I Missed All The Beautiful Things Today

I missed all the beautiful things today:
There were no rainbows, only dismal rain;
The clouds grew heavier and darker grey
With tears for what could never be again.
The path ahead appears obscured by weeds
Concealing deadly snares that lie in wait,
While miscreants and their malicious deeds
Desire to undo me and seal my fate.
My comfortless soul is crippled by fears
Amid incessant, wilful winds that blow,
And thus propel the chilling, icy spears
Cast by one-time friends who prove to be foes.
Yet, as this dreadful day draws to an end,
Despite my doleful tears amid the strife
My heart gives sincere thanks for every friend
Who sought my vulnerable heart to vouchsafe.
(C) 2017 Joanne Van Leerdam

The Passing Of The Night. 

The inky stillness of deepest night
Banishes even the moon’s pale light;
From a ghostly gum tree, serene and tall,
An owl hoots its lonely watchman’s call.
Hypnotised, creation falls under
The seductive spell of silent slumber
While nocturnal creatures eat their fill
And pursue their animal pleasures,’til
The velvet darkness of the witching hour
Concedes its melancholy haunting power
To the break of dawn, like ruby fire
Burning brighter as the flames climb higher.
In the fickle morning light it seems
The lingering ghosts of last night’s dreams
Masquerade as the early morning mist,
Gathering in a silent spectral tryst
That obscures all that lies behind
Those hazy walls in both field and mind,
Until the radiant light of day
Drives the dreams and their ghosts away.

©2017 Joanne Van Leerdam


A shroud of delusory darkness
Covers her everywhere she goes;
It’s only visible from the inside
So no other soul ever knows.
Other people only ever see
Robes in all the colours of life;
She never lifts the shadow veil
That conceals her turmoil and strife.

Made of dense and heavy fabric,
It only serves to weigh her down:
Her thoughts and movements are burdensome,
Her inner voice makes no outward sound.
Her perceptions are distorted,
For that cloak whispers dangerous lies,
She can discern neither light nor truth
From within her deceptive disguise.

Thus she exists in a blighted world
With her silent, stealthy disease
While, ignorant and oblivious,
Others go on with life as they please.
Yet within her remains a fragment
Of indelible, hopeful belief
That her mantle might be removed
And her soul may at last find relief.
©2017, Joanne Van Leerdam

Stained Glass.

A masterful, vivid mosaic,
A fragmented work of art;
She finds her greatest beauty when
Light shines through the tinted glass.
Though fragile, her strength is in the scars
That unify her; thus, she remains
Beautifully broken and mended,
And permanently, poignantly stained.
Promo Stained Glass Stained Glass
This poem is  published in the ebook collection titled ‘Stained Glass’.
Available in your favourite digital bookstore for just 99c.

MTW Progressive Story: ‘Tailored Murder at 221B Baker St’

Sherlock shook his head. “What I don’t understand, Watson…”
Watson blinked at Sherlock. It was so rare that Sherlock confessed to not understand something, he was left quite unsure of what to say. 
Sherlock caught the flash of confusion on Watson’s face, but continued regardless. “… is why Chastain would show dead on the kitchen floor – MY kitchen floor! – without my ever having met the chap!”
Watson gazed at the tall man before him. “It has to be because we found that dratted dressmaking kit. Perhaps he came here to retrieve it. He must have been followed here.”
“Dead men don’t care much for sewing kits, Watson… but perhaps the clue is there after all.”
Sherlock crossed the room, retrieving a small brown cloth case from the hall table. It unbuttoned to reveal a neat kit containing well-maintained scissors, needles, and lengths of high-quality threads in a rainbow of colours. A small, hand-stitched label nestled under the handle of the scissors. 
“Mack’s Threads, London.” Sherlock pondered for a moment, examining the kit yet again. “It’s plain cloth without embellishment, but good quality. I should think they’ll be in Cheapside.”
“Hold on. Chastain was the tailor to the Prime Minister’s wife!”
“Yes, Watson, with a shop in Regent Street, but the people who make sewing kits don’t have shops in Regent Street. They have factories in Cheapside.”
Sherlock strode confidently into the living room and picked up the telephone.
“Hello, Operator… could you please give me Mack’s Threads in Cheapside? Thank you.”
Two seconds and three loud clicks later, Sherlock smiled. “Yes, I’d like to speak to Mr Mack, please… Oh? How very interesting… Hasn’t been in since yesterday! How does he run a business?… Ah. Quite out of character. Yes… I see…”
Sherlock glanced into the kitchen and frowned at the dead man on the floor.  
“Oh! One other question… would you happen to know if Mr Mack ever carried a knife?”
Sherlock winced at the voluble and indignant protest that emanated from the earpiece at such a suggestion , then returned it to his ear when it went quiet. “Ah. Quite. My apologies. Thank you.”
Watson looked at Sherlock expectantly.
“Well, Watson! What do you thinhk? He’s gone missing!”
To follow Sherlock and Watson on this adventure and read the next chapter of the story, click here.

Poetry Reading – ROGUE WAVE by Joanne Van Leerdam — WILDsound Writing and Film Festival Review

Originally posted on POETRY FESTIVAL. Submit to site for FREE. Submit for actor performance. Submit poem to be made into film. : Performed by Michelle Alexander Get to know the poet: What is the theme of your poem? ‘Rogue Wave’ is about the way life and stress makes us feel, especially when things build up and…

via Poetry Reading – ROGUE WAVE by Joanne Van Leerdam — WILDsound Writing and Film Festival Review