À mon ami

I miss you

(without missing you);

lost chance

to explain,

though you will never

understand

my words

my mind

my heart.

Was it opportunity

or crisis

that made you walk away?

Too near the chasm.

Stall for time.

Do anything

but open up your soul

and question what’s inside.

Change hurts.

Now days grow long,

reminding me

of other summers’ fires,

and so my gripe is this:

We could’ve tamed
our memory,

shared a laugh,

(thank god that’s over),

but you turned your back

instead,

refused to see complexity

in me,

while I recognized

(with fond and knowing smile)

the contradiction

in you.

Bonne chance, mon ami. 


NOTE: This is a Three Word Wednesday Post.

Morality Tale

I won’t make this a morality tale,

though I’ve seen the lies,

felt the deception,

all smoothed over
with smiles.

You’ve fed the evidence of disaster

to the fire,

burned it to ash
like your soul.

Better that you had given
your fairy tales

to the flames, instead.

You can bury the truth,

but it will sprout again in Spring.

Have no fear
that I will reveal your secrets.

(Secrets have their own ways.)

But though I do not raise the hue and cry,

accuse, pull off your mask,

I know what lies beneath.

And in the wickedest arcane corners of my heart,
Je suis d'accord.

This is a Three Word Wednesday post.

Time Flows

I analyze the viscosity of time,

its rate of flow,

its tendency to stick in tricky places,

and sometimes stop

while I hold my breath

and wait.

Who can say how long it takes

to become adept
in time’s meanderings?

For though it appears to run

in patterns

(its own peculiar channels),

in truth it follows paths
of its own devising:

Random

Rambling

Rampant

If hours were edible,
I’d choke them down.

If bankable,
I’d save them in a jar

(under my bed)

like private fireflies,
just for me.

Instead, time flows,

through my fingers and my hair,

out the back door,
across my yard,

vitreous and virulent,

hard to measure.

But still I attempt
(in spite of everything)

to rate the viscosity of time.

This is a Three Word Wednesday post.

55 - Insect

I was there when the strange winged creature landed. I wasn't sure what to think. A few curious people wandered over and we speculated. We weren't afraid of the monster, but maybe we should have been, since the odd being's presence led to an invasion of art-seekers, followed by that even more noxious species: tourists.

Note: This work of art was observed in Terlingua.

This is your last time to submit your 55-word story to Mr. Knowitall, so get on over there!
 

Phoenix

I saw you

emaciated,

hungry,

with a hole inside

that could not be filled

with mercy

(though I tried).

With the cunning
of a judo master,

you took my food

milk of human kindness

and turned it into
something foul,

fuel for self-destruction,

an ugly, noxious thing,

a flame

that gives no warmth,

only ash.

And so I waited for the end,

wrote the obit,

held my breath,

picked out my widow’s weeds.

But you have emerged
from the fire,

cleansed,

purified,

a degenerate angel

transformed to man.

And now I see the truth:

that all our darkest moments

precede dawn.

This is a Three Word Wednesday post.

Fuel

Each fever runs its course:

white heat,
unquenchable,

unrivaled.
No quick healing here,

just an endless grind:

ground down

blunted

broken

hunted

haunted

and plenty of

obsession.

Cast into the desert,

stung and sweating,

searching for something

(to hold onto)

searching for someone

(with an answer)

but in response,

the dismal quartet of words:

It's not my job.

It's not my job.

No one can help you here.

So I watch the time

tick away,

each additional second

a further weight to bear.

Longing for escape

is only natural,

for the fever burns,

consumes

conflates

conflagrates

and contains no answers.

Today i am made of little pieces,

tied together with twine.

Fuel for the fire.

This was written for The Sunday Whirl.

55 - Silverware

Too many spoons.

What should he do?

Though he pondered it often,

he hadn't a clue.

Then a friend said,

"Go make a zoo.

Take that old silver

and make it like new!"

So that's what he did,

using forks and knives, too.

If you're near Big Bend park,

you can now buy a few.

Does your work of art contain exactly 55 word? Tell the G-Man!