Category: writing

Scuttle

Made of steel,
I have withstood
your darkness,
borne the blackened
traces of your hardened
words upon my soul,
have carried for you,
endured the weight
of your substance –
lack of substance –
this charred shell
all that remains,
tarnished metal
walls, contents
now empty.

(Daily Addictions daily prompt is scuttle)

Disruption

Absence of table
echoes in a room
reserved for its
central role –

I am at a loss,
no explanation
proceeding
this disappearance

have just woken
from a slumber
deep, to this hole
in certitude

grasp for answers
wonder at significance
if I’ve missed signals
question permanence

left with silliness
of chairs, the mockery
of dust – balled
fragments revealed

stand at kitchen counter
nibbling, dubious
unable to relax –
the table is gone.

 

Unwanted Visit

The years have done their damage,
resentments, like border guards,
line up between us…

and then you just show up,
as if somehow that makes you the better person,
as if your presence will make me forget, forgive

and I fumble for the right words,
attempt graciousness, even as I’m struggling
to feed the hurt, coddle the innocence lost

you hurt the deepest core of me,
the child, barely able to stand on her own,
the burden of her frailty heavy enough

what amusement must you derive
from revisiting our torturous past,
I cannot fathom – all too much for me.

Water (Haiku and Free Verse)

(Inspired by Steve Still Standing‘s  “An Exercise in Poetic Styles”)

Even the river bleeds –
fiery frigid essence –
earth’s watery voice.

***

It is the river
that calls, waters flowing
through my veins
and I am the banks
steadfast in my holding

the razor sharp edges
like liquid steel
eroding my earthen
postures, challenging
the hardened places.

Night Calls

A shrill note
pierces night’s curtain –
an insistent, pestering alarm

Is it loneliness
that motivates the caller –
the need for a warm body
to calm her feathered fears
or a throaty hum to lull her?

Or is this an infant cry,
a hunger for nourishment
anxious in separation
waiting for mother’s
regurgitated assurances,
father’s watchful stance.

An onerous honk
breaks through
the high-pitched peep
and then, as
warmth wanes
a softer, sweeter
melody presents
followed by
a laughing trill

avian pleasure
prefacing night’s slumber.

Authenticity

The freedom to be unafraid,
even alone, connected
to a sense of purpose,
a trust in a higher being.

Never a thought given
to whether the attire is right,
hair just so, or whether or not
there’s enough money to live on.

Unfiltered honesty, a heart
full of wonder, a mind open
and eager to learn – will
unblemished by vanity.

Some call it naiveté
some call it innocence
I call it authenticity

this five-year-old sprite
whose simplicity of being
defies any other reality.