Strumming my fingertips on top of the steering wheel

I drive, 

Winding conscientiously past the Old Markham pubs.

A drunken chorus of the song vibrates in a nostalgic memory

As I reminisced upon us, seated before the musicians,

Each one “three sheets to the wind,” and no faces to recall.

And suddenly your laughter resounds sonorously;

A delight to my ears.

Bittersweet visions of your innocent smile and your conniving smirk engulf me,

And my lips tremble in a dilemma between humming “Ra Ra Rasputin,” 

And “The Lion Sleeps Tonight.”

I smile.

Which of these did you resemble? I wonder.

Sweet you were, even in your bitterness.

R. A. Newton

July 5, 2016.


You open me up like a classic
Caressing every leaf of my thoughts, 
Unbinding the spine of my book

Letting the pages fall apart, 

Digging into the mystery

That is simply a girl lost

In a woman’s body,

R. A. Newton

June 15, 2016.


Master crafted,

Painted to perfection,

The artist’s pride, the craftman’s delight

Petite porcelain dolls

With hearts of glass and all

Beautiful to see, smooth to touch

Yet fragile and withstanding no fall.

Tossed, dropped and shattered

In glimmering pieces we end

Only to be transformed

Our stories told in murals of mozaics.

Yet another artist’s hands must pick us up and put us together again,

Rearranged, unrecognizable,

A brand new scenary 

Unfamiliar pictures, 

No longer dolls, the object of the story

But the setting, the place of happening.

One life to another we are thrown,

Broken and mended and broken and mended again.

R. A. Newton

June 11, 2016.

Midnight Blues

I wrapped the night skies around me 

My eyes shimmering like t starlight against the midnight blues

Mighty and vast, everlasting and never ending, he went on before me, behind me, and beside me. Yet a gentle breeze swiftly drifting by was his voice, strong and hushed, empowering and gentle, deep and kind. 

In all his greatness He held me, me alone, and had room for none other. The sky in midnight blues. 

The Sky is mine!

R. A. Newton

June 8, 2016.


Blood ran, deep plum wine

Seeping through slender slits

On a thin violet wrists

Oozing from blue- green veins,

The colour of dancing peacocks

Blending evenly with ebony eyes,

Frozen, fixed upon the gray cement

Copper skin stilled and 

Strands of raven-black waves hair blowing

Floating to and fro in the translucent wind,

A silhouette, a cold statue of painted porcelain, 

Not a sigh of breath through her burgundy lips

Even death, she wore beautifully

R. A. Newton

May 17, 2016.


Weirder things have happened in life. I’ve always been the type to hate going to doctors or taking meds. Hasn’t been so for the last 2 years. I spent more time last year at the doctor’s office and test labs than I did at church, and I’m at church every Sunday. 

After a few years of battling paralyzingly painful migraines and body pains, I got an MRI referral. This I did not want to do. Just the thought of it was causing me anxiety for months. But somehow, when I got there, I went through it and was fine. Until the I missed the calls from my doctor and have a mini attach. One of those, chest pain so bad I to get off the bus to avoid passing out and sit down on the concrete to breathe sort of days, was yesterday. Followed by, waking up dizzy and nauseated sort of days, was today. 

To add fuel to the fire, I go on Facebook to deactivate today only to be asked whether I’d like my Facebook account deleted after I die. Was that really necessary Facebook? But it got me thinking. What would I want at that time? 

I’d want my loved ones, the few that I have, to throw me a party, not a funeral. Throw me a party and call it “Roja’s Homecoming.” And I’d want everyone who was ever a part of my life in a big or small way, to be there celebrating. Not mourning- but celebrating. I’d want two people to say eulogies, the funny one to keep the crowd entertained, and the loved one who knows me inside out. And on my last day I want to see the 10 most important people in the world to me. I want to see Matt first and Tubz last. But before I go I must say “I’ll see you later,” to these. I have to know that I’ll see them at home when they’ve gone through an entire, an wholesome life.

But thinking further, I asked myself, if today were my last day am I ready? Would I hear God say, “well done good and faithful servant,”? Many are called but few are chosen, right? I’d be leaving everything halfway. So I stood up and got to work. 

I want to hear,”well done.” 


You’re still in my words, And at the tip of my pen

Flowing blue ink like

Streams of tears

For all the years 

Of Crimson memories

And pitch black spells

Tainting the white of my pages

I gave you the pen 

Said,”I’m an open book with blank pages.”

And you wrote a nightmare

Gut-wrenching, painful

More defeated than Shakespearean lovers

You sketched us with lines of sorrow and painted us with ashes

While I adorned you with laughter. 

Pouring cold water on the fire in my eyes. 

My laughter now hidden deep in the echoes of your darkened soul,

Flowing through your veins as an echo of your muted cries. 
R. A. Newton
April 4, 2016.