Sunday, January 27, 2013

a drabble for the end of january

The wind whisks the surface of the lake up into soft, white peaks.  Surrounding the waves, the grass is short and wet and mossy and green.  Amidst the nature is a perfectly settled home made from stone and wooden beams.  Smoke escapes from the small chimney, but this is the only evidence of life in this out-of-the-way place.
Inside a man with broad shoulders and thin waist smokes on a plain cigarette and plays solitaire while he waits for the fire to boil the water for coffee.  He is waiting for something else, too, only he isn’t sure what exactly.

Friday, January 25, 2013

long press

i press my body
long and untamed
against every strand
of coarse hair
that looms long
unraveled behind
unlocked doors
tucked in cupboards
the cold of a cup
once warmed by tea
against unclothed skin
stings with reward
of the woman
left too long
in an empty house
with nothing to comfort
but thoughts
of not dying
in her dreamless sleep

Thursday, January 24, 2013

too much lunch

the march of ants approach the canvas
one, two, one, two, one too many
to the sway and smell of swollen bellies
whom leave beside them what is left
of a lunch packed while too hungry to count
on the amount of food which will hold
in a normal bear's normal belly
at a normal time of day for lunch

Wednesday, January 23, 2013

inside their bellies

this house, here, is protected
by insignificant secrets.

the name of someone you loved
but never told them so.

the number of candy bars you stole as a child
before you were ever caught.

little secrets, scribbled
on little bits of white paper

then folded and tucked away
inside the bellies of dolls

which burden every bookshelf
and every cupboard

in kitchen and in bath
throughout this very house.

each secret is unique and personal;
yet, unclaimed by name, they are all the same.

they are people's hearts
left behind inside the bellies of dolls.

Thursday, January 03, 2013

below the frosted field

the snow fell four days ago
covering the bogs and moors
with ice the sun will not melt
away until the spring comes

lo, the world is awash with white
fields frosted, their terrain hidden
below the crunch and crackle
of blades breaking and solid water

where a man in furs and long hair
treads wearily, his eyes narrowed
from the white stinging sunshine,
to find the path above the snow

and know not what lies there, below.