Silence

A longing gaze

A laughing look

A holy mess

beyond the pale.

Should I chime in,

pile on,

add to gossips' gluttony?

No, I would stay silent,

lick my wounds,

taste my blood,

and wait for courage to arrive. 

Is it still betrayal

if the heart has never strayed?

They say speak plain,

but it's easier to sigh

and wonder, 
so I'll take these words

I dare not say

and put them on a plate

(tidy, unlike life)

then take out fork and knife,

slice them into bit-sized bits,

and ingest them one by one.

And if you ask me

who's to blame,

I will say I've seen the knife
and felt the cut.

These scars are mine alone.

This was written for The Sunday Whirl.

Auld Lang Syne

Should I wax nostalgic

as the old year passes?

Already you are part

of what was then.

Although I know it
in heart and mind,

your brilliance fades.

I sing your praises
and read again your words,

but the fever that they stoked

has cooled.

Unless there is some secret

you have found

(unknown to those who went before)

the fire cannot be relit.

And so I nestle here

in the old year's last embrace,

giving a thoughtful moment

to that sliver of our past.

Give me now your blessing
and bestow your gifts on me,
for as these sands do sift away,
I would close my eyes,

make a fervent wish

and let you go.

This was written for Three Word Wednesday and Sunday Scribblings 2.

Samsara

Drunk on your words,

Entranced by your fire,

Bitten
Blighted
Blunted

Made small and single-minded

by your game.

But if I stop,

refuse to play,

what remains?

A gray world of duty:

Lethargic

Bureaucratic

Washed-out and empty.

Endless days.

The only living

is in the lie;

the rest is just existence.

And so I grasp samsara

With both hands.

This was written for Three Word Wednesday.

Compact

I would make with you a compact:

sworn to silence

sworn to peace

keepers of each others’ sins

partners in crime.

For now and forever after

let there be honor

between us two thieves,

a sterling bond

that tarnishes with neglect

but still holds strong.

Think not I would be jubilant

should there be more between us

than our silence

and your smile,

for I’m not one to fracture time

and give a piece to all.

And though you’re dear to memory

each hour is dear to heart.

This was written for Three Word Wednesday.

Amnesia

Would you judge me harshly

if I told you plain

of the splendor of a summer's night

that turned my head,

bent my mind,

made me something other:

culpable

expendable

maybe unforgivable

and unable

to speak free.

I would not take that chance 
and risk your censure.

So now I reap the harvest

that I've sown,

and though your gaze does tempt me,

I will stay here on my riverbank

gathering roses while I may.

Oh, let the breeze caress my skin

and whisper stories in my ear!

I'll make of memory

a secular sacrifice

(burned and scattered on the winds)

or maybe stuffed into a chest

of ancient recollection.

Locked up safe 
from you

(and me)

until my dreams' death rattle warns

that amnesia now holds sway.

 This was written for The Sunday Whirl.

Struggle

You’d think it would be easy

to give you up,

let you go,

consign you to the dustbin

of my memory.

Not so fast.

There’s no amour

in this love game:

vanity fair

stare-down

shakedown

take-down

of all that makes

good sense.

I would rather

taunt the lion,

prod the cobra,

clasp a viper to my breast

and take what comes.

Do anything but lose.

But though I make of this

a war,

jihad,

an epic fight,

it really is quite simple:

turn around and walk away.

So easy that it’s hard.

No matter that I play to win

in our little hate game,

by craving victory
(your love)

I lose.

This was written for Sunday Scribblings 2.

New Flash Fiction

New ST fiction available. This one was for Sunday Scribblings 2: Except by Candles