Trans Day of Visibility

Trans Day of Visibility

03/30/2017/Gender Dysphoria
I can run in my dreams
Across green meadows
Without a pain
From the weight on my chest

I can hike in my dreams
Up tall mountains
Without the straps
Displacing the mass of breasts

I can rest my elbows in my dreams
Upon my wide-spread knees
Without whispers of immodesty
Because of the hole

I can be intimate in my dreams
With many a lover
Without the worry of freezing up
Because of the lack of a pole

Until the nightmares come
And then I am left screaming
Myself awake in fear
That something was taken from me

Until the night mares come
To show me violent
Potential reasons
Why I have the “wrong” anatomy

Today is Trans Day of Visibility, so it is only fitting that I post a poem about myself. I came out as genderfluid almost four years ago, because I was too afraid to admit, even to myself, that I was trans. Truthfully, it wasn’t until I started researching gender that I realized that transgender was “a thing” because I was raised in a conservative bubble. In that bubble, the only people who were trans were characterized as sexually deviant men in women’s lingerie. This cliché is incredibly damaging to all sorts of people. Not only does it make people like me feel lost and question our sanity, but it also creates a block for cis people to overcome in understanding. Gender is a social construct, sex is biology, neither have only two options. It took me long enough to learn that, that I was suicidal from daily nightmares and the lack of support from those around me. I am much better now that I have come out, to myself and others, and am now on a journey to improve my life instead of end it.

P.S. I crocheted the roses in the pic, that’s why this is posted this evening instead of this morning.

My Writer’s Mind

My Writer’s Mind

Recently, while going through piles of old writings, I found two poems that I had written for a class. Both of these poems were about the main characters in the novels I was working on at the time. I am still working on these novels a page here and a page there while worrying about everything else that life throws my way. The first poem, entitled Daniel, is about an alien in a science fiction story. This alien started out as a strong and invincible version of me for when I wanted to day dream that I was the best, the ultimate, the superhero. As a writer I have evolved since I first created Daniel and he has since evolved to be my best friend. I think I’ll be sad to see him finished and published. As the poem states, I created Daniel in 1993, when I was ten years old; and, he has grown and evolved with me.



Your bat-like wings hide me from

The winds of writers’ block

And your cat-claws protect me from

The nightmares of revision

I am warm and safe

From the chill of deadlines

Against your warrior’s chest

As my fingers absently stroke the blue-black fur of your wings

I feel your tail wrap gently around my foot and ankle

And we talk of old times

Old stories

Before the knowledge of possible plagiarism

Thirteen years we’ve been friends

Lovers of page

And on page

My first

Thirteen years you’ve helped me write

Made me write

Pouring your dedication

To the Gods, the Empire

And the Corps

Into my writing

Of your story

Placing the pen in my hand

When I would rather sleep

Prodding out one last page

Before purring me

To dreams of you


The second poem was about Darren Dragonfound, who has become very close to me since the poem was written. The poem only reflected part of Darren and part of what he means to me as a writer so I revised the poem and made it fit better. I usually like to leave my old poetry as it is so that I can see my poetic voice grow and change over the years; but, this poem was still in revision stages when I put it down 8 years ago. Darren started as my fantasy novel hero. Then my ambitions came along and I wanted to make this novel the opposite of everything that the standard fantasy novel is. No hero, no hero’s journey, no happily ever after…but that proved to be too ambitious so I just started writing. I took the character that was Darren—sarcastic, narcissistic, masochistic, strong, funny, handsome, angry—and started to build a story around that. I wanted to show how an innocent baby could grow up to be all that Darren was in my head. Right now in my head he’s my age—being my alter-ego that makes sense—he’s gone through exaggerated versions of things that I have dealt with, plus a few new ones. Most of the time I torture him to make myself feel better, I show off his strength when I feel weak, and I focus on his talents when I feel useless.



I am not your Hero

Not your Harbinger

Not your Champion

And not your God

I do not fight for you

Your hopes, or your fears,

Or your Gods

I fight to stay alive

I destroy to blow off your steam

To defy the Gods

To send Men into fits of fury

And Elves to their prayers

To let you feel the blood and flame

Rain down and cleanse your anger

I fuck to feel alive

And when you can’t

Thrusting your frustrations

Into all who pass me by

And to steal as many hearts

As the foolish lend me

Destroy as many Temples

And maidens and bars,

As many as you let me

That’s me

Rabble-rouser and Rogue

Lover and Fighter

All the things you cannot be

But wish you were

That’s why you created me

Half-breed and bastard

Fitting in nowhere

Needed everywhere

Chosen by the Gods

And by you

To be this way

So write my story

Record my battles

Rhyme my reasons

But never forget

I am not

Your Hero


Like Daniel, Darren is a comfort to me, but in a different way. Where Daniel holds my hand to write his story, Darren screams his at me until I get it right. Two sides of the same coin and two sides of me as a writer and as a person. I have many other characters now, the main focus of a great many more stories. Some male and some female, some weak and some strong, all different pieces of me, different masks that I have taken off and put on a paper to examine before putting it back on. I may decide that writing poems about all of them is a good project, or I may decide that laying these two out there is enough bare soul for a while.

