The Sunday Muse – Dwell Time

smokyphotog

Ghosts document my misery
as I stare, unblinking
into the next ring
fumbling for my ticket

I’m caught in ropes of smoke
trapped by the cyclops,
for the image of a thing is the thing
and the image of a soul,
well, you know…

Mirror, mirror on the wall
the next train to Hell
is now boarding
at gate seven.
Please watch your step.

I’m really rusty at this, but I loved the picture, so figured, meh – let’s give it a try. This is for The Sunday Muse , a weekly photo prompt site for writers, poets, and blogging enthusiasts.  Follow the link and check it out.

 

Communicating with the Dead, in 55

I imagined
communicating with the dead
was shrouded
in mystery

But it’s not

It’s a note
in his handwriting
tucked into a favorite book

it’s the smell of
his closet

it’s the work gloves
still stiff with
the shape of his hands

Communication with the dead
is small, common
everyday

and
pretty much
one way

 

This is a 55 word version of a longer piece I’ve been noodling with for FF 55 hosted by Hedgewitch, with a tip of the hat to Galen.  Click on the link to go to her blog, Verse Escape, and join the fun!

Communicating with the Dead

I used to imagine
communicating with the dead
was a wispy, fine-spun thing
shrouded in mists and veils.
There must be darkness
and hands held around a table
and maybe chanting…
My eyes would most likely
roll back in my head
my body go rigid,
a voice would whisper
from somewhere beyond,
and we would all be left in a stupor
filled with awe and wonder.

But it’s not like that at all.
It’s a note
in his handwriting
tucked into a favorite book.
It’s someone mentioning her name;
maybe a story
you hadn’t heard before.
Or a story you’ve heard
a thousand times.
It’s junk mail
addressed to him,
asking for money or a vote
he can no longer give.
It’s the smell of her closet
for awhile.
It’s the work gloves you find
still stiff with the shape of his hands.

Communicating
with the dead
is small, common, everyday.
It can be soft and comfortable
or piercing.
It can come at any time.

The one drawback
to communicating with the dead
is that it’s pretty much
one way.

Difficulties of Speaking to the Dead…

Between you and me
is an ellipsis
that spans this life
but can’t quite reach the next

All the things I said
that you didn’t hear
and all the things
I didn’t say
but meant to
and now I never can,
for your ears
are filled with earth
and worms
and bugs
and all manner of bacteria
claiming you,
taking you back

And the space grows
between those three dots
past, present, future
time and worlds
and thoughts
and unsaid
words
fill the space

And yet
it feels so empty

Check out Poets United for more poems in keeping with the season of All Hallows Even and Day of the Dead.

 

NaPoWriMo #19

Another full moon
poses above us.
Gently, she lights the way
as we creep, or dance, or stumble
through another night.
And perhaps we pause
to admire her for a minute or two.

And when we go in
she beckons us
through the bedroom window:
Come out and play,
come out and live.
Do not sleep your life away
silly mortals!
You have such a short time…

What she doesn’t know
is that we are in love
with sleep
with dream
with death

 

Well, this didn’t go as planned. (Maybe because I didn’t really have a plan?) I feel like I should spend a lot more time with this one, and that the end result will be quite different. Maybe even a couple of pieces that are quite different. But for now… the day job beckons.

 

Steep

The hills call siren-like and steep.
Two children share a wooden sled,
new snow is beckoning and deep,
the hills call siren-like and steep.
They landed in a shattered heap,
too fast to suffer, it was said.

The hills called siren-like and steep.
Two children shared a wooden sled.

 

Well, this started out to be a quadrille (44 words) including the word “steep” to link to dVerse Poets’ Pub, but somehow it turned into a dark triolet.  Theat’s an eight line, iambic tetrameter poem with the rhyme scheme: ABaAabAB, where capital letters indicate repeated lines.  I haven’t written one of these in ages.