Love All . . .

The shaft of light was no accident.
The shimmering halo
it cast around your
beautiful head,
was fitting.

We would chat.
Volleys of tumbling words,
batted carefully back and forth
over the cumbersome net
of our politeness.

Occasionally the motion slowed.
We would shift uncomfortably
in our seats, eyes averted.
And you would look outside,
at the faceless passers-by.

Watch them,
strolling from shop to shop.
Arms full of their baggage,
that was always so much
smaller than ours.

A strange silence
would descend over us,
like a great blanket woven
with longing, and all that we
couldn't, shouldn't, say.

Then I would jostle my papers,
move my chair, clutch at straws.
Until, like a great white bird
taking flight in a black sky,
your gaze would return to me.

And the dangerous dance
we were participating in,
would continue. While we
pretended that it really
didn't mean a thing.


Written for The Sunday Whirl.
(Using all of the words.)

Wake Up Call. . .

There were times,
when the days just slipped by.
Oozing into one another.
Ill defined chunks of time
liquidised, homogenised,
missed.

Until the moment,
you appeared in the middle
of that long black road, (the one
that led to all my tomorrows)
you barred my way, forcing me
to stop.

Derailed.
Suddenly conscious, of all that
before was just background soup.
Awake, aware, swallowed by feelings.
One message that changed
everything.


Written for Poets United Midnight Snack 003

Inspired by the picture prompt above - "copyright Adam Andersson"
"Textmessing Girl" by Reggaemanyo at Deviant Art

Knowing when to speak. . .

You speak of sheep.
The modern man asleep at the wheel.

While you, with your vigor and verve,
have your ready muse, pouring forth
from your elegant and tapered fingertips.

You do not see yourself, in the mirror of the parry
and thrust that you use to strengthen your ego
and reinforce the satin thread of your diatribe.

And as I walk your book lined corridor,
to the green walled den, that has your smell
and your superiority stamped onto its silk lined walls.

I yearn to tell you that an opal does not get its fire by learning,
that some things intrinsic and raw, have a power
that intellect has long forgotten.

But my eye is caught by a moth, fluttering,
blustering against the cold hard glass. Shut off
from the majestic trees and the moon, rising
like a great silver disk in the violet sky.

And I see it as an omen,
an oracle speaking in hushed tones,
talking of a deeper truth.

And it cuts so deep, that when
I open your slow and creaking door
and see that there is no light.

And that your studious eyes
are roaming my face like a map.
Looking for my lips. Searching
for the x that marks the spot
where the treasure is buried.

I swallow my tongue, smile,
and don't say a single word


Written for Wordle 22 at The Sunday Whirl

I so enjoy the wordle as it seems to push me to write things that are not anything I would write without their help. I find it fascinating and always look forward to seeing what story the next one brings hidden in its words. :-)

Exposed . . .

I pace the perimeter.

With measured steps
my stride is fast, my gait even.

I do not falter.

Even when you throw lines
laced with your charm.

Designed to trip me.

To halt my progress,
force me back to the centre.

So you can see my eyes.

In this glass house,
I long for walls.


Written for The Thursday Think Tank prompt - Glass Houses

Todays Kitchen

You'd think it would be more simple,

to just pick up and answer that urgent tone.

To jolt myself out from this strange reverie,
scrape 'now' from my machine gun synapses.

I should throw my unwilling self back into yesterday,
cut myself loose from the suds and lather of todays kitchen,

And find deep in my pockets, the memories, sweet remains
of when you still had your dignity, poise, and gallant stride,

The endearing jaunt to your hat, as you would pass by
before all the roaring and bluster and too bold moves,

That caused you to build our love on shaky ground,
where rubble and lightning replaced promises.

All long gone. The kitchen is almost clean,
suds gurgling down the yawning sink.

Gingham framing kitschy keepsakes,
distractions from a bleak skyline

... and the insistant ringing,
of the cold black phone.

Written for wordle 21 at The Sunday Whirl

Mother May I . . .

Mother,
may I take the moon down
from that big dark sky
and cradle it in my arms
for just a little while?

The stars won't miss it, and I
can stroke its silvery surface
and rock it, as it does the tides.
I'll watch it as it changes, like
a shape shifter in my lap.

I will be really careful not to drop it.
I promise to hold it gently but firmly.
It will be safe in my arms, and I'll
sing it that lilting lullaby. . .
you know, the one you sang for me.

Mother, may I take the moon down?
Please. . .


Written for Saturday Centus and the prompt - Mother may I
(Exactly 100 words minus the prompt.)
Image by Susannah Bec

When. . .

when the too sharp day
dresses me in its nuance

when the trembling sky
lets go its precious drops

when curtains are drawn
so my light is banished

when there's pin prick holes
in the cat clawed darkness

when hope comes leaping
through bat filled night

when courage is gathered
to face the morning

when the door is unlocked
and windows flung wide

when words mean more
than marks on paper

when. . .


Written for Thursday Think Tank prompt - Windows
Image and words - Susannah Bec

Circulation

Observe my heart,
watch as it fills with blood
and pumps it out again.

Note that it is a rhythmic thing
like a drum beat or a tide.

Observe my heart,
watch as it fills with love
and pours it forth.

Note that it is a rhythmic thing
like a drum beat or a tide.

Understand that
the more love it gives,
the more love it summons forth.

It is a rhythmic thing
like a drum beat or a tide.

Understand that
the force of love is potent,
it contains powerful energy.

Like a drum beat or a tide.

Know that,
with persistance
it can erode any barrier.

Like a drum beat or a tide.

Know that,
with a heart full
of unconditional love.

Like a drum beat or a tide.

We could change the world.


Written for Three Word Wednesday using the prompt words - erode, heart, observe.

Up At Dawn . . .

Green leaves studded with dew,
quivering blooms, pallid in
the early morning light.

I watch the striped caterpillar crawl,
tentative, alert to birdlike movements,
arched and insistant, a moving jewel.

The roof rack is piled unfeasibly high,
with suitcases bound, bright coloured
ribbons, streamers tied tight to the bar.

We are both awaiting the hordes,
the gaggle of women, the slow stride
of men, and the goof of children.

Who will wave hankerchiefs, throw confetti,
hold flowers and song sheets, and watch
as this special day unfolds without a hitch.


Written for wordle 20 at The Sunday Whirl using all the words.

Not easy ones this week! Particularly goof and birdlike!
But as always I enjoyed letting the wordle lead me and seeing where I ended up. . . and I ended up with this tale. :-)

No Such Thing . . .

My pockets are filled
with sunlight.
No shadows here today.
I washed them, down
the shiny white sink,
(they swirled clockwise,
gurgling as they went.)
Today sparkles, and
there is no such thing
as tomorrow.


For Sunday Scribblings prompt - Tomorrow