Bleeding Stars


Dreams settle into shadows

as we cling to each other –


Our time is finite

damp with absence,

a wish thrown into sunset.

How I want to see you,

as you rise from mundane hours

and find me,

trapped in the satin of sky,

holding starlight promises.


We steal small eternities –

the pieces of existence

we can’t mold into words,

the shape of regret.


Love is only a memento

plucked from our somber nights

and pressed into memory.

It haunts us in our dreams;

it whispers through dark spaces.


Eyes like pendulums,

we’re dancing shadows,

bleeding stars.


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Without Wings

Love is a wonderful thing…most of the time.  But sometimes, love goes bad.  It becomes something horrible and wrong.  It hurts more than it uplifts.  It haunts you.  It taunts you.  It becomes a nightmare.

I’ve been in love enough times to be intimately familiar with both sides, the dark and the light.  The happy and the sad.  The wrong (too many times) and the right (once). In fact, it took me 30 years to find The One after many near misses (one ill-fated engagement that ended badly and one actual marriage that was right at the time, but hurt too much to continue).  I’m happy to report that I’m happy and I’m in a solid, healthy relationship with the best husband on the planet.  It took me quite awhile to get here, and the journey is what lead me to write Without Wings, my second chapbook, which is releasing on April 1st.

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Honoring My Grandfather

My grandfather passed away on Valentine’s Day.

I am still numb, and the funeral is on Saturday.

Gramps was my last living grandparent, and he was a WWII veteran.  His greatest accomplishment in his life was serving in the war.

He even earned a Purple Heart.

He was 97.

His health was really good, almost perfect, for many years.  But a few years back, he took a fall and that changed everything.  He steadily deteriorated.  About a week ago, we were told to see him because he wasn’t going to be with us much longer.  He hadn’t been eating and was being fed intravenously.  It was time.

Hubby and I went to see him the day before he passed, but due to a miscommunication, and quite possibly my stupidity, we didn’t end up in the right place.  Apparently, my dad was there at the same time.  He said we went to the wrong place.  I’m not sure how, but the fact remains: I didn’t get to see him before he died.

I will carry that with me forever.

So, I will write Gramps a note.  And hope that wherever he is, he will see it and understand.


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Believe in Yourself

When I was a kid, I was made fun of by other kids.  I don’t know what I did to them.  I was always nice to everyone, and I was painfully shy so I kept to myself most of the time.  But for some reason, people found things to laugh at.  They also pulled some horrible pranks on me: once, they locked me in a closet (and to this day, I’m terribly claustrophobic); another time, someone tried to set my long hair on fire.  These weren’t harmless pranks, and they hurt me badly.  For years, I existed as a joke, not a real person with real feelings.

As you can probably guess, my self-esteem was non-existent.  When I was fourteen, I contemplated suicide.  Going to school was traumatic and not fun.  I had no real friends, no one to talk to or to care about me.  I was nothing.  I was worse than nothing. 

I was a freak.

All I wanted was to be accepted.  To be acknowledged as a person and not treated like crap.  I wanted people to look at me and see me, not the girl who’s the butt of jokes or my imperfections.  I was convinced that I’d never find that, that it just wasn’t possible.

Enter Job’s Daughters. 

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Don’t Judge a Gift by Its Wrapping

I love Christmas.  It is my favorite time of the year: family, friends, gifts, magic…the snow, the tree, the lights…

What isn’t fun for me, though, is wrapping gifts.  In fact, it is so not fun that my gift wrapping skills are legendary.  Mind you, my gifts look fine, but I was born without the Gift Wrapper gene because my gifts are never wrapped perfectly.  There’s always some bumps and the seams aren’t perfectly straight and sometimes my bows are lopsided.  Sometimes, I use handmade tags (from the wrapping paper) and apparently that’s not done.  Oops.  Anyway, my mom and I were discussing what else? but gift wrapping and how awful mine is.  She and my sister have double the Gift Wrapper gene because their gifts are always wrapped perfectly.  There are no ragged seams; the bows are perfect; there are no bumps.  They’re gorgeous.  Works of art.  See, they are into the whole “presentation” thing and it shows.  And that’s really cool…if you’re them.

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Who is Erin Zarro?

Erin Zarro is an indie novelist and poet living in Michigan. She’s married to her Prince Charming, and she has a feline child named Hailey who she’s convinced is part vampire. She loves all things scary and spooky, and is on a mission to scare herself, as nothing lately has scared her. She writes in the genres of sci-fi, fantasy, and horror. Her first published novel, Fey Touched, is a blend of sci-fi and fantasy. She is currently working on Book 3 of her Fey Touched series, Ever Touched, and is trying to stay out of trouble. Mostly. Her website is at


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Life as a Moving Target Excerpt


I ask myself:
what is the essence of me?

Is it in each heartbeat and breath I take,
or is it the invisible, the intangible, the something, my soul?
They probe every darkened corner of my brain,
they navigate the vast map of neurons, synapses, memory.

They record every beat of my heart, my voice, my echo.

They search for that something, the elusive malfunction,
what resonates within the vessel walls, what reverberates,
what stops.

They use big words to describe
the most mundane of things.

But within each new word lies not one clue,
not one answer to one very important question.

To map and study my internal workings
is not an accurate representation
of the essence of me.

My something.

So, I walk through shadows, and watch the
lights dance for me in the most mundane places.

I live my days always falling, never stilled, never without motion.

I collect names of ailments and bury them
along with soured fragments of hope I once

I watch as my world gets dimmer
and my balance fails me.

I wrap myself in promises that snap shut,
answers that may never reveal themselves.

I hope to find the one thing that
I cannot touch:

the Truth.



Return to Life as a Moving Target page.

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Life as a Moving Target

book cover



Life as a Moving Target is a poetry chapbook that explores living with fibromyalgia and intractable vertigo, from onset of symptoms to getting a diagnosis. Also the aftermath, learning to cope and manage the condition. Poems of hope, courage, and strength of spirit.

Read an excerpt here.

Buy the softcover here.

Purchase the Kindle edition here. (If you do not own a Kindle, the software is available for free.)

View the estore here.

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