november child

the curse of a sentimental heart & a skeptical mind


July 2016


I will leave my imprint
on those vitreous walls,
forcing violent cracks
in bursts of outrage
until my bones fracture.

I will immortalize myself
on those crystal windows
scratching them deeply
in silent fury
until my fingers bleed.

I will cease this destruction
on the very day
those cracks and scratches
have finally collapsed
this glasshouse that is us.

© november child

photo taken with Canon EOS 7D

Developing Your Eye II – Day Seven – Glass

Lord Rayleigh

As the sun retreated
behind gentle hills
in a splendour of
amber, salmon and red,
as this ethereal beauty
unfolded before us
in the most romantic way
you looked at me all earnest
and … dismantled my sunset.

Where a kiss had sufficed
a lecture was held
about atmospheric refraction
followed by airborne dust
in relation to short wavelengths
and a reference to a bloke
by the name of Rayleigh
whom I would have a word with
if he was not already dead.

© november child
photo taken with Canon EOS 7D

Developing Your Eye II – Day 6 – Landscape

Keeper of Time

The keeper of time, merciless scoundrel,
has spoken again, capturing another shard of my life.
Ripped out of my mind with a victorious smile
and added to his expanding collection,
he thrives on the past I have to leave behind.

A greedy fat spider, he sits in patience watching
from the middle of his sophisticated net
for the next hapless moment to stumble and fall victim
to the clasping strings of this silken trap.

He carefully stores them in fragile glass urns,
meticulously labelled with places and names
to grant effortless access and a fast retrieval
when his quenchless hunger for my memories calls.

He savours my heartaches in tiny morsels,
relishing the salty flavour of my tears.
He feeds on my follies and devours my sins
with greedy haste, in impatient anticipation of more.

I ward him off, interrupting his steady advance
by keeping my memories close to my heart.
But Mistress Time is capricious and fading is imminent,
so he reclines unperturbed, certain of my failure,
assured of his triumph, content to wait.



© november child
photo taken with Samsung Galaxy A7


A gentle touch
whispered on expectant skin
with the softness of
a summer’s breeze,
may not be the first thing
you want me to praise
in my laudation to you.

A gentle word
touching a wary mind
with the tenderness of
a consoling embrace,
may not be the trait
you want admired most
when I rave about you.

And while gentleness
may not be much in your book
it is everything in mine.


©  november child
photo credit: Carl-Frederic Salicath via flickr


  camouflage patterns
imprinted on weathered bark
morning sun shrouded

  Continue reading “Camouflage”


In the ballroom of my phobiæ
I wish I were the wallflower.
Biding my time
sitting shyly on the sidelines,
always passed over
when it is time to dance.
I prefer to remain unnoticed,
overlooked by the revellers,
the shadows my sanctuary,
completely and safely forgotten.

But at this event
I am the guest of honour
with a dance card filled to burst.

in response to Daily Prompt – Sanctuary

© november child
photo credit: ewan mcdowall via flickr


I try to follow
the lines of this anecdoche,
this conversational farce,
as it fidgets and stumbles
over its own damaged structure

careening all over the place
it lingers over meaning
for mere seconds only
like a damselfly
hovering over a skiff

the musician in me
is enchanted by
the protruding and ebbing
of  weirdly jumbled sounds,
backlit by a constant buzz

the pragmatist in me
turns bitter with resentment
at the resonance of chaos,
impeding linear thought
and orderly communication

amidst linguistic tangles
I flirt with the thought
of  instant transmigration
into the body of said damselfly
fluttering over tranquil waters,
not bothered by any of this

In response to mindlovemisery’s Wordle #119 ‘July 25th, 2016’

Keywords: Damage /Backlit/ Resonance/ Bitter /Fidget /Skiff /Protrude /Anecdoche Damselfly /Transmigration /Careen

 © november child
photo credit: Mark Ireland via flickr


Had those withheld words
propelled into the air
in a cloud of furious ash,
their downpour might‘ve altered
these parched fields of anger,
spurting acceptance by now.

Had they risen from the depths
of their complex hide-out
in a scorching lava flow,
their escape might’ve collapsed
this cavern of rage,
granting forgiveness in time.

But those unspoken words
keep simmering inside,
a bubble of magma trapped,
increasing in volume
in a brimming chamber,
the inevitable eruption in sight.



© november child
 photo credit: Photo via VisualHunt

Ugly Duckling In Reverse

Once upon a time
a life fully lived
was written
in the lines on a face.

Accounts of
the troubles, the worries and pain
were observed
on the plains of the skin.

Times filled with
laughter, fears and tears
were embossed
in the wrinkles around eyes.

Now the tales
are wiped off,
chemically smoothed out,
skin stretched tight
and tugged behind ears.

The joys of a lifetime
the grace of maturity,
decades of experience
into lifeless masks.

Ugly Duckling in reverse.


© november child
 in response to: Tale Weaver Fairy Tale #77 July 21st – The Ugly Duckling
photo credit: stray bullet via flickr


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