november child

the curse of a sentimental heart & a skeptical mind


September 2016

Corridors Of Power

My battalion of strategists
have polled the crap out of you;
and now I know
exactly what you want to see.

I will play hardball,
campaign down and dirty,
and wear the facade that works best,
crowd manipulation is my thing.
I wouldn’t call it acting,
just showing you what you expect.

My team of speech writers
has internalised every survey;
and now I know
exactly what you want to hear.

Every phrase I use,
every word I say, every promise I make
is planned meticulously and
weighed for highest impact.
I wouldn’t call it lying,
just telling you what you hope for.

I gave you what you want
now you give me what I deserve.
Trust me, it’s not much, just your vote
so I can walk the corridors of power
and join the ranks of the big players.

In return you get nothing of course,
this is not some hippie fair trade thing, dude,
this is high level politics.
It was never about the people, silly,
it‘s about me and my own personal fiefdom.

©  november child
photo credit: Billy Wilson via flickr




Your words,
when you talk about love
and reveal the language
of your heart,
drift softly
with the beauty
of pink petals
floating from sakura trees
during hanami.

And I make a wish…..


© november child
photo credit: jun via flickr


I am the master of delusion.
I invade your thoughts
spreading fears and insecurities.
I rob you of your sanity
one bit of peace at a time
until chaos is the only certainty.

I am the master of adulteration.
I drench every gesture, every look
with a meaning it does not possess.
I soak every word, every smile
with innuendo and allusion
until even the innocent look like sinners.

I fill your veins with poison
and your stomach with acid.
I am Zelus,
I am the god of jealousy
and I am not finished
until I own you.

©november child
photo credit: artist unknown


In vain she waited for the phoenix
to rise from the ashes
of the years you carried off.
Instead she writes her screams
into the mess you left behind.

In vain she waited for the
frantic pounding in her chest to subside
after she rinsed you out of her system.
Instead she carves her pain
into the softness of her flesh.

In vain she pretended
to be free of  your mind games,
to have reclaimed a will of her own.
Instead she submits to the inferno
where suffering has no expiration date.

© november child
 in response to: The Sunday Whirl Wordle #267
and Pretend
photo credit: artist unknown

Dangerous Games

To trust you
is to play
a game of Jenga.
Every time
I turn around
you remove another block,
endangering the structure.

To trust you
is to play
a game of reverse Jeopardy.
Every time
I ask the correct question
the wager I lay on you is lost,
draining my resources.

To trust you
is to built
a house of cards.
Every time
I check the foundation
it has become more shaky,
ready to collapse any time.

© november child
photo credit: Dutch Simba via flickr


Yours is a silence
of punishment
breaking us
into the small pieces
you prefer.

Yours is a silence
of contempt
diminishing us
to anxious children
you can command.

Yours is a silence
that screams
of what was done to you,
the only legacy
you are capable of.


© november child
photo credit: wallpaper cave



She rakes the fire
to maintain constant heat
beneath the iron cauldron.
By the scant, flickering light
offered by white enchanted candles,
she thrice stirs the boiling blend.

From her woven basket
she picks more ingredients,
chops them the proper way
and decisively adds pinches
to the bubbling liquid,
the colour of ochre dye.

‘Wax of wild bees,
heart of spring lamb,
hair of first born,
frog’s eye  but one’,
she can never help
giggling at that.

‘Cat’s claw and cinnamon,
echinacea and garlic,
calendula and clove’,
she hums to herself,
remembering the little tune
all her ancestors sang.

Remember, be careful,
her mother’s calm voice
echoes inside her head,
heed my advice, at all times
keep silent, never betray us,
never put letters to our craft.

Staring at the flickering flames
the source of her recurring nightmares,
she considers her peers,
their deplorable hypocrisy
hidden underneath the guise of
stubborn righteousness.

With a bitter smile
and anger in her heart,
she bends over the moaning man
writhing on the straw filled mattress
and carefully applies her salve
to the festering wound on his thigh.

Now all that is left for her to do
is wait and try to be patient
for her ancient concoction
will decide her imminent fate,
as it may heal a champion
or condemn her to be burnt at the stake.


© november child
Disclaimer: These are not instructions for an an actual potion, so please refrain from messing with bees, lambs, frogs and especially with the hair of your firstborn!
in response to: The Sunday Whirl Wordle #266
photo credit: Thomas Autumn via flickr


The two glasses mist up
in the warm summer night,
single drops of water
slowly flow down fragile stems,
leaving wet rings on the table.

Our silence connects us
more strongly than words could,
for a glorious instant
there is no space between us,
nothing that needs to be bridged.

And I send a little prayer
that my mind will link
those two glasses forever
to this moment of
of pure perfection.


