Going for Coffee
What molten rage appears behind frosted windows
Your panic rises, scorching, then cools icy and remains
Tempers your home cannot, scarcely, contain
Trembling crumbles your well planned calm
You’ve known the truth for far too long
A wink, a blink, a flash, you’re gone.
d’Verse quadrille: 44 words using the prompt ‘wink’ (which admittedly I used in a darker way).
This year, I’ve discovered poetry. Yes, of course I knew of its existence previously. I had even rhymed and waxed on about a few words. But now, I delight in it. I often participate in the biweekly Quadrille prompts over at d’Verse Poets Pub. It’s a lovely way to shake up my thinking and staid, stale writing habits.
I’ve settled down. I know I’m slower but I tell myself it is because I’m more deliberate in my actions. No flitting, no flouncing, no sudden movements.This includes my thinking. No flitting or sudden movements of thought either. What a relief. Maturity has settled in and I’ve made it my friend.
I’ve realized the beauty in engaging others help. This actually began a couple of years ago when I called in 1-800-got-junk to take away the inherited broken patio furniture on my balcony. Three eager young people arrived, took it away, swept the balcony thoroughly. They insisted I just sit (playing to my strengths there) and point out what needed doing. Here’s the thing. I’d worried about that ‘stuff’ for a long time. It was a burden. When they took it away, I realized just how much it had bothered me. I pledged to myself to take the kinder, gentler way from then on: ask for help when I need it.
Quiet. It’s been months since I turned on the television. While I have always enjoyed listening to the news, and watching old movies, the noise of tv stresses me. When I get home from work, I like calm quiet (as much of it as a city neighbourhood can provide). I keep up to date through online sources, and at low volume.
Vegetarianism. I don’t think I can label myself truly vegetarian as I still eat seafood. But, the label isn’t as important as taking the action. It was a gradual change but one I felt called towards. I’m not an exciting vegetarian, I’m a mundane one. No fancy recipes, no moves to become vegan. Just me. Me and my carrots.
For all this, I give thanks. In celebration, here’s Yo-Yo Ma, with Kathryn Stott, playing one of the most beautiful pieces of music ever written. The Swan encompasses the seasons in the arc of a life. At least that’s what I think. Perfect for autumn and Thanksgiving.
I love the early morning on dark rain pitter-patter days
When the hours after will stretch out unspoken for
When the choices of time are only mine
The serenity of the cool pavement filled with water from sodden clouds
Bursting at the seams to unburden themselves
To share the sadness created, brought together from a thousand miles
Clouds see a thousand sights, stretch slowly, stretch slow lee across the gray skies
What do they see? Only tops of buildings, apex of trees trying to touch them
Or do clouds fill themselves with the thoughts of those whose lives they cover and uncover
Are clouds full of memories and is that why they rain?
Though I cannot touch your shirtsleeve, I reach out.
You answer me, pull me close with softly written words.
Soothe. Calm.
We shield ourselves with flannel paragraphs,
Hold life’s storms at bay,
Understanding, no matter what our whethers,
Friendship moors us in undeniable harbour.
44 words for d’Verse Poets Pub Monday quadrille prompt: harbor/harbour
Marquee neon spotlights the startled expression of someone who once pretended to love me. My hand reaches deep into my empty coat pocket and it’s then I realize: I’ve already tossed our past away.
A 33 word Trifecta-like writing challenge for myself and for writer Tom MacInnes. Please pop over to Tom’s new blog to read his response.
At the intersection of what has always been and what might be,
A short teenage girl stretches tall, centre stage,
Her favourite blouse of red and white stripes complete with floppy bow
Distracts only slightly from her deliberately punc-tu-a-ted words,
Shared into a screechy mic atop the old oak podium.
Harsh amateur spotlight provides a momentary halo,
Trades her dark chestnut hair for light ashy blonde.
The change mimics her rehearsed act of defiance,
Trading natural, absolute shyness
For feigned, casual confidence.
A fledgling leader addressing her assembled, disheveled, constituents,
Before fifth bell dismisses classes for the day.
Sisters, unlike.
One rounded, one jagged.
Puzzle pieces never able to click-fit.
Don’t make trouble, I begged,
Never understanding she didn’t.
Her heart broken in shards, impossible to mend.
My wrists cut in bloody despair.
She salved, bandaged my wounds
Before fading from view.
*****
Itching to know the cool breeze upon her back, urging her.
To herself be a verse of possibilities rather than the chorus on repeat,
She answered yes to questions she’d dared not say aloud.
Then as they slept, she crept,
Leapt.
And walked away.
d’Verse Poets celebrate 7 years online with this quadrille prompt: itch
Let the breeze billow the curtains,
Let the light and warmth favour us,
Let the joy tickle our bare skin.
We may doubt this glorious constant,
But nature’s life cycle, renewing possibilities, revisiting brief serenity,
Repeats until we are no more. Then repeats again.
