the sun

one cannot trust the sun
as bright and beautiful
as she shines

to look upon her
is to turn your eyes
into liquid gold

burnt forever
by her stunning visage
blinded by her light

and overcome
by her beauty
her radiance

her wrath.

in the dream

in the dream
i was brave enough

and strong enough
to hold him down

but when i woke
i could not even reach him

and you'll never guess

a funny little brown book
wrapped shut with leather twine
the same color as the book

and on every page
is just

one

word.

the secrets to the universe
written in a funny little book

one word per page.

and you'll never guess how many pages
in that funny little brown book,

because that

is a secret.

long back

the mess of stitches
that make the matador's costume
so elegant in appearance

 the gold and the teal

fitted tightly

powerful

are not revealed to the spectator

the same way the mess of stitches
that make up his wife's troubled heart

cannot be seen by anyone looking in

elegant, she waits

end of the weekend

the groceries were stored away in cupboards and containers

decaffeinated sodas in cans littering the small table
alongside empty plates where enchiladas once laid

he plays a colorful shoot-em-up
while she rests her head on a shoulder

reading the alchemist, sucking on a candy cane
stolen from the Christmas tree, doomed to come down

this time next week.

the death of Harriet

this is not one of those stories about Harriet, whom everyone knows.  rather, here is the story, the mystery, if you will, of how a Welshman and a well bred Canadian met in a dilapidated café under a bridge in the city of London.

it was a white-box, a pop up, it was under a bridge in London.  the sort of little café tourists only end up in when they're lost or it's raining the sort of rain it rains in December when thousands are out doing their holiday shopping.  heavy.

the tea served so hot that no one left with all the taste buds they came in with.  and not the sort of place you usually find a handsome Welshman dressed in a tailored suit with a matching coat, nor a woman in pearl studs and shiny brown pumps.  certainly not one as fine as her, not Canadian anyway.

so it was hard for them not to notice one another, of course.

he was opening tiny milk packets and sugar packets and pouring them into his foam cup.  packet after packet trying to mask the taste of burnt tea.  a head nod to the lovely young lady.

a smile.

then a turn.  among half a dozen strangers, she cried.  openly.  weeping.  a damsel in unabashed distress in such a way that only a finely dressed Canadian woman could get away with in a dingy London café under a bridge in the rain.  it may not have been raining. 

so he comforted her, naturally.  handing her tissues and there-there-ing her. 

that's how they met, you see.  it must have been 2006, the year that Harriet died.  but we still don't know how the Welshman and the Canadian ended up in the same café in London, or why the tea tasted so burnt yet people still paid 98p for it.

it is estimated that Harriet was 175 years old by then, yet even of that we are not so sure.

the mudroom

the mudroom
became a sea of flowers
spanning the color spectrum

and just as the delivery truck left, a small brown rabbit appeared

followed by a tired man in pajamas
who poured himself a mug of tea

and gazed across the sea of color
only to find his wife, trapped on the other side
of the tiny room
meant for dirty shoes and umbrellas.