in the still, quiet of night
they finally can breathe deep
darkness settles over them like a blanket
no moon to shine a light on troubles
he takes the questions from the edge of her lips away
she forgets to wonder or worry
they take comfort together
their world a small, dark space
they hold all they need between their locked arms
there may be battles brewing all around
but somehow they remain sheltered
chaos erupts in the day
over and over again
but their pure, impossible need
wipes all else from view
it’s so very quiet
so very still
if this night could last
but then they thought no more
and surrendered
I may stay here
another day has washed over me
leaving debris
old words, used wrappers, broken pencils, tired feet
trying to hold onto a thought
is as tenuous as holding a moth
if you try too hard
you end up with a mess on your hands
thinking tomorrow will be better
is as useless as
drinking the ocean through a straw
all the marks on my body and psyche
color my world
leaving a dusty view
this moment doesn’t hurt too badly
I may stay awhile
right here and now
going no further
not looking back
you may stay with me
dwell in the moment
we ‘ll brush off worries
set aside any discussion
since the only requirements
are to observe, imagine, feel
whiling away the time
Where have the days gone
slipping by so quietly
a cacophony of sights
a barrage of textures
my wits have been stretched thin
I’m so taut
I may erupt forth
like an arrow on fire
It seems as though we laughed
yesterday
but it’s been eons
since anything real has seen light
if you touch me I may burst
just the thought of your smile
and your deep eyes
all sinking into me
like the sun’s rays
melting me
I’m ready to fit a new mold
one freshly hewn by your hands
my old shell has cracked
I may not ever be whole again
but I will be enough
to hold
any any parts of me that escape
were not meant to be kept
whiling away the time
we’ll explore anew
our favorite places
and taste of old times again
spinning
I’m spinning now but it’s not the glorious adventure I remember
nay, it’s an unsettling, sort of sick feeling
I want to frolic with abandon
but my clumsiness keeps getting in the way
Is there anyone who will take my hand?
help me cross over this little hill
the hill that seems to keep growing as I climb
because I really don’t want to be alone in this
But my cries echo off the boulders strewn in my path
the air seems thin and I can hardly breathe
I stopped my body spinning but I can’t stop my thoughts
spinning, pouring out of my head like a waterfall
The lightness I was looking for has left me
I’m adrift, left to focus on climbing, tripping all the way
why aren’t there others here struggling with me
why am I so alone in this beautiful, terrible place?
Maybe I’m seeing things through the aperture of an illness
that would make so much more sense
than thinking anyone would just leave me without a good reason
or is that indicative of my clumsiness again, thinking I’m not alone?
elegance of old
when I saw her last, she was walking a bit slower
her gait still jaunty yet slightly bent
she moved with familiarity of her body
the memory of how she moved in youth
pivoting, twisting, stretching
all in quiet grace
fluid
but now she was forced to hesitate a bit
wait for her body to catch up with her mind
still sharp and bending
adventuresome
her eyes were a bit cloudy
not with tears of remembrance
but with aging melancholy
peaceful
she saw things now in a softer focus
knew what mattered
in a way she never dreamed or thought through
when she talked, it was a slower process
for her prose to come through
and when she sang
it wasn’t the cool higher tones of spring
but the warm dulcet tones of autumn
still beautiful in its season of color
wise
her time with her instrument was limited
for her grip was not as strong
but she could still sketch truth
better than anyone I have known
imaginative
she still insisted upon baking her bread
and growing her garden
until she could create no longer
for though these things seemed to me fleeting
she knew that’s what I’d remember most
tangible
she looked askance at her photographs
that filled the wall behind the sofa
some yellowed and torn, some dusty, some worn
and felt no sadness for those that were gone
but a new calm at the idea of seeing them again
anticipation
The Word Rummager 