P.S. Yes, Darren is about to pull Daniel’s tail. He may even be like my oldest kiddo and stick the tail in his mouth because he is watching something interesting. Pretty sure that Daniel is going to retaliate by taking a swipe at Darren with his claws.

Captain Stone and the Crew of The Stormrise Pt. 1

Captain Stone and the Crew of The Stormrise Pt. 1

She waited until he was good and settled, with his head in her lap, before she picked up the reader paper and began. This was their nightly ritual, ever since their first days together. He would work himself to exhaustion trying to provide for the two of them and she made sure that he came home to a warm dinner and a comfortable place to lay his head. The story reading was also part of the ritual and she was getting very good at reading in English.

Captain Stone and the Crew of The Stormrise by d.d. hill.” She started reading.

“Seriously?” He asked, the right side of his mouth drawing up in the way that made hers follow suit.

“Shh.” She cooed, smoothing back his hair with her free hand. “Just listen to the story.”

He exaggerated a sigh and let her pull his patch off his left eye and place it on the stand by the side of the bed.

“Chapter 1.” She continued, switching which hand held the paper so that she could hold his hands on his chest.

“It was just like any other day on the Shipwreck Space Platform, the junked hulls came in and the crews tore them down to the studs. The damaged, but still alive, ships docked in other ports and got repairs and upgrades. What marked this day as special was in the second berth of “D” deck. The berth was rented by a small passenger liner called The Stormrise, and a deal was taking place.”


*             *             *

Stone looked at the ship with a great sense of pride. It was his now, well, his and his crew, once he finds one. His first step is to go find that kid who was selling refurbished junk and get him to refurbish the ship. It wasn’t going anywhere without a good mechanic.

The button on his gauntlet locked both the ship and bay as he left, his boots clicking as they struck the deck plates.

He didn’t have to go far before he found the kid. The homeless section of the station wasn’t far from his berth on purpose. It was cheap for him to rent and the berths were good for short-term work. The kid was sitting on the floor behind one of the emergency door ribs. He was probably around 17 or 18, but looked much younger because of malnutrition. He was deftly taking apart a gauntlet and rewiring it, probably to hack the bio lock. Stone stopped in front of him and waited to be acknowledged.

“Can I help you with something?” The kid said around a tool in his mouth, not looking up.

“Want a job?” Stone asked, half fascinated with the kid’s deft fingers.

“I have a job.” He replied.

“Want a job fixing up the ship that will get you off this station?” Stone clarified.

The kid actually looked up at him at this point. “What ship?”

“The one in Berth 2D. Can you make it fly?”

“I can try, what happens if I don’t?”

“Then you get a room on board and food while you try.”

“Deal.” The kid finished up the gauntlet and put the tools in his pocket. “When do I start?”

“Now.” Stone put his hand out to help the kid up and to shake on the deal. “What’s your name?”

“Ross.” The kid replied, taking Stone’s hand as he stood and slung a pack over this other shoulder. “I will take a look, but no guarantees.”

“Fair enough.” Stone let go of Ross’s hand and turned to guide him to his new home.


*             *             *

“Ross?” Stone asked with a chuckle, moving Pepper’s thumb with his lower lip as he talked. “Wait until Rosie hears about that!”

“Shhh.” Pepper admonished. “She recommended the book to me, just listen.”

“Mmmmhmmm.” Stone smiled, closing his eye again while Pepper took the book back up.

Too Long; Didn’t Read

Too Long; Didn’t Read

Poetry is all about current events and how they make you feel; but, sometimes poetry is about the things that stick with you. A years ago, I was told (repeatedly in the same conversation) that my blog entries and poems were “way too long.” This bugged me, not because of the vague criticism, but because of the repetition. Is my stuff so much “too long” that repeating the criticism six times in a five-minute conversation was necessary? The vagueness does get to me too, but the critic was not trained in literary criticism as I was so I let it slide. I did ask how long was too long. Was the critic expecting a list of limericks or haikus? Or is sonnet length acceptable? In any event, hearing this criticism repeat in my head every time I sat down to do my blog since hearing it has made me want to lash out. Here is my vent.




Too many thoughts in my head,

Long-winded topics and explanations

; I really

Didn’t mean to bore you to death.

Read or don’t read, neither matters.


Too many critics,

Long-faced and blind

; I really

Didn’t write any of this for you to

Read, not comprehend, and then dismiss.


Too bad all you can think to say is how

Long my stuff is

; I really

Didn’t need to hear it 6 times in a row.

