By |

The rough edges of
how I appear to the world
require daily filings
if only the angle required
to get at it all
wasn’t so confounding.

By |

Your eyes grabbed hold of me
more than ten years ago.
I’ve been haunted by them
ever since.

Sitting on a bus
between classes
I noticed you
in the backseat of a car.
You were hugging the window.
How frail you looked:
lost, bewildered, afraid.

We exchanged glances
and I wondered then
(and yet still today)
if you were neglected.
Perhaps abused.
Did you feel unloved?
A ship at sea, unmoored,
tossed and battered and ungrounded:
that’s how you appeared to me.

I’ve thought of you many times
and wondered what became of you.
Has life treated you well?
Was joy a part of your days?
Have you been happy?

I hope Love called your name.

By |

Actinic keratosis
seems hubby was right
liquid nitrogen’s burn — and tingle
deftly applied to
persistent spots
on my face, my legs
parts of me forever exposed to the sun;
denial, years in the making.

By |

Memories
silky and refined
gossamer threads
neatly woven
embracing our every need
and desire
sometimes turning frayed
and becoming unraveled
always pulling
tugging
insisting
on forced intimacies
and enacted
whispers of light
evoked by the smallest
of transgressions
and promises,
regularly consumed
by hydrangea days
and gardenia nights
exasperating us all.

Daily Prompt: Evoke

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OK.

THIS part of me – my faults, my hang-ups, my frailties – they’re yours. You can have them.

You can sift through the rest to see if anything sparks your interest. Doubtful, though.

Doubtful.

This beating heart of mine, however, is spoken for.

Flipping and flopping, stopping and starting,
unsure at times whether I really have what it takes – that’s taken.

Ditto my sometimes unsavory soul, my intermittent hopes, my juicy passions. Likewise, my unrelenting dreams and unseemly quirks.

I don’t know what else to tell you. Perhaps you should just look elsewhere.

Daily Prompt: Carve

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Young children (and certain adults) resist leafy, green vegetables:
Kale. Spinach. Swiss Chard.

Paunchy, prematurely gray men nix the idea of an early morning run.

Millennials txt lk ths, punctuation be damned.

Hipster chicks on a frigid Friday night: warm coats left behind. Hardly enchanting when mummified against the cold.

Politicians and the truth: Need I say more?

Daily Prompt: Allergic