We Died Standing Still

I think of you and me and how we died standing still.

I was alone,

How could you not feel?

There were moments you would just stare,

As I stood in the pouring rain,

I never before felt such lack of care.

When I was sinking,

Down into the depths.

What could you have possibly been thinking?

You wore a path so sore,

You ripped and you tore,

Hid from me.

Smoking your cigarettes.

Selfish intent.

I thought I held your love yet it was only jealous respect.

My heart bled.

Now in retrospect,

Love I reject.


Domestic Violence


Too many disappointments have been reaped from a sorrow-filled life…

Too many tears I have shed, for a man who called me his wife.

Often I wonder what all this is for,

Why is this load so heavy to bear?

Why am I trying so hard?

It doesn’t seem to matter anymore.

Although I have come a long way,

From the misery of before,

Still I have to wonder,

What am I here for?



Please understand:

It wasn’t just the bruises that hurt.

It was the shame,

It was and is the names.

I was sinking,

Still do sometimes…

So low.

I feel I cannot live carrying this knowledge… must relieve it, but…

I don’t know how…

I sink…

I cry, give my soul to all the world.

Few can understand my plight.

Or could back then, either…

No one can fathom…

My psychology…

How helpless I felt .

I could not emotionally survive without him…

I could not save myself…

I turned on myself…

Blamed myself.

Excused him…

At times, how I loved him! Oh it was higher than the sky!

How I hated him, at others…

Then, confusion…



Most of all,

Feeling, once more,


at the same time,

as Hate.

A cycle.


Excerpts from my poetry book, Lost & Found

From my published book, Lost & Found.

See You (2003)


I thought it impossible,

Not being able…

To see…


I broke down.

I realized,

I care.

You mean the world.

And when you called,

I danced…


Echoes (2004)

Your laughter echoes, in the back of my mind, like a dream,

Like a cascading waterfall, tumbling down, tickling my memory.


It’s just a memory.

It stagnates inside,

Stifles me.

This Pain (2004)

This pain…

Too excruciating.

This pain…

I told myself:

Never let yourself feel again.

So why did I?

Wanted to feel the love without the pain…


Exquisite though it may be.

Still too awful to be perceived by anyone but me.



Review of Lost & Found by Paul McGovern

I received an awesome review today from a friend over in Northern Ireland. I opened the email and just sat, stunned. I had heard from other people that it was good, that I had talent, but this was overwhelmingly full of praise. I feel very happy and yes, proud. I would like to say Thank you to my Lord, Jesus, for putting this gift in my hands and guiding me along the way. I have decided to post it here in the chance that others will come across it. If you’re like to read Lost & Found, please click here.

Paul McGovern’s review:

Lost & Found

I love the concept of dualism, the two sidedness of everything that exists. It is one of the fundamental principles on which the world in that we live is based on. The rise & fall, the ups and downs, the good and the bad. As far as I’m concerned nothing is one thing or another, rather everything is in a state or perpetual flux. Lost and Found then is poetic dualism, a contradiction that explores the darker side of humanity and the subsequent flip side.

The author, Violet Yates, wrote the collection over a number of years, quite often at low points in her life. The poems conjure up images of isolation, desperation and despair. It often makes for bleak reading but there is a uncompromising truth at the core of every line and I for one felt moved and touched by what I read. I have gone through my own fair share of emotional turmoil and reading these poems I empathised with the harsh realities some of us have to face.

Each of the poems is accompanied by a yearly date entry identifying when it was written. This serves to reinforce the progression of the author over time. The book certainly encompasses her personal journey and one can identify abstract grief transforming into a perspective of hope. I makes for very good reading instilling hope in the reader while illustrating the personal depths that Violet experienced. There are many stand out moments, Pain from 2004 is just one:

This pain…
Too excruciating.
This pain…
I told myself:
Never let yourself feel again.
So why did I?
Wanted to feel the love without the pain…
Exquisite though it may be.
Still too awful to be perceived by anyone but me.

It’s personal, beautiful and eloquent if such things can be described as such.”Thinking of you as I lie alone in this room. Trying to blot out all feelings of doom.” High Hopes, suggests that the writing process perhaps offered some degree of catharsis or outlet for pain and in turn offers some hope to the reader that similar solace may be found in their own lives. Reading the collection I can’t help but feel reminded of Sylvia Plath. I don’t like comparing and writer with another because each has their own unique style and approach but I think it’s fair to say that comparisons can be made. I could award no higher accolade, Plath’s poetry remains the benchmark for me in many respects.