Read or don’t read, but don’t repeat that all my stuff is


Too Long; and you Didn’t Read it.


Venting in poetry can help calm me down better than venting at friends. This is mostly because I feel like I am burdening them with my bad mood. Luckily, I have friends who not only listen to my vents with a supportive ear, but who also read my poetry and tell me how awesome I am. Because it doesn’t really matter if it is too long for some people to read. I write my stuff to get it out of my head, to express my feelings, and to revel in the language. If you’d rather not revel with me, then by all means: don’t read it. But don’t read over it and then offer shallow criticism such as that it is too long, that’s actually fairly rude to honest poets and true writers.

My Journey: 1998 The Journey Begins

My Journey: 1998 The Journey Begins

It’s Throwback Thursday so a good time to start The Journey. Read the About page if you would like to know a bit about this category! Starting from the beginning this time, I have decided to choose a couple of poems that show different sides of who I was in 1998. I was 15 and had just started back in public school during my 9th grade year. Prior to that I was homeschooled by my incredibly patient mother, something that I didn’t appreciate until I had kids old enough to get rid of at school for a couple of hours. This year I was trying my best to make friends and do well in school; but, I was socially awkward and only really succeeded at the latter. I did make one friend that first day of school who was my best friend until we graduated and lost track of each other. I was mostly frustrated this year and the depression was starting to eat at the edges. I think that it is most noticeable in the fact that none of my happier poems survive from this year. I will keep looking though.


1998/My Dream

I want to fulfill my dream

I want to soar

I want to fly

Above the stars

In the endless sky


1998/Male Chauvinism

Male Chauvinism is everywhere,

Some oppress and don’t even care.

Women have the same rights as men,

But some say it’s the shame of giving in.

“Women are to serve until they die!”

Is the Chauvinists’ battle cry.

Ours is one of truth and right

“We won’t go quietly into the night!”

The final battlefield is set,

In the home the armies have met.

Who, though, the victor will be,

Is the verdict we soon shall see

Our blood boils as the cry goes out!

“Love With Freedom Or Die Without!”


I wanted to be a pilot all through high school and into college. Some of my classmates found this to be easy fodder for teasing and decided to tell me all the things that I couldn’t do because I am afab. I started to go overboard with my zeal for a lot of things, as though they were the reason I wasn’t happy. It almost worked at times, but was just another mask.

About: My Journey

About: My Journey

In The Beginning…


Two songs keep repeating in my head today, or at least one line from each song. Frank Sinatra’s “My Way” and Bon Jovi’s “It’s My Life” have both appealed to me at various different times in the last 30+ years and at times I have had one or the other as my personal anthem. Today they are running through my head because as I contemplated which poem(s) to post today I decided that I need to explain a few things.


  • Why I Include The Date In The Poem’s Title: This one is fairly easy to understand and many of you may already know why. When I was in high school one of my poetry teachers, Ms. Smith—seriously, I didn’t change it for anonymity—said that if we dated our poetry we could see how our styles changed through time. So I started dating it all. I even went back and put the year on poems that I had written in the past and didn’t know the exact date.


  • Why I Want To Share My Old Poetry “As Is”: My journey is not always a happy one, in fact, I have clinical depression so at times it is downright miserable. The wonderful experiences in my life taught me a lot and I and grew from each one; however, many times my smile was pasted on as I cried on the inside. The poetry I have written shows this journey from what I would call the beginning until the present. It shows huge gaps where I wrote almost nothing and it shows times when I wrote multiple things a day. It shows how my voice has grown and changed as I have, and it shows what things were floating around in my head as I smiled my way through life.


  • Why Am I Doing This? I know that many of my family and friends are going to read this and wonder why I would put myself out there like this. The answer is fairly simple. As far back as I have written poetry, that I have copies of, I wore masks to hide behind. The Tom-Boy Mask, the Good-Girl Mask, the Rebel Mask, and so on. Some of you knew only one of these masks, some of you knew all, but none of you have seen my naked soul. My poetry is my naked soul. No masks, no lies, honest feelings and words, often penned when I was so angry I broke the lead on the page. Sometimes I wrote through tears that blurred the words in my sight and on the paper. Sometimes I wrote when I was elated or inspired. And sometimes I wrote for school assignments. All of these poems show my true journey and I am tired of all the lies.


  • What Can You Do To Help? Absolutely nothing. I am pulling myself up by the boot straps and climbing off of the end of my rope. This is my journey and if I had “said something sooner” or “just talked to someone” or even “just stopped being sad” then I wouldn’t be the person I am today and I would not have the fortitude to continue past my current road blocks. Telling me that you find inspiration in my journey is ok, sending me a pm about a particular piece that you want to clarify is encouraged, or even just commenting on a post or sharing it on social media can help. Not only will they help my self-esteem, but maybe my words can inspire someone else as so many blogs and stories and poems have inspired me.


