I can still feel his warm strength as we curled together on
the couch that morning. “You know I have to go, right? It’ll only be six months. Not long. And when I get back, we’ll get married. Promise.”
I turn my head to smile up at him. “My spaceman.” He grins, and his arms
tighten around me. “I just can’t believe I got in! In my last year!’
I keep the smile on my face as best I can, until
the door closes behind him, and he’s gone.
I still dream the countdown. The numbers harsh in my ears, behind my
tightly closed eyelids. If I’m lucky, I wake before zero. I didn’t even
watch him go.
My ancestors followed the songlines, and found home. So I play. I play
a songline for him. And one day he will hear it, and hold on…and I
will lead him home.
(This is written for Angela Goff’s weekly Visual Dare prompt, my first offering, hope it works. I also wrote a longer piece, just to get the story straight in my head…I think it stands alone, and I’m going to put it here (in another post) in case anyone wants to see. ;p)
Mrr. Sing it, sister!
I’ve run out of excuses.
Yeah, I know, legitimate or not, excuses are just that, excuses. And they’re getting me nowhere fast.
I mean really, I’m resorting to clichés on top of it all. What’s up with that?
I am like the moon.
Not only do I go through phases but I’m also rather loony on occasion. See previous moon comparison, I’m a damn Cancer with an emotional rollercoaster attached to my feet and the very few who know me well enough know I hate the whole moon comparison. It’s a joke actually, only not so much with the funny these days.
I’m scatterbrained beyond belief lately and my brain has more holes in it than Alpine Lace Swiss Cheese. You know, the really tiny holes that lets the mustard seep out onto the bread making it soggy.
My brain is soggy.
My phone rings on an average day anywhere…
View original post 501 more words
Hmm. Could be fun… 😉
A Doll is a Doll, no matter how small,
or a Bride, no matter how tall,
and a sweet british dude
who knows how to be rude,
is the very best Thing of all!
how many miles to bethlehem
three-score years and ten,
you can get there by candle-light
but you’ll never come home again.
the walls are mirror covered,
in the room inside my head,
sprinkled with manic laughter
and eyes of glowing red.
the eyes are the window of the soul,
or so the proverbs say,
mine open on a burning hell
of discord and decay.
chaos is my normal,
normal is a curse,
sanity is stifling,
and boredom ten times worse.
my laughter smells of lightning,
and color-coded shame,
my face a demons beauty,
my heart an angels game.
look deep into my eyes and see
the mirror crazed within,
razor sharp glass shards that swirl
and swell beneath my skin.
Never write a poem in chalk,
or scribe it in the sand,
Nor carve it deep into a stone,
Or scribble in your hand.
Never tie a poem down,
With paper and scratching pen,
Or imprison it in bits and bytes,
To never fly free again.
Paint your poem on my heart,
In word and tear and sigh,
And it will fly forever there,
Beneath the endless sky.