My heart is quiet and cold He walks away as if we are not friends of old It seems today I am just one of the crowd Why must this silence be so loud?
Stories: A Sestina
The weight of it in my hands The feel of it beneath my fingertips The quiet smell of it drifts through the air The words begin melting away
Lighthouse Jog (ghost story version)
The salty wind, a calming fresh scent, blew across my face cooling me down from my routine morning run. It was crisp, fresh, and the break I needed from the world. A perfect start to the day and a wonderful beginning in a new town. It was as if I was all alone, not a soul for miles and yet I could see the first early morning beach goers setting up their spot for the day. My ears caught the symphony of gulls and the voices of the waves. They didn’t demand my attention, but they didn’t reject it.
To be free; to see it all from a place hidden away, yet in plain sight; to fly far away from it all and be closer than ever at the same time; to truly live while being an inch away from death. To taste the voices of those below and feel their ideas take flight; to live every moment as the last. This is what it means to live life to its fullest. This is what it means to be me.
Patrolling the Intruder
It was a beautiful spring morning with the sun peaking over the hilled horizon. The Calico Cat, an elegant dancer of nature, strolled across the lawn admiring and patrolling her beautiful territory. This mundane routine was her favorite part of the day. When else did the air feel so fresh and crisp? Sensitive ears perking, she heard the snap of a nearby twig. Leaping like a gazelle, she shot off like a bullet in the direction of the intruder. She wasn’t about to let an unknown enemy gain access to her hidden sanctuary. Her strong stripped mate, who was the intruder, purred and laughed as he easily sidestepped the valiant leap. The female landed on the lush grass with a shocked squeak. She was embarrassed at this small miscalculation, but quickly composed herself and went back to patrolling; pretending as if the event had never even taken place. Her mate rubbed against her lovingly and joined her on the daily patrol.
Time: A Pantoum
Its eyes see all The vices and virtues of our lives Every day we hear it's quiet call It ringing in our ears, we survive
All alone. All alone in that small room. There was no one to quell her fears; no one to wipe her tears. She was all alone save for her precious violin. She knew she mustn't touch it for they would come if she played, but oh how she longed to hold it; to rest its polished wood under her chin and stroke it's lovely strings with the elegant bow, but it was cursed.
Traveling: A Prose Poem
To fly through time, as sweet as lime, its beauty; a dove. This I shall covet. It’s breath; my air… times hands ensnare. My age is upon the page, where the book is my stage. My life: a doll. Death: a child who calls to play. Nowhere, can I stay, for time is where I hide from all who have lied to me. As I fly through time it is as bitter-sweet as a lime.