What I do not want to happen is all of my family and friends taking things personally and not talking to me about it. I’m not going to name names or point fingers and when I do it will be about things that I have done and not things that have been done to me. I also don’t want to see a lot of comments about how I need to cheer up or things will get better. This is mostly because I’m posting poems that go as far back as 1998 so they don’t reflect the person I am today.


Today I am a wonderful creative transman who takes care of health, hearth, and happiness. I don’t always succeed, but I work hard every day and that really is the point.  And yes, I really do do everything my own way…

Trigger Project: Ableist Slurs

Trigger Project: Ableist Slurs

This is the first poem in my Trigger Project. This project is exploring my PTSD through poetry, so there will be a warning as the featured image for each entry of the project.

12/05/16/ Not St*pid
Hey St*pid!
What are ya, st*pid?
Com’ere, St*pid.
Quid being st*pid.
Even when not accompanied by a blow
I flinch at the word
Fix your handwriting, St*pid.
It’s a “d” not a “b”, St*pid.
If you weren’t so st*pid, you could do this
It’s almost better to get beat
Because those scars heal and fade faster
Than this word branded on my brain
Pull your head out, St*pid!
God, can’t you just do it right?
You’re too st*pid to pass
The worst part
Is how I keep proving them right
Too st*pid to graduate on time
Too st*pid for my first major
And two minors in a row
Too st*pid to keep a job
Too st*pid to stop flinching
Too st*pid to not cry when speaking
Too st*pid to ignore them
Too st*pid to just get over it
And too st*pid to die

Sugar-Coating Life Just Makes It Sticky

Sugar-Coating Life Just Makes It Sticky

New home for an updated edition of an old post. I had a blog about three years ago and this was the first post then. Enjoy!

01/28/14/Sugar-Coating Life Just Makes It Sticky

It’s true you know, sugar makes things sticky.
Especially if you have kids.
The more you try to sugar-coat life,
The stickier it gets.
Especially if you have kids.

We are not experiencing life,
Without the mix of good and bad.
We aren’t growing into a better person,
With a better understanding of ourselves.
If we sugar-coat everything,
Then we are doing a disservice.
Causing judgments and comparisons which are untrue.
And can end up sticky.

I tell you that I am perfect,
And you believe me.
You start to compare yourself to
The image.
Becoming frustrated and depressed,
Because you don’t live up to
The ideal.
I tell you that my kids are perfect,
And you believe me.
You start to see the faults in your kids,
Expecting them to live up to
The ideal.
I tell myself that I am perfect,
And I believe me.
I stop trying to improve myself,
And judge you unfairly against
The ideal.

I am not perfect,
Neither are my children,
And neither are you.
Let’s work toward our unique perfection,
And try not to make a sticky mess.

A bit about me: I am a wife and mother and transman. Nine years of trials and bickering, but we made it, and are getting better at being a family. My kids wear me out. With their own strengths and weaknesses they help me determine mine. I am a strong stomached mommy, with a weakness for a sad face.

I am a crafter. I crochet, I scrapbook, I sew, I cross-stitch, and much more. If there is a craft technique out there, I will have done it, tried it, researched it, and/or heard about it. I like learning new techniques, patterns, and applications. Always starting the crafts, and rarely finishing them, leaving us all to trip over the piles.

I am a writer, and I get paid! Writing internet content really is the bomb. I work from home. I am usually in my jammies, with little fingers trying to help me type.

I also write poetry and fiction. I had two hundred poems by High School graduation. College soon convinced me that quality is better than quantity. Being a mom has taught me that sometimes sleep is more important. I still wax poetical, but the pieces are few and far in between. I am striving to revise and publish my older work, so watch out!

My fiction takes me deep into the realms of science fiction and fantasy, tackling social problems in a graphic and adult way. Nothing is published or even finished because I can’t seem to end the stories. When I do I will let you know and may even post excerpts here for you to get a taste.

I will warn you. I swear, sometimes a lot. I was raised to believe that swearing is the sign of a limited vocabulary. But over the years, I have learned that there is a place for every word. When I include a swear word in my work, I want you to stop and consider why.

I am an atheist who has followed the spiritual paths of Asatru and Wicca as well as Christianity in my past. I will try not to launch into tirades about religion. However, this does influence my opinions, thoughts, feelings, and writing.

I am human. Seriously, I’m just a person. I am prone to forget things. I repeat myself. I misspell and misuse words. My grammar is not perfect. I tick people off. And I forget things. I will try to post about once a week, but I am not going to stress. If life gets sticky then you may just get a visual representation of a scream, or nothing at all. I respect constructive criticism and will just ignore destructive criticism. Live, Laugh, Love, Rant, and then let it go because not everything needs a coat of sugar.