Category: Uncategorized

Quilted

Patches of good times,

pieces of bad,

quilted and stitched

in the life that we had.

Remnants of memories

sepia tones,

yellowing love ages

into our bones.

Did I do this thing

or did you say that?

And does it matter now

love has gone flat?

You sit in your chair,

and I’ll sit in mine,

alone and together,

and lost in the wine.

Arguments, fighting

familiar as dust.

Then after midnight

it’s make love or bust.

Time to be quiet,

even our sighs.

As silence settles

we watch the moon rise.

Tomorrow then, we will

remember this day,

more fragments of memories

to put away.

As life gets more peaceful

the older you grow.

the sun lights your quilt up

with just the right glow.

 

Write ‘Til The End

Dust now settles on your soul.

Body crumbles, health not whole.

Vision fades, waking slows.

Page stays blank, writing woes.

Have you no more words to say?

Have they left and flown away?

Or are you a lazy sot?
Leave them buried, let them rot.

Words were lovers you embraced,

now it seems they’ve been replaced.

What intangibles are there

that make you no longer care?

Light the fire, feed the spark.

Don’t leave words there in the dark.

Deep within they stir the heart.

Far from you they’ll never part.

In the mud of mind and soul,

use the words to make you whole.

In the war of flesh and heart,

words of wisdom make the art.

In the dance of life and death,

write them with your final breath.

 

Dreamscapes

The sun sets,

life leaks away

and the reaper’s

silver scythe is

heralded in silver hair.

 

Time watches

from a distance,

its steady gaze

holding your eyes

as it keeps pace

beside you.

The dreams you pursue

grow translucent

in your hands,

and there are days you can’t be sure

if it’s them, or you,

slipping through your fingers.

It may yet be that

you are one and the same,

but one has to stay,

and it can’t be

you.

Beneath a Starless Sky

Beneath a starless sky they sail.

The black waves sing a song.

They serenade the ebon sky,

their voices loud and strong.

The ship of seasoned sailors

chose to brave them all the same.

Beneath a starless sky they sailed

for fickle fortune’s fame.

The waning crescent moon no help

to navigate the sea.

It watched the skimming bow cut kelp

and rose indifferently.

The sailors didn’t count the cost,

and so they paid the price.

The black waves and the crescent moon

had caught them in a vise.

The ship went down,

the sailors drowned.

The town folk whisper why.

The crescent moon,

celestial scythe,

will cull your soul

to die.

Ethereal Thread

All that holds me

to this earth,

bound and abandoned,

are hope, dreams, and love.

A threefold cord, they’ve told me,

is not easily broken.

Nor should it be,

but the struggle

unravels

the way we’d like this

to end.

Clinging to life

by ethereal thread,

I hope it holds my dreams,

and love not sever it.

Detritus

The detritus

of a

dying spring

rolls down the windshield

of my parked car.

Small meteors

of

plant life

given golden coronas

by the setting sun.

And for a brief moment,

for these harbingers of new life

that have served their purpose,

a moment of silence,

and gratitude to have seen

yet another

season change.

My Distracting Muse

“Hello, ‘writer.’

Her voice was so sultry, even her insults excited me.

“Arabelle. It’s been a long time.

She turned the chair around and sat facing me, legs crossed, her dress holding on to hips that promised the fruits of her hours of research.

My face heated at the thoughts I thought.

She sighed. “So predictable. Are you even looking at how infrequently you’ve written this year?”

“I just did. That’s why I’m writing now.”

She sat on the edge of the bed, looking at me.

“You are too easily distracted.”

My eyes traveled against my will. “It would help if you…”

“I’ll help you.” She got up, walked over to me, and lifted my chin on her finger so I would look at her eyes, but I didn’t quite make it, and she grabbed my chin and tilted my neck until I was finally looking at her eyes.

“They’re up here.”

I pulled away and snapped back. “I was actually writing until you showed up!”

“Drivel.”

“It’s a start. I can make it not drivel.”

“I suppose.”

“You’re not helping, Arabelle. Go away.”

“Are you sure?”

“You get mad when I pay attention to you, and then when I ask you to leave me so I can work, you ask me “Are you sure”  

“Yes, I’m sure. Go. Away. Arabelle.”

“Can I at least read what you’re writing?”
“You already said it was drivel. Weren’t you watching from…wherever it is your kind dwells?”

It was her turn to blush. “Not really.”

I sighed. “Here.” I moved away from the screen.

She read it, a warmth emanating from her closeness, the whisper of fabric against her body. I pushed my chair further away, and she put her hand on the armrest.

I let her finish, and she turned to me, smiling. “I like it. Considering how few and far between you’ve worked, this is okay.”

“Glad you approve. Now, will you go away?”

“How about if I stay in the background?”

I shrugged. “Suit yourself, Muse. Clearly, you’ve got nothing better to do today.”

She sat on the edge of the bed again, humming.

“That’s not ‘in the background.’

“It’s the best I can do.”

“No, it’s not, and I don’t know why you’re here trying to distract me, but it’s not going to work.”

She smiled enigmatically, and began to swing her right leg as it crossed over her left.

Muses, man…

 

What Becomes of What Remains?

A clock ticks,

a ball drops,

and fire kisses the

lips of the sky

as lovers kiss on the sidewalk.

It is the hour of dreams

and hopes,

plans and purposes,

love… and its ending.

The rain comes now,

to wash the day’s revelry

away.

In the deluge I stand,

renewed, alive,

and oh-so-very-cold

from a longing, and absence

undefined.

The sand is warm,

the ocean pulls at it like

a child pulls its blankets up

when the monsters come.

What becomes of what remains?

I hold the warm sand,

but I can’t keep it from

slipping through

my fingers

like a fading dream.

What becomes of what remains?

The sliding sand

seeks its own

and leaves me powerless.

What becomes of what remains?

Of us?

Love is lost in the rubble,

engulfed by flames,

curling in on itself.

It will be reborn another day,

unknown to us, and if it tarries long enough,

unseen by us.

What becomes of what remains?

A history unlearned from,

a human sea of sadness,

or something far better,

and visible on the horizon?

How close can we come to it

without being burned?

What becomes of what remains?

We decide.

And we depart

And travel on

to find out

the answer.

 

 

HAPPY NEW YEAR

2019

May all the dreams, desires, goals, and purpose kindled within you shine through in the coming year. Blessings to all!