november child

the curse of a sentimental heart & a skeptical mind

Winter Heart

You hold the promise
of an evening sky,
colourful with
the obligatory spots
of darkness.

For reasons of
my curious mind
is not allowed
to solve yet another
intriguing puzzle.

Gone are the days
when I considered it
a lofty purpose
to fix problems
I did not create.

My winter heart has
accumulated too many
bruises to rise to
the bait of curing
another soul.


© November Child
photo taken with Samsung Galaxy S8


Sometimes, from a safe distance,
I stare at my frozen lake
of situations
I refuse to address.

If I squint, I can still
make out their distorted shapes
beneath layers of
vain endeavours and
wasted opportunities.

I wonder, how long
will I be able to maintain
the harsh environment
that traps them
in their taciturn suspense?


© Novemberchild
photo credit: Photo by Jonathan Goerke from Pexels


At times I catch myself
committing the crime of
feigning interest.

I nod frequently at
slivers of chatter, and smile
to hide my disdain at
repetitive exploitations of
topics that easily resemble
the nine circles of hell.

My mind is not designed
for ready-made conversations
that chain words to be
crowd-pleasers, but
roots fervently for anyone
whose train of thought is
original, and fulfils my
craving for meaning.

I shine at soul-level
communication, or alternatively
at sarcastic banter. Pick one, and
you will have my undivided attention.


© Novemberchild
in response to The Sunday Whirl Wordle 370
photo credit: via



I have become more translucent
the moment I got together with you,
fading out of substance,
and into an undefined background.

I have to look harder now
to see myself when I look
into the mirror to search
for the woman
I find more difficult
to remember on a daily basis.

How surreal she seems,
the bold one
who danced without restraint,
questioned nothing and everything,
and was dangerously free.


© Novemberchild
photo credit: via Student Art guide



So many of your
carefully cultivated talents
seem to unfailingly aim
directly at my soft spots.

It is a rare gift,
this thoroughness
at uncovering all
the places where I amount
to too little.

Would that you take your
artistry somewhere else.


© Novemberchild
photo credit:  Leavebreeze7 via Pinterest


In the untethered moments
before my electronic lifeline
reminds me of my more mundane,
disputable existence,
I panic-travel to the beaches
and coastlines of islands
that might not be there much longer.

I dig my toes into the cold, wet
sand, listen to the refrain the wind
whispers to marram grass, and make
a note of this feeling
on the map of collective shame
I etched into my skin in shades
of black and helplessness.

I thread seashells on twine,
interwoven with colour coordinated
pieces of plastic trash.
Ingenious, fragile beauty next
to crude, immature arrogance.
Unfortunate, but history can not
be documented onesided, can it?

I gather sand, and stones that
beg to be thrown at prominent buildings.
But glasshouses, you know.
Bone-weary and my back bent by
the weight of guilt, I have become
a collector of mementoes of our
eventual undoing.


© Novemberchild
in response to Sunday Whirl Wordle 363
photo credit:  pixabay

Unchain Me

You found me
just around the corner
from utter boredom.

So stay a little longer,
keep challenging my wits
that seem to have been buried
under too many obligations.

Keep pressing for my truth
that obviously is too
uncomfortable for anyone but you.

Unchain my special voice
that has become a bit rusty
as I barely use it anymore.

Be my rude awakening
from the same old same old
that has outranked fun
for a long time now.

Unpack some recklessness
from your bag of tricks,
it might just tip the scales
in your favour.

Stay a little longer,
I kind of like this
power play where
nothing ever is simple.


© November Child
photo credit:  Krasimir Ganchev via
in response to: The Sunday Whirl Wordle 350


A life carefully stowed away
in sturdy moving boxes,
categorised and labelled,
more precise and orderly
than the real thing
will ever be.

A life properly decluttered,
organised until not
a shred of chaos is left,
neatly stacked squares
of the normalcy we cling to
in otherwise empty rooms.


© Novemberchild
photo credit: Thorsten Scholz via Flickr
(I love these old moving crates!!)


A film of moisture
covers the window
as silken filaments
of fog wrap around
the building,
for my thoughts
to take on
the same vague quality.


© Novemberchild
Photo credit:  Edwin van Buuringen via Flickr

Blog at

Up ↑