The held back tears
of a smarting sting.
The shame overheard
in a chance eavesdrop
(that slow knife, rusting in place
and broken off at the handle).
The social dread,
the uttered stutter.
Where do we put such medals?
Because
they’re not becoming of a man.
another piece at Spillwords!
It’s to be published as a featured post. I’m grateful to their editors.
Some days
Some days,
it’s the tilt of a chubby face,
bright sun on rosy cheek,
smiles a daring smile.
Holders of doors,
thankyous said.
A girl with a broken wiper
gets help in the cold,
and someone lets you in on the highway.
Some days,
we’re in the matrix.
It brings on many changes…
Hell’s voodoo.
It’s pricked our doppelgängers.
And, with a squirm,
we’ll taste the fruits
of our continents of secrets.
We’ll stare, in prurience:
The men from the boys,
the women from the girls,
the free sinners from
the chained saints.
The Vice,
The Versa.
night thoughts
Touch
Yes, I know
now
The warmth of nearness
The barber
The masseuse
I pay
I do
for more than what’s needed
For the expected
the guaranteed
the scheduled.
A funny thing happened…
I went to get tested for eyeglasses. The optician’s office was inside a large department store, in an out-of-the-way location, and was generally not very busy. It was a warm day, and as I walked in, the attendant, a young woman, was running about the office with a fly swatter. She didn’t see me right away and, just as I heard her say “damn flies!”, she turned around, blushed, and said “I don’t know where they’re all coming from! I DID take a shower today.”
Well, that made my day.
Charming, to say the least.
Waiting
In this room
some are on drips
There are monotonous beeps
comfortable chairs
foot room
One or two souls
have bright colours
Another is nipped in the bud
From down the hall
timed screams
And me
Well I sit
alert and interested
seeing
with the sad puppy eyes.
A cry in the dark
A certain Ouija
still conjures you,
wavering but fading.
It was not long ago
that I could see you clearly,
in sober thought,
connecting perfect pixels
in the 3D puzzles.
What you said,
how you moved with odd gesture.
All reimagined.
All lost.
No second chances.
In the dull I sit.
Tremble
Does it rush at you,
too quickly and sinister,
as if lying in wait for a wakening?
You had a fondness for a thing
ambered now,
in its beauteous fade.
What’s left for us,
after such withdrawal,
stewed, now, in the certainty of worry?
Chastened in the land of hurry.
Naming Creeks
This poem, by Elan Mudrow
via Naming Creeks
Aremyfeetofftheground 