Lost and Found is the most engaging collection of poetry I have read since discovering the art form at school, it appeals to me on so many levels, not least in it’s exploration of the human condition when faced with adversity. Violet may have done through a lot to stimulate the creation of these poems but what she has produced is something beautiful to be proud of. Redemption in conflict, dualism. Lost and Found is available now on Amazon.

Just This Once

This is a short story (more of a skit) I wrote about 10 years ago. I hope you enjoy it.

Just This Once
By Violet Yates

My hands flew to my mouth, inspecting my lips for damage. I could feel a few hairline cuts and blood, the salty, bitter taste of blood.
“Let me see. Come here,” he said. His previously enraged voice had tapered off into a consoling, professional tone. ‘So now he’s a doctor,’ I thought, repulsed.
Yet I allowed him to examine me. He dabbed my bloodied lips with a discarded tissue, careful not to press too hard. It was easier to give in than to refuse.
“I’m sorry,” he cooed. ‘You’re sorry,’ I thought, staring at his fingertips, coated with my blood, when only moments before, they’d been a part of the mechanism that had brought the blood forth. ‘I’m sorry. As sorry a woman as there ever was.’
Then I stood before the bathroom mirror, checking the damage. I peered into the glass and saw a stranger stare back at me: blank-faced, a sallow complexion, bloodshot eyes. A frown where once there had only been smiles. Eyes that once had lit up with love, now only knew grief. ‘I’m sorry,’ I repeated, a tear traveling down my cheek.
Knuckles rapped on the door behind me.
I turned around and muttered, “What?”
“Everything okay in there?” he asked.
“Yeah, sure. Just great.”
I gazed back at the stranger once more, reaching to touch her pitiful face, before I exited the bathroom.
“Let’s go to bed, hon,” he winked. I shrunk away from him. ‘Not again,’ I thought. Another roll in bed after a night in hell. I felt dirty. But I didn’t refuse. What does that make me?
To bed we went, where we simultaneously removed our clothing as if performing an ancient ritual. Even when we fight, it’s like this.
I removed my shirt, torn in the fray, exposing my naked flesh beneath. He turned to me, his eyes caressing my skin, my breasts, burning a hole into them. ‘You’re mine,’ they seemed to say, ‘every inch of you.’
Stepping out of his pants, he kicked them to the side and closed the space between us in one stride. I began to breathe deep, hesitant breaths, steeling myself for the inevitable. Yes, I allowed it to happen, and it’s my fault. But there’s no other way. ‘Just this once, just this last time. That’s it. I swear.’
He ran his work-roughened hands up and down my goose-bumped arms, instantly warming them from the chill of winter like a blazing fire chases ice from cold feet. ‘Just this once,’ I reminded myself, because I knew I could falter.
Taking my hair down from its ponytail, he weaved his fingers through my hair, gathering it in a lump with his fist. He then twisted it and tugged my head back, leaving my neck exposed to his mouth. ‘Just one time,’ I told myself.
Lowering his lips to my neck, he opened his jaws and nibbled the nape, sending chills down my back. In spite of myself, I began to respond to his ministrations, my breasts becoming taught and alert, awaiting his next move with a mixture of delight and awkward longing.
He folded my body into his, whispering apologetic words into my ear as he pushed me gently onto the bed.
“Aww,” I sighed. Then I realized: I live for these moments, after the fights. That’s when he really loves me. Who says it won’t work? Only me, and maybe I’m wrong. I drew him closer so we were skin on skin and flesh on flesh, a tangle of erotic pleasure. Maybe there won’t be a next time.
There we copulated, all actions and words forgotten like so much dust, as time passed by. Just this once, he and I are one person, one body, one soul. Just this once, that is all that matters.
Afterwards he climbed off of me, his sweat mingled with the leftover remnants of blood on my lips. I rolled toward him and smiled into his eyes. He covered my face with kisses then slapped me on the rump.
“Hey, thanks babe. Love you,” he slurred, sleep already closing in on him.
“You too, hon.”
Minutes passed in silence as I stared at the ceiling of our tiny room, the moon casting a glow across our motionless bodies, while thinking, ‘Just that one time. That’s all it took, to start it all over again.’
Turning my body away from his, I laid cupped in sleeps’ embrace, trying not to think of the next time I’d pay to have a moment like this.