photo by Eric Alder
In mediocrity, there’s complacency,
an uneasy sense of non-urgency.
Thick as molasses, dragging my ass off;
a self-made Hades, I can’t seem to cast off.
Chills up my spine creep into my mind,
freezing thoughts in space and time.
I wish they ran smooth, warm and collected
like shells on a beach that’s connected
to the birth of a race, our humble beginnings.
I think I’ll return, start planning my trip and
when I arrive, dive deep in the waters;
find calm and peace in something that matters.
For right now, purpose all but eludes me.
Long winter nights hardly amuse me.
Mundane tasks bear down like a mass.
Three more months? Don’t think I can last.
Characters in line, yet s c A t t e R e d,
donning new costumes and knocking on doors
while I stand at the curb,
peeking between fingers and trembling;
watching them reach for treats, not knowing
if the front porch light is on or off.
“I didn’t make it,” she cried. My breath lodged
in my throat, knowing that this is real life (BOO!)
and she must feel it for all it is
because the alternative is worse –
high or low, smoked or sniffed,
emotional shut-down; silent behind
thick circles of black eyeliner.
They tell me not to quit five minutes before
the miracle happens and so, I tell her,
and she doesn’t.
And neither does he, as we see him
every night now, and at weekend games.
The trick: God’s perfect timing.
So grateful for blessings received this week. My daughter made a select volleyball team and hubby got a new position at work that cuts out his night and weekend hours. Thanks to Eric for the photo prompt.
The River Muse poetry journal has gone to print here! We are also available in Kindle format here. Grab your copy today.
Two little dogs
who thought they were frogs
leaped around the yard.
Up in the air
with nary a care
they leaped and they leaped so hard.
The neighborhood cat
she smirked as she sat
watching such a sight.
Then they spotted her
but she merely purred
“No, no. Frogs do not bite.”
Writing children’s verse for dverse poets.
photo by sethsnap. used with permission.
She sits on “their rock.”
The lake and her flowing chestnut hair
- childhood backdrops
and those of the proposal, here,
six months ago.
Elbows rest on knees; right palm
cradles chin. The other, bare,
drapes casually across her lap
- maturity’s model.
Shadows veil delicate features,
rendering eyes unreadable.
The midday sun catches a spark
in the abyss
like the diamond ring slowly sinking
to the lake’s bottom.
Every once in a while
I meet someone
who is a little off her rocker
like the white double ones
that sit on front porches
inviting friends to sit
and chat a while,
or even stand for a fast hour
talking about things in common.
It’s like conversing
only not as nutty as speaking aloud
to yourself, and not having to worry
because you answered yourself
(I always answer myself)
saying I am too weird or too different
to have any “normal” friends;
not realizing that normal is only
an issue when you compare yourself
Independent of another’s likes, dislikes,
wants, needs, quirks, opinions, views,
religion, character flaws, talents and
shortcomings, we are all our own sense
The greatest gift a friend can give,
other than the joy of a good conversation,
is the ability to make you forget that
you are crazier than most; that you are
Ab-normal. If you find this in a person,
you have found yourself a normal friend.
She talked of abuse
like many others have.
Contacts, years beyond
And they became alien
to their own feelings
outside and in
Small, dark spaces
where cockroaches hid
during the day;
Clicked, at night, across
while little girls
Sucked their thumbs
and slowly died
down the hall.
Read more poetry (I’m sure some much more light-hearted than mine) at d’verse poets pub today.