I’m Waiting in A Tiresome Line
Looking down at my shoes
with their fine lace of cool design
(Which are not actually mine, but that’s a matter of another story)
While at the same time
A young and no-doubt-sweet-for-his-mother child
Dressed in cute green overalls,
A cruel spear in his right hand, which I hear is tenderly called ‘magic wand’,
Takes a bite into a sandwich much relished,
Mumbling crumbs and vegetable pieces through
His tirelessly prattling mouth.
A moment later, crumbs and spit are on my shiny shoes.
Trying to wipe them away tangles the mixture deeper in the lace
(not mine, remember?)
On which I decide to chase
The poor mother to a bitter end for why she didn’t mind her beast.
Looking at her face,
Takes my anger off the messy trace.
And I wave off her distressed question if she should pay
For cleaning of the lace,
As I continue waiting in the line
(c) 2020 soulmary
Written for the Sunday Whirl #444. There are some great pieces shared there, check them out.
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Of course, the water is still.
By the shores of that lovely lake,
I find only ruins of my own oath
melted down to a puddle –
no shimmer, no chime in it.
Short of breath, it’s just a sorry sign
groaning with the low ripple of the lake.
© MK, 2019
Written for Brenda’s Sunday Whirl where many great fellows contribute words of poetry.
Tough elements inhibit my judgement.
Sitting on trial, the night denies its chill.
Is it shy?
A file will help me do the bars.
I signal my help on the street.
Although, the prison’s all mine,
they still come to rescue.
Tough elements swipe through the colony.
The night hints at the approaching dawn.
(c) 2018 MK
The matches light the room
at least a tiny portion where I can use my bruised vision
I love my nails although my hand is numb and aches
A match goes off and I strike another one
There is a rusty mail close to the door
Like a knight, a guard of honour to secure the place
and make sure all splendour is safe – princes, princesses and all
That reminds me
of my blossomed rich garden, where every flower is caged in safety
surrounded by metal edges and love.
The door is unhinged and falls on my aching hand
raising stars before my eyes and voices in my head
I listen close and savour the voices.
I exert my eyes and savour the gleams.
I think all I can and savour the ideas rumbling in my brain.
Remember to gather your grief
beside, and not inside, your trunk.
Remember to touch
your peace of mind
as chill falls upon you.
Remember to whistle
the fly off her sting.
Remember and live
This is my poem for the Sunday Whirl #367 of the past Sunday.
Sunday Wordle #366
Term of the day: Audacity
Next on the menu: How to span the idea
without losing control.
Be aware that tables turn easily,
however well-spoken you are.
Granted you have the courage
to probe the deal,
life will not be terrible.
Term of the day: Audacity.
I packed and hit the bar
My mind sharp on my destination for the day.
The pub’s small dog was snarling at a stranger
on the street –
sharp fangs bare.
The stranger raised his arm unconsciously –
showing a scar, faded with the years, but still visible.
The hearth of home was waiting for me –
I saw it sharp before my eyes
Then I hauled my trunk on the cart and left.
(c) 2018, MK
Sunday whirl #341 came, as usual, with interesting words to make you think and flex your poetic mind.
Despite the sand which urges down
so boundless and careless,
so hurting my fingers,
I still keep the memory of our sudden madness,
The sound of power and
The shout of wind
Thundering in my ears.
I hunger over those days
so much that
I follow the blind tremor
slithering behind my ecstatic joy.
(c) 2018, MK
Sunday Whirl #339 offered very nice words today, as always 🙂
The train squeezed listless along the platform,
as if a game for happy children:
their January holiday,
with a completed list of gifts –
the sane apathy of parents reluctant to question superstitions.
The train – a figure of shady authority
puffed towards the winter shelter
where grain is stored for hungry throats
where chickens are cuddled to sleep before
they are taken to our feast table,
realistically rising to the occasion –
the gravity of holiday matters.
(c) 2018, mk
This is my weekly wordle poem in answer to Sunday Whirl #334.