Escape

I long not to sleep.
It’s escape an illusion,
Much as it’s torment.

Advertisements

End

There are puppets on the walls,
Shattered dolls on the ramparts.

What they guard is taken,
No more now than a memory.

Ghosts of a dream long dreamt,
In a world without sunrises.

A Question of Mourning

“Will you mourn them when they are all gone?”
“I do not mourn.”
“There will be nothing left for you to do.”
“There will always be death.”
“You are the death of humans. Not of rats or pigs or what will come after the humans are gone.”
Death’s response was to tug his cloak into place with a thin hand. He could not feel the cold, but he knew it was there.
“You will mourn.”
The man standing beside Death tapped the contents of his pipe out into the dirt then felt in the pocket of his red waistcoat for a pouch of tobacco. For as long as Death had known him this man had smoked a pipe. Sometimes he smoked thin cigarettes. “For a change.” the man would say and then laugh his high, thin laugh.
“Why should I mourn? To mourn is human and I am not human.” Continue reading “A Question of Mourning”

Broken Daffodil

The walk across the dusty library felt a little longer today, just as it had the day before. Her feet shuffling on the thick carpet, stirring up yet more dust. The way it settled each night was of more concern to her housekeeper than it was to her. She liked the way it danced in sunlight and moonlight. The soft feel of it on bookshelves that had remained undisturbed for months or years. On the frames of paintings crammed into every inch of wall not covered by shelves. Continue reading “Broken Daffodil”

Fragments of a Place Like Home

There was a quote that I wish so dearly that I could find. It said that our home is wherever our heart tells us we belong. For over a decade now I have believed that.

I long for this place in a way that transcends wanderlust, discards passing fancy, and laughs in the face of whim. It pulls upon my heartstrings like a lost love that I have not yet met.

Start with an empty beach. The sand is coarse, laid out like a pane of glass by the tide. Rocks lead into cliffs on one side. Beyond them, green hills roll out and away. A setting sun paints rain-bearing clouds a deep golden red. A cool wind whips your hair and makes you huddle deeper into your cardigan as you turn into it and breathe. Continue reading “Fragments of a Place Like Home”

Roots

Dig up the roots,
hack them away!
Topple it down,
it grows too well!

Stop your shovel,
pause your axe.

Would you topple down
the very thing
to the top of which
you must hold?

Up here you see
reason
thought
pattern
wish…

You know each branch,
the quiver of each leaf.
Your tower.
Your mountain.
Your prison.

One day, leave you might,
but it will never die.

~~~

One of my many problems when writing poetry is that I often don’t quite know what to do vis-à-vis punctuation. Too much? Too little? Full stop? Comma? Everything looks wrong.

Create

Grace in metaphor,
a dancer in candlelight.

Elegance in simile
like a fine lady at dinner.

Weave words, like mysteries.
Start with endings,
no such luxury in life.
Find strands,
grasp them tight.
Make worlds,
shape souls.

Create…

Won’t you tell me?