november child

the curse of a sentimental heart & a skeptical mind


I run them through my fingers,
all those flickers of hope,
the beads on my rosary
of unfinished stories.



© Novemberchild
photo credit via The Catholic Company


I carve feelings into pebbles,
and fill my lungs with
the sighs of a salty sea,
my keepsakes
of a carefree day.


© Novemberchild
photo credit via Todd Blumgardner


I do not know
when my dreams
became your kingdom,
turning a blind eye
as you trimmed my creativity
from torrent to drizzle,
and my wings to fit
your comfort zone.

There seems to be
no middle ground
between your need to control
and my desire for freedom,
so all we have turned into
are two stubborn generals
taking a stand
on opposite hills.


© Novemberchild
photo credit: via InsideIIM
in response to   The Sunday Whirl Wordle 322

Missed Opportunities

You were the inventor of the art of
rebelling against your privileges
while driving a Beemer.
You wore your contradictions
unapologetically, and in style,
leaving me incredulous, and
more than a bit breathless.

California sun in your eyes,
a grin to die for, easygoing
to the point of carelessness.
How I wish our insurgencies
had been better timed.
I kept the necklace you gave me,
and this nagging uncertainty
in my heart.


© November child
photo credit: via

September Sky

My favourite cold blue sky,
devoid of clouds
and chemtrails,
as if even the ever
busy human has curbed
his disregard for nature,
not daring to soil
the virginal beauty.

Cherishing our star’s
victory as it defies its
shallow angle, and
-in a last uprise-
graces us with the glow
of summer memorised.


© Novemberchild
photo credit: hjl via Flickr


Dressed in resignation
and chained by a sense of duty,
we brace ourselves for
being penned up in a room
full of people wearing
importance and faux smiles
in their chase of acknowledgement
and admiration.

I adore you, you know,
you are so much better at
making the best
of any given situation,
mingling gracefully
while I, ever pensive,
try to get to the bottom
of my aversion for
social gatherings like this.

So I cling to my glass
of whatever is fashionable
at the moment, in the hope
it will drown my non-compliant
notions, and keep my inner rebel
under lock and key.


© Novemberchild
photo credit:  artist unknown
The Sunday Whirl Wordle 318


Trust has woven
its delicate strands
around neglected
promises and
long-forgotten declarations,
stretched thin in
too many places, ready
to disintegrate at any moment.


© Novemberchild
photo credit: Christian Holmér via Flickr


My approach to
what ended up being us
has always been
an overcautious one;
tentative steps
forward, followed
by hasty retreats.
If you were anything
like me, we would
probably still be trapped
behind walls of hesitation.


© Novemberchild
photo credit: via pinterest


Last Hold

The night sky’s amazing
protocol of the past
beckons with a surge
of flickering lights from
uncountable distant suns,
that might just be ghostly
messages of the vanished.

And, as always,
my eccentric mind
is doing somersaults,
dwelling on my own
sort of fancy philosophy.

What if we are the Last Hold,
our galaxy the last light
in a dark, and empty Universe.
Drifting, all alone,
but still drifting,
defying the laws of physics
through pure human stubbornness,
unaware until the last light
has winked out?


© Novemberchild
photo credit: H. Heyer via wiki commons



Without the slightest hesitation
you crucified me
for your moment of glory.

I did not see it coming,
which stings more
than the actual betrayal.

© Novemberchild


photo credit: Mika Hiironniemi via Flickr


They put up new streetlights
in a neighbouring street, those that seem
to imitate moonlight, and I have to say,
it is kind of scary.

Now the street has the lighting
of a gloomy film noir,
where faint white light
accentuates all those dark recesses,
and you scream ‘Fool’ in your head
when some irrelevant character
saunters down the road, merrily whistling.

A true city girl, I don’t do
moonlight unless it is in
a romantic setting.


© november child
photo credit: The Central Rappahannock Library


My favourite defence mechanism
is hiding behind your shield of

Thanks, Darling. I appreciate it.


© november child
photo credit: via Introvert’s Circle


I look at the trail
our footsteps left
in the sand, and think,
any scout worth his money
would surely know
everything about us.

Your long strides,
so forceful, and steady,
focused on your destination,
rarely straying
from your chosen path.

In such stark contrast
to my chaotic tracks.
Always two steps
where you need one,
dancing from left to right,
stopping here and there
for another object
of distraction,
finally running
in an effort to keep up.


© november child
photo credit: via Pinterest


The flow of your dissatisfaction
at being single meanders
through your sentences,
staining them with the cold blues
of an angry sea.

But memory is a highway,
and we all take different exits.
My only peripherally involved
mind remembers all too clearly
what yours wants to suppress.

They are all there,
at your disposal
if you would accept them.
The memories of
those countless nights
you showed up at my door,
so ready to drown your misery
in a bottle of wine.
The many times I covered you,
and your pain with a blanket
after you fell asleep
on my couch.

Mostly I recall your eyes,
and this frightening emptiness
that seemed to have
burnt itself onto your retinas.

Do you not see that you
always were at your loneliest
whenever you were
in one of your relationships?


© november child
photo credit: via uMad

Personal Space

Read up on proxemics, stranger,
my amygdala just had a fit.
There is a clearly defined
area you should not invade,
it is called personal space.
We are not in an elevator,
yet you are mere millimetres
from having to marry me.

So back off,
you are standing
too close.


© november child
photo credit: via The Guardian

Love Letter

Black ink on heavy,
cream coloured paper
should have made for
a beautiful love letter.

Unfortunately my hand refused
to create the calligraphy
my idea of beauty required.
Perfectionism is a curse.

I texted you.
Love didn’t mind.


© november child
photo credit: via Huffington Post


Tiny wafts of bliss
drift from my mug.

If I told you that
smells like
cinnamon and vanilla,
would you believe me?

© november child
photo credit: via



Your voice is purest silk,
wrapping soft, glossy
tendrils around the left side
of my brain,
expertly cutting me off
from logical thought.


© november child
photo credit: artist unknown


Promise me, you said,
and I hesitated,
even after
the despondency
in your eyes
lashed out at me.

But I could not say
what you wanted to hear,
and now your dejection,
and my guilt
linger in
my silence.


© november child
photo credit: Chris Ford via Flickr

Chasing Meaning

I try to catch meaning again,
a Sisyphean enterprise
as my attention span
is in direct relation to
my ever increasing
level of ennui.

And I do get bored easily
these days.

She says,
Why ever? Do you not see
how much excitement
this world holds?
All the things we can do…

And I so want to
burst her bubble of
naivety with a spell of
An overreaction, I admit,
but sometimes her
artless views
bring out the worst in me.

Oh, the eagerness of
a young soul.
Been there, done that.
They are all caught up
in the doing
which does not
equate to being.

Do they ever ponder
the necessity for activity
at all?


© november child
photo credit: Steve Jurvetson via Flickr

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