Hydra

It’s a slippery sinuous thing
sneaking into wormholes,
creeping into consciousness,
lurking in the background of dreams,

Like a radio.
Always playing.
One room over.

Where do the rampant questions end
and tedious rounds of remembrance
turn to forgetting?

The only menace lies in the meaning we ascribe.

Close your eyes and take a breath
as the long gray road ahead unwinds.
The heart unravels but all the world remains.

This was written for Three Word Wednesday.

Piecemeal

It’s all temporary, you know.
Do not indulge.
Don’t care too much.
Every hanging on
must soon let go.

Hold yourself aloof
apart
above
the entanglements that would bind you,
drag you under,
leave you drowning.

Breathless

I started whole
but they keep taking pieces:
a pinch of flesh,
(a pound of mind)
What will be left at the end?

Graviora manet.
So in the meantime, let us dance.

This was written for Three Word Wednesday.

Decuma

I have rehearsed the disaster
a thousand times
so I will not have to think
and cannot fail.

Ask the right questions.
Say the right things.
Shoulder a puzzling burden
and pretend to understand,
while deeper meaning eludes me.

Shattered.

Outward calm
but nerves stretched tight.
Bend, don’t break.
Accept your fate.
Chin up and carry on.

After years of why
and holding my breath,
now I see the outlines
of what’s to come.

I’ve lived my life in fog.

I swallow the lump in my throat
and prepare for Decuma's storm.


This was written for Three Word Wednesday.

Safe

I am in a safe place,
my safe zone,
a place where good sense happens,
unblemished by the foolishness
around me.

Consumed by practicalities,
I erect my earthly castle
(no lopsided structure)
of fitted joints,
and steel and stone,
and logic.

I know I build my shelter
on gently shifting sand,
but the stakes go deep
into the ground.
Strong.

So do not think me cold
when I don't join you
at quicksand's edge.
That is where the danger lies.

I'm safer here on higher ground
where there is always much to plan
and always much to do.

Heaven has no use for tears
and I have not the time.

This was written for Three Word Wednesday.

Jigsaw

I think the words
but they don’t go together,
and if the words don’t fit
how can they be true?
A senseless babble,
gibberish,
a buzzing in the brain
as I write with trembling hands.

Stay focused.

There are no solutions here,
only mismatched pieces
of the puzzle of you.
Too many things are missing:
mismatched
misplaced
mistakes were made
and the pieces I’ve been offered
don’t look the same.

I’m told the final piece
must go here now,
but my questions could fill oceans.
Instead I stuff them in teacups,
smile politely
and say it’s all okay.

The answers, when they come,
will engender further questions
(more missing pieces than I can count)
and ahead of me is a long road
with many years to wonder.


This was written for Sunday Scribblings 2.

Pebbles

Small pebbles
leave no epic wake
but their ripples crash like tidal waves
on the shores of those most near,
momentous and monstrous
but small enough to hide in a teacup
(with room to spare).

What do we do
with the pouts and sighs,
the manipulative tears,
when the halo of sudden canonization
distracts from all faults
and turns petty accomplishments
into greatness?

We seek grand explanations
hidden in darkness
to soothe our tortured souls.
But the truth, when it comes
is prosaic
banal
a needless snuffing of a candle
for the most ridiculous of reasons.

And so a favored child
turns to blind end, footnote
a name on a chart
in someone’s tallying of distant kin.

This was written for Sunday Scribblings 2.

Limbo

It would be a bitter pill

(bigger pill)

to have to swallow

if it all came down the same way

as before.

But though I’ve made some stumbles

(foolish fumbles)

sighs and grumbles,

still I’ve stayed the course,

put in the effort

done my time,

and tried not to be laid too low

by worry.

Uncertain future is my lot

and so I try again,

coached with buoyant words

(glorious to my ears)

that make me smile

and dream awhile

but not believe.

This was written for Three Word Wednesday.

Limitations

We husband our powers

and imagine we shape our lives like clay.

In truth we make only monsters

cobbled from this
stolen from that

nothing ever truly our own.

Every idea 

from its humblest beginnings

to its bitterest end

passed through the filter of the mob,

whose tongues will wag
and words will burn

if our creature isn’t as lurching and hideous
as their own.

Who am I to them

(or me to you)

that freedom should be so proscribed?

Oh I would sleep, 

perchance to dream

and finally see the wild places

I daren’t venture awake.

This was written for The Sunday Whirl.

New Fiction Site

I have started serializing my WIP, Cold Haven. At this time, it is incomplete and current material is enough to see us into August. I've struggled with writer's block for over a year on this one, but a recent post by Worderella has hopefully broken me out of it. She suggests asking "What can go wrong?" rather than "What happens next?"

