Theresa likes to write about matters of self-inflection and personal experiences. She likes to write about matters of an out-of-body, out-of-mind state, as well as subjects of an idyllic, pagan nature and the occult. Theresa writes horror, as well as concrete gritty and realistic dramas. Theresa is said to be a witch and a poet, (within the horror writing community) and she has been published in a number of magazines, ezines, anthologies and books throughout the years. She is a former elementary school teacher, a psychic medium – reader and advisor.  

Perpetual Motion

 The leaves outside sway lightly
 and I'm reminded of the beautiful
 way you danced in that purple gown,
 the one that caught the shimmer of
 the low moon, sketching the evening's
 rendezvous with brilliant white demons
 that reflected ceaselessly upon your
 brown eyes.
  
 When night comes on, gently, like
 this, I can dream once again. The
 background fades into someone else’s
 face, someone else’s snapshot, left
 in the darkness of perpetual motion,
 where the timing of independent objects
 renders space helpless to the simplicity
 of casual memory.
  
 For a moment, it seems like a breeze
 turning back the pages of an open book,
 a diary of sorts perhaps, that precipitates
 the climate of a collective past with
 little nudges of enthusiasm, meaningful
 only to those who know the vacancy of
 an assimilated state; refining it back to
 a lie, shadowed and invisible.
  
 I see myself the way I used to be, when
 your love fed my inspiration at random,
 locking into place meaningful sketches
 that were nondescript, secretive, yet
 poetically universal in their mystery.
 Sometimes the momentum of conviction
 can bring about nostalgia, ignoring the
 apparent.
  
  
 The night’s wind self-propels the blind,
 and in its inertia fails to acknowledge
 truth, but the sun makes its way across
 the distance nonetheless, flickering over
 twilight with no fixed point, marking
 the blueprint where blackness lay,
 insignificant to the wisdom of wanting
 action. It is here where you slowly start
  
 to disappear, as I awaken, and walk away. 

Apple Island

 Brick by brick I built a subtle, secure wall
 around myself. The color of dried blood
 became an illusive molecular mystery
 that shaped the canvas of my psyche,
 separating you successfully enough from
 the benevolent fortress of ire and ardent
 desire.
  
 Who'd of thought that the maximum sentence
 for dereliction would become an eternity? I
 often write in my journal about you, sitting for
 hours in solitude and introspection. The pages,
 like pliable hypnotic poppies, prefer small talk
 to romance, yet I accept the fact that matter has
 begun to yield its innermost secrets.
  
 What exactly is the evanescent reality mirrored
 in the syntax of our words? Should it be believed?
 Is it comprehensive enough to bear witness
 without verging on being idolatrous? It isn't so
 much the language but the tone of the expression
 that risks misunderstanding. You say you love me,
 from a couple of hundred miles away,
  
 yet I can't grasp your hands, look into your eyes,
 speak my pleasure in my feelings for you, without
 remembering that love too can be betrayed. It's true,
 I have a flair for stubborn silence, and you, for the last
 word, but here among these pages there are no trust
 issues, just the coping of something bigger than
 ourselves,
  
 brought line by line unto this book. I fear you as
 much as I love you. The power to hurt me deeply is
 within your reach. I carried a crate of apples yesterday,
 and picked through them as my verbal powers failed.
 My heart beating was almost at breaking point and then
 I saw it, the fire energy within the blossoms. Warmth,
 passion, offered me renewed strength.
  
 With a penetrating gaze I was taken back to the apple
 island, the mystical isle of Avalon where Celtic heroes
 have found eternal rest. In my vision, I believed in fairy
 tales and happy endings once again. I believed that true
 love could overcome blind frivolity, and I believed that
 courage could be splendid, making life experiences
 unforgettable.
  
 This is where obsidian rocks burst like bubbles, where
 the shadowy corners of my mind found fulfillness and
 illumination with your presence. This is where the bricks
 fell as your words ran through my mind, your love, through
 my heart. This is where impossibility found hope. And so
 I ask you, will you not meet me in Iduna's apple orchard?
 Asgard awaits us, under a brilliant rainbow. 

Krakatoa

Transient colors fling
 amid a circle of unfolding
 insect-wings, pacing
 under the silent insomnia
 of luminous stars.
  
 Dipping waves of rings
 aerial whispers of purple
 spins, sink
 into ever-mingling dyes
 of purest play.
  
 Transformed cones of speckled
 white, pumice falls by sacred
 rite,
 as mystic creatures
 maze and guide the way.
  
 Dancing fires celestials know
 a watchful sprite salutes
 and shows,
 the varying vanities
 that hang in bluish air.
  
 A wise man's passion,
 a vain man's tale,
 a sylph that warns the pitying
 audience
 the threats of fate;
  
 while Themis suspends her golden
 scales, weighing the wits of men,
 directing pungent grains
 of ash and dust
 with angst and hate.