It's Still Life

II. The Perils of Christmas Cards I won’t be dying today after all. I mean who dies from the edge of a creased paper, eh? Well, me. For a few diminishing heartbeats, when my tongue wouldn’t stop bleeding, and my lips dripped deep sunset red, and I dared my husband to ‘give us a kiss,’…

I. A Gecko and a Man in a Black T-Shirt I’m looking at a man wearing a thin, frayed black t-shirt. He has a whisper of white hair, wiry sideburns that sweep his shoulders whenever he nods his head. I can’t keep my eyes off his face; I keep looking at those sideburns. Whale baleen,…

Quenched He swam. And sank. Swam against the devil. Sank like sunset, or a hole in a boat. His lungs on fire, and the sea swallowed him into its silence.     Day 25: For today’s prompt, write a remix poem. I chose Day 21. Image from Unsplash

The Woman at Burra Bazar Ghat There’s a distant beauty about her, and she shines like a glass of water. Sparkles like early morning. And she sets her wares to sell, brasses and copper bowls, stacks them close as eavesdropping ears. I’m reminded of her whenever the sun shines across water.     Day 26:…

I’ll Remember That … she was distracted, retracted, lamentable, repeatable, a child, a woman, tall, with feet too small, a well-worn chair, careless, moody, the curse of an early riser, wished on a star, followed her heart, she was focused, unfocused, wore old jeans and tennis shoes, tangled horizons, forever distracted. And she never found…

Weathering It’s all just weather, all those whispering looks, those clay-sucked boots, those truths rendered out of weak worms and metaphor rabbit holes, all those empty houses, banging doors, and cawing crows when heaven laughs. And why am I so old so soon … Time blows across my heart, but it’s all just weather, all…

Thursday is Still Laundry Day For me there’s nothing more innocent than the smell of turkey roasting. Instantly … I’m 10 again. Maybe 12. The kitchen windows drip condensation, the dining room table is set with Mum’s special china and the blue opaque glasses. The dining room smells woody — green botanicals on the middle…

There’s the Rub I’ve learnt that truth defies definition. It vacillates, shifts, trims, sometimes truth is a sail, a forgetfulness of the heart. If you sing lullabies to your conscience, you’ll not apt to sleep. I’ve learnt that living is friction, and there’s the rub.   Poetic Asides Day 20 prompt, write a “what I…