy, never blue.

I was a determined person, and I had enough ambition to see my goals through.

I was a dreamer, and so I had many dreams I wanted to pursue.

I would see them to fruition and nothing and no one could block my view.

I had enough faith in myself; I believed that there was nothing I couldn’t do.

Oh, I was realistic enough to know there’d be obstacles in my path too.

But I believed if I never gave up, there was no problem I couldn’t outdo.

I was wrong, and disappointment came and decided to take root.

I learned that dreams are complicated creatures, full of phases and masks askew.

And that they don’t always come true.

Sometimes I can almost see the face of my dream, overcome a phase or two.

But I do know now that many dreams are built with nothing but hay and bamboo,

Strong at times, but easy enough to subdue.

Am I still unique, with all the dreams I never outgrew?

Inwardly, I still believe in the things I can no longer do.

But enough external obstacles keep me standing still, shackled, with my feet glued.

Sometimes I backtrack and try other paths, and here dreams have a different hue.

Sometimes, all I find are other obstacles, and here I falter and review.

Will my dreams ever realize, or are they nothing but taboo?

But a dreamer has nothing without dreams, and so I backtrack and renew.

Again and again I’ll take my cue, until my dreams finally come true.


I want to thank everyone who voted for my book, Heir of Ashes on the TCK Readers Choice award. And thank you twice to everyone who did it twice for the vote to register.

If you didn’t vote but would like to, votes are still open.

Check my last post for instructions:

And thank you!


Some food for your thoughts – a little something for the weekend

I came across this poem a few days ago and have been thinking about ever since. So, I’m going to share it here with you guys and hope you enjoy it as much as I did.
And Kim, I know you said this poem is akin to horror (and you’re spot on, I can totally relate), but I can’t deny that a chuckle escaped at the ending – it’s so true!

Rejection, A Horror Story
by Kimberly Smyth
I was working at my desk late one night
Across my email came a dreadful sight
“Rejected Again!” The nasty thing said,
Actually, “We regret to inform you” instead
I hung my head in utter shame,
Outside the wind howled in the driving rain.
Lightning struck and thunder shook,
How will I ever write a book?
I thought as I pondered the cause
Number ten rejection I believe this was,
A blow to my ego, simply because
I’ve been trying so hard, has my talent fled?
Have I never had it at all
My conscious said.
This was just an essay, I’ve penned many of those
It shouldn’t have failed, not exactly prose.
If I can’t pass this easy test
No way I’ll ever become the best
At writing a book or a novel so well
All these rejections have put me through Hell.
Again and again, how much can one take?
This last one I got really took the cake.
An emotional story about my mother,
Rejected, just like all of the others.
Outside the storm continued to rage,
As I sat there in my four-walled cage.
The room where the “magic” is supposed to happen
Nothing like that, just another rejection….
Click here to read the rest:
I recommend reading till the end, my friends, it’s totally worth your time.

The muse with the blues

A Cycle’s Tribute


So my muse is back and she’s got the blues. Instead of working on Heir of Doom, this poem is what she had in mind:


There was a time when darkness ruled

And light was a precious jewel

A time when nightmares feasted

And dreams dimmed and flickered

A time when pain was constant

And relief a distant element

A time when regret bit

And contentment slithered and hid

A time when sadness was primary

And joy just a faint memory

A time when tears flowed like rivers

And smiles wore dark filters

A time when you didn’t exist

And life was just meaningless.

Invert and now that you’re present

Life has turned radiant

It’s a time where smiles are effortless

And tears are full of happiness

A time where joy is everywhere

And sadness lost the affair

A time where contentment is mine

And regret was left behind

A time when relief was permanent

And sadness no longer my sentiment

A time when dreams conquered

And nightmare no longer a bother

A time when light shone warm and bright

And darkness no longer ruled my life

It’s a cycle where time is power

And light and dark play with the hour

Invert, revert, the cycle continues

I’ll laugh and cry, grow and dwindle.

My life will go on, a cycle’s tribute.


Some – a midnight muse

Some people move on and never look back
Some people move on, but leave mind and heart in the past
I have been absent lately from the blogosphere working on the second book in the Roxanne Fosch trilogy, Heir of Doom.
The edits and revision are going well, and I hope I’ll have the manuscript ready for the betas very soon.
Meanwhile, I woke in the middle of the night and the two phrases above flowed in my mind like water. Groggy and sleepy, I typed them on my laptop (half were typed wrong), knowing I’d forget all about it in the morning.
When I read them again with an alert mind, I knew I’d be sharing it here with you guys.
Until next.


Time is a vast beast with far reaching tentacles.

Its eyes are all seeing, indifferent, unfeeling.

Its tentacles are long, infinite, growing and growing and growing.

It’s an uncaring, untouchable monster, capable to harm and heal with equal measures.

It can comfort, help a wound to close.

It can inflame, help a wound to fester.

And it can do both, by leaving a scarring mark.

It can keep a secret throughout lifetimes and beyond the grave,

It can spread a scandal back and forth like a gossiping neighbor.

It can bring tears of joy and sadness through equal measures,

It can be kind and cruel.

Time, that abstract creation, that molds and shapes and help us grow, that give of itself to help us become what we are today.

Time, that capricious monster we all want more from . . . and can never have.


Time is vast.

It has no vanity, it cares not if its ugly or pretty.

It has no sympathy; it cares not if it’s cruel or kind.

It has no humor; it cares not for laughter or tears.

It is pure, it cannot be corrupt.

It is fair; it gives as much as it takes.

It is fickle, uncaring of the changes it brings.

It is all seeing, unfeeling and indifferent.

It is an infinite  beast with long reaching arms that touches every individual, big or small, rich or poor, past, present and future.


By Jina Bazzar