What can go wrong in Cold Haven? Plenty. I hope to see you over there!

Wary

I calculate your worth

while you analyze my smile.

Fearful of the future,

skeptical of the moment,

envious of all who came before,

but still we carry on.

Love is a messy business.

This was written for Three Word Wednesday.

Just Another Job

Place of memories and laughter.

Now the wind’s home.

Someone’s pride,

a dream come true,

soon just another job:

A bulldozer driver’s paycheck.

This was written for Sunday Scribblings 2.

Empty

I would rid myself of you:

empty head

empty heart

empty veins

Bloodless, cold as granite,

and as fearless.

But flesh is fragile,

mind is weak.

Resolutions made

at noontime

will come to naught

before the sun goes down.

No names for what I feel.

No words can give it weight.

But still I try to chart this out

make a table:

write a list

draw a map to guide me

through the howling darkness

to a place

where no vestigial ghosts

of memory

rob my soul.

Oh do not think of me

nor speak my name,

lest I come come full circle

and love you once again.

This was written for The Sunday Whirl.

Devolve

Now we all evolve,

devolve,

transform into
the Other.

Looking high,

seeking low,

water finds its level.

(eventually)

Oh, don’t stand there

adjudicating

calculating

feigning innocence

you’ve never known.

Sober as a judge.

Judge me not.

Judge my words

(not deeds)

for though my actions fail me,

and reach exceeds my grasp

and efforts sometimes come to naught,

my words reveal
what’s true.

This was written for Three Word Wednesday.

Folly

I know it to be folly,

but I won't stop.

When memories

don’t match mirrors,

science steps in

(as if on cue).

No need to act all saintly.

You’re wrestled with this demon,

chose a different track.

Feigned happiness.

Put on airs.

Said you’d never do as me,

but it’s an act,

a jealous thing,

mired in empty fears

and poverty.

Bones grow brittle,

faces crack,

and all that’s left

are tightly held beliefs

we once thought truth,

now shattered,

scattered

like pebbles on a riverbank

with time's river rushing by.

There are no angels here,

and vanity cannot save us.

But it will make the descent

a little prettier.

This was written for Sunday Scribblings 2 and The Sunday Whirl.

Cornucopia

A glass half full,

but we want more.

Who says when it’s too much?

Fleece your neighbor.

Fill your plate.

Crowd your life to bursting.

There’s always room for another.

What values have we instilled

with our abundance?

All wound up with expectations,

drunk and stumbling
through the funhouse.

Tumble down

without a sound.

(No one wants to listen, anyway.)

It’s all a farce, you know.

So put on your glad rags

and clown shoes,

emit your happy cries

and cheer along with the others.

Refuse to see.

With our cravings we seal our fate.

We need to begin again.

This was written for Sunday Scribblings 2 and The Sunday Whirl.

Ideation

I would extend a hand,

but you would pull me under.

Drown with you.

Die with you.

Take me to deep places

and make me measure hours

by the ticking of a doomsday clock:

End of time.

Out of rhyme.

Oh we are in a state, my friend.

Race to the bottom.

Race against time.

Patrons, a host of demons

who spread a bitter feast

where we dine upon delusion

and nibble tender mercies

salted with madness.

Fight your way out.
Fly away home,
but mud still clings to your wings,
pulling you back. 
We can't all get out alive.

Now I spend my days

under a cloud of I know why.

But still I understand,

and I say with all humility:

I have not sinned.

There can be no rescue

for those who wish to drown.

This was written for The Sunday Whirl and Sunday Scribblings 2.

Smile

It’s a chilly wind that blows,

but I still smile.

In a world of cold depravity,

injustice,

and strange delusions,

I see the madness for what it is.

Though powerful forces

would accuse

and drag into the muck,

I will not follow suit.

Yesterday’s wrong answer

won’t justify today.

And so I read their words,

hear their voices,

shake my head at folly,

and still smile.

This was written for Three Word Wednesday.

Haunted

You’re back again,

inside my head,

channeled in somehow.

Am I condemned to remember you always?

I thought this tug of war had ended,

strange ennui of disgust and love

where every mood has meaning

and senses burn hot
like withered grass.

My eyes see you in empty rooms.

I smell and taste a passion long departed.

Should I capitulate to the past,

dream of things that cannot be?

Better, perhaps, to list your faults,

parse and tally them,

generate a query

that will give me simple answers

and render you thus harmless.

But can complexity

be reduced
to a single number?

(Binary)
Yes or no.

Too easy.

So instead I will go about my days

with folded hands

and phony smiles,

while you lurk in the inky shadows of my mind.

Untamed.

This was written for The Sunday Whirl.