If I can’t have you, I can at least dream you are here.
The day you died I thought I would expire with grief.
These four walls seem to mock me – outside is inches away, but here I stay.
Holding your lifeless body, trapped somehow in those moments when your eyes gazed back…
If I ever escape, I will find you and hold you and never let you go.
…there I remain. Except when I sleep, I dream you are here, my love.
My love. Until we meet again.
***
Inspired by my novel-in-progress.
as sure as the stars
glitter in the night
i know you’re out there
searching for me
as i search for you
on every street
in every crowd
the one i’ll know
just know
is meant for me
for in the dark
each night i lay
and hear your voice
whispering love
elusive as
an echo
This post is prompted by Tuesday Use It In A Sentence, where the word of the week is Echo, and The Daily Post word of the day,
Elusive.
your arrival is music
to my strained ears
relief for my nerves
that threaten to pop
the hair out of my head.
you’re the sanctuary of my mind
which struggles not to leave home
to escape the cries of your offspring
for every young mother of a newborn
who is blessed to have her mate
come home of an evening
how lengthy
is the time spent
between creations
of yours
while you are deep
within yourself
diving and drowning
and unable to function
until a spark of a thought
fires your synapses
and the light in your eyes
goes from ember to blaze
and you’re elated for days
and oh, your creations
they shine!
they sing!
they inspire the masses
to dance
and be glad
and they sing along
then listen
to your background music
as they read
or make love
and you
dive back
down to
your depths
How frail is the bully on the inside? He who has likely gone through abuse unlike any most know, he who must release the pent-up energy that he’s unable to expound in the face of his own bully. Likely his parent.
Gently, I say,
understand the frightened child
as you take his punches
and then say unto him
as you bleed upon the ground,
“You are no better
than your own abuser,
asshole.”
driving happily
top down, wind in hair, I smile
between teeth, dead bugs
If I wrote a story about you,
I would use words like “mystic” and “crazy.”
I would get a hand from the gods
because the gods are my friends.
I could choose a few anecdotes –
ones that would make people laugh.
I might bake a cake and call it you,
just so I can share you with my other friends.
If I clap my hands and you come running,
I will praise you, my friend, for that means you love me too.
I might circle the globe with you,
and we might just have fun.
Even though you’re afraid of heights
and I don’t need a plane to fly.
We could ride elephants and catch heffalumps:
it’s the Pooh thing to do.
And when we get home with all our treasures
we will place them on shelves and forget they exist.
If my enthusiasm for you dies,
I will probably die.
If I decide suddenly that I shan’t drive you to the airport when you need to go
(because that’s what friends do)
you might disown me, but I’d deserve it.
And if the water of my endless ocean of devotion for you dries up,
I will be left with a salty taste in my mouth.
But chances are that’s the worst case scenario,
because you’re as crazy as I am, and us crazies need to stick together.
If I wrote a story about you,
then it would definitely include me.
This is part of Stream of Consciousness Saturday, because it’s totally stream of consciousness writing and it contains this week’s prompt, “if/then.”
This is part of The Daily Post because it was totally Unpredictable.
drunkenness heals not the pain
nor soothes the rage
for the dead and dying
but perhaps it dulls the sting
of the blaming tongue
and falls short
as does everything
for the sake
of the grieving mother
tomorrow shall we find sober thoughts
and calm solutions
for that which is senseless
in every way
There once was a young man named Rand
Who thought his desert rather bland
He yelled at the waiter
Who just wouldn’t cater
When Rand asked he take back the sand
Find The Daily Post prompt here.
A human infant, if left outside (safely) in a high wind may lose its breath, but it will likely survive into adulthood,
a chick, high in a nest may get blown away and never seen again,
a bee caught unawares in a sudden gust may end up in another garden,
but a fart captured by even the slightest breeze is sure to die.
Have pity for the fart. For it is a rare and short-lived species.
Linda G. Hill 