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.