Someone once told me life is like driving with one headlight busted. You can’t see much but you can see enough to stay on the road. It sounded too close to destiny wrapped up as a given for those with cars or perhaps even torchlight to stumble on by. In the moment before the train do you ever wonder… a side effect of an anxious mind designed to keep you from harm by popping ideas in your head with enough force to flinch. But it’s all unreal until enough breath is breathed to put steel into the words the ideas that dance like paper on a line in our heads. New cars have automatic lights. They come on when night falls without the need of human intervention. My car is still old, growing older, it comes with a choice to make.
We were discreet. Those nights where his ghost would seek me out, all hands and fumbling fingers. In the press of lips, of skin and tangy sweat, he’d forget to care for a while, and loose the thought of her somewhere between my sheets, until the morning brought her back into the light, and he would have to pick her up, tuck her inside his heart, and carry her round like a stone, sinking further with every step. There are some weights that never lift and loves that never really die. So today’s post is another poem I’m afraid. I seem to be bombarding you with them this week. It’s also another duel prompt response. I’ve taken the daily post prompt Ghost and SecretKeeper’s five word weekly work in prompt and jammed them together. I’m hoping to spend the rest of the evening work on some flash fiction to get set up for posting over the next couple of days, so if you have time, please check out my flash fiction/short stories section and let me …
Winter brought its claws against the glass and pressed its snout frozen lips peeled back, icicle teeth glittering, closer to me without clouds of warming breath to fog the panes. To remind me there was still life somewhere behind the maw… You, in your uncovered sky when day is shortest and night longest whispered and chided the Winter. Told it: ‘hold back its claws’ and save the snarl for darker nights when the moon fails to rise and the stars are too distant to cross space in time. These months there seems more of you, dotted and dancing tumbling over one another to spell out patterns I know I must have known once… I can see Winter at the glass, nose pressed against mine.
There is someone juggling fireworks. Somewhere beyond these fields. There is someone juggling fireworks while I was curled cool and content beneath the weight of blankets with books to read. There is someone juggling fireworks now the rain has stopped. There is someone juggling fireworks now the wind has dropped. There is someone juggling fireworks in the calm after heat. There is someone juggling fireworks who’s pulled me back from sleep. There is someone juggling fireworks. Sporadic, out of sync. Who is juggling fireworks upon a country-side at peace. A quick free-write poem on a lovely cool Saturday night.
Every year the combine breaks down. This year it seems things are more serious than most.
Samson I didn’t attend the funeral, but I sent a nice letter saying I approved of it. Samson always was a pen and paper sort of guy. No one responded, which seemed rather rude. I would have liked a note, “Thank you for the letter, we placed it on the casket along with the first fist-full of dirt.” I would have enjoyed that part, heaving the clots of earth onto what was left of his clotted up heart. I was told the wife wore black. She’s the traditional sort, avoided the mistress at the graveside. Wouldn’t have seemed proper, for the pair’s tears to mix. I paid my respects, three days late with Cubans and brandy. Neither of which were to my taste, but I suppose we’re something of slaves to the wishes of the Dead. I am once again ignoring the offical NaPoWriMo prompt. Today’s piece was actually inspired by a tweet from the keyboard of prompts 101 I hope that you all enjoyed it.
“We’ve got to stop this,” he tells her, hands still caught up, teasing through the knots left over from that sort of sex. “This is wrong,” he tells her, words slurred by pressure, by lips pressed too firmly against the creases of a hip. “This is us,” she tells him, sliding arms into sleeves and feet along curved soles ready to slip out. “We need this.”
“Don’t believe the chaffinch,” my mother told me, hands slack in linen tangles. “They know so little of our world, so little of your world, so little of any world men tread. Imagine always looking up, or always looking down, never along stranger scopes. Can you imagine a world without level understanding, without eye-to-eye, without seeing as another person does? As another person can? How can the chaffinch think? They have no lessons, no masters, no books! Their nature divides them from us, but we divine their nature, we divine our own! And might we mistake in our proclaims and could a chaffinch be other, other than what we divine if there were books?” Written for The Daily Prompt – Surreal