She throws snowballs at the sun
Squinting with laughter abundant and true
Gasps at chromatic aberrations on eyelash tips
Ice flecks of rainbow prism dew
Her winter glides gracefully into spring
with daisy chains and purple peony pastime
Grass scuffed knees under shredded dress
Skips meadows humming a nonsence rhyme
And as summers creep and memory fades
the years they pass with startling pace
Nurture well your child within
Mirror kiss her seasoned face
The words
The words they fail me
Suffocate and dismay me
Sabotage and derail me
The song
The song barely hears you
Listens but ignores you
Melody eludes you
Barely thrills you
Neither words
nor song
Suddenly
all wrong
Once upon a restless night
I tangled in a fearful fight
somewhere between sleep and wake
With a spirit, foul and fierce
intending my frail heart to pierce
She pulled a knife from it’s faded sheath
and hissed obscene through ochred teeth
somewhere between wake and sleep
She sliced and thrust the blade at the air
to find I was no longer there
in the corner
watching us from a chair
Image featured is a photograph of a wood mask by the amazing Haida artist Bill Reid (1920-1998). Museum of Anthropology, Vancouver, BC.
The power of a secret
lies in its exuberant details
Foaming at the mouth
threatening to spill over
Like milk frothing when your back is turned
Ingrained stain of ceramic pores
and lactic stench
Perhaps
best kept in the cool dark
Sealed
Shelved
Degassed of it’s sublime spritz of carbonated conceal
Till one day
stagnant and putrid
with half its truth evaporated
to concentrated memory
I wear a different uniform
for every lover I’ve ever known
From sexy nurse, to traffic cop
I have no clothes of my own
I’d be covered in flour
at some ungodly hour
to convince that I could cook
Buy some horn rimmed glasses
renew library passes
feigning interest in some book
Yet the only one I never wore
was that of the salacious whore…
Can you afford to pay more?
So I was mildly surprised at my response to the daily prompt. In my mind the uniforms have an almost halloween-esque appearance and illustrate how far we can disguise ourselves in relationships.
Venus clings to the moon this night
Coyly bathed in his glow, so bright
She makes herself small to appease his lunar ego
So frail
after the pockmarked, crater malady of his youth
But, a universe-al truth: she is the greater one
calmly soaking fresh heat from the Sun
before spiralling into the distant celestial deep
wrapped in sulphurous cloud veils
as we sleep
I am but a weed
rooted in solemn shade
From a carefree seed
slid down a dewed grass blade
Shall I sway to pose
against the heinous rose
If only to stand a chance
from the pruning gardener’s glance
Having always viewed the weed as an underdog I will be her champion tonight.