© november child

photo credit: Winniepix via flickr


The Ego

In the gloomy space
you share with no one,
this sinister exhibition
of self-inflicted pain
you try very hard to hide
even from yourself;
in the introvert’s
chamber of torture
you meet it again,
the unwanted guest.

Its talk is convincing,
in a repetitive chant
of cunning words
as cutting as daggers,
it tilts straight for your core.
It probes your resilience
with stinging tendrils
of whispered gossip,
deviously planting
the seeds of doubt.

It leans heavily on flaws
blown out of proportion
and though you realise
there is no authenticity
to its random rambling
and the wild accusations,
your feeble mind is
so apt to listen,
so ready to forfeit love,
so willing to let it break you.

© november child

in response to: The Sunday Whirl Wordle #265


photo credit: KingOfWallpapers



Fight For What?

Fight vb, (when intr. often foll. by for)
to uphold or maintain (a cause, ideal etc.)
by fighting or struggling.

© Collins English Dictionary 21st Century Edition


Fight for you
I would rather not,
this being a concept
that puzzles me.

What would I be fighting for?

A love withdrawn,
to me, is a worthless thing,
a pas de deux robbed of its elegance,
last page turned in an already torn book,
a remnant I refuse to reclaim.

A love gone astray,
to me, is a pitiful thing
the faded, yellowed copy
of what used to be grand,
a replica I refuse to recapture.

I am prepared
to make every effort for love
but fighting is not on my agenda.
I would rather ride
the waves of pain and sorrow
as long as it takes to recover.

I prefer to relinquish
what should be a gift
than live with an ill-gotten trophy.
So never ask me
to fight for a lost love,
I will not consider it worth my time.


© november child


Is it?

You say it is just a game,
no harm done,
no one gets hurt.

Let me ask you though…

How severely
have twinkling temptations
blinded you?

How many times
do your thoughts linger
on what you can not have?

How often
do you long
for what is not yours?

And how far
have you wandered down
forbidden roads?

You think it is just a game,
but is it?


© november child

photo credit: 8 Kome via flickr



Beneath hardened leather
we are wrapped in
the weathered skin of those
aged by hardship before their time,
the refrains of our war songs
are sung to the beat of hearts
as unbending as tempered steel.

Nothing escapes trained eyes in
an effective oversight of
our adversaries’ every move.
Strong hands have long achieved mastery
of  cleverly customized weapons
and those shields of metal are  complemented
by the transparent armour
of relentless courage and will.

We have become improved models
of our former fragile selves,
unmoved by the soft plop
caused by our blood dropping into
the sanguine torrents flooding the battlefields.
Leaving behind human weakness
by ravelling out discursive patterns
we ascend towards invincibility in quantum leaps.

© november child
in response to:
Mindlovermisery’s Menagerie Wordle Special Addition Contranym “September 5th, 2016”
Here, I used the contronym meanings of the same words and surprised myself a bit with the fierce result.

Into the Storm

Into the storm we run again,
the proverbial flock of lemmings,
just one quantum step from the edge,
one second from hitting the water with a plop.
With the imprudence of children
we run ahead without a plan,
models of remote-controlled ignorance,
victims of oversight and custom
we are left to beat the odds.

Brazenly we face obvious disaster,
ignoring all transparent warnings.
We refrain from proper precautions,
ravelling things further with our discursive patterns.
Our common sense is tempered by arrogance
and we feel so sanguine about our ability
to weather anything that bars our way,
we callously dismiss the fact
that those storms were created by us.


©november child
in response to:

Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie Wordle Special Addition Contranym “September 5th, 2016”
photo credit: Stephen Wolfe via flickr


Those were the good times
when they observed the night skies
for the gleaming moon chariot,
watching me goad my lovely horses
across the heavens at full speed.

When they secretly hoped to catch me
in a little intermezzo on Mount Latmus
with the beautiful Endymion,
fool he is for choosing his eternal sleep.

With melancholy I remember the times
when a total eclipse of  the moon
was fearfully thought  of as a sign
they had incurred my seething wrath.

Now  they have all sorts of telescopes
and call watching me science,
I curse you, Philolaus, for diminishing
the omnipotence of the gods.

And if only Zeus were not so tame now
involved with other worlds,
and such a stickler for rules,
I would conjure up a little something
to turn your sciences upside down.

© november child
photo credit: Rodrigo Vera via flickr
artwork: Endymion – George Frederic Watts (1817 – 1904)


endymion 3294014001_ae96d0f77b


Lies have eight arms
like a monstrous cuttlefish
attaching to the deceived
with a smothering grip,
dragging them  deeply
into the vacuum
of anger and betrayal.

They have tentacles
that reach into the fabric
of everything sacred,
tearing the delicate tapestry
of faith and respect
whose intricate weave
took years to build.

They have stingers like bees
and with uncanny precision
they aim for what is unprotected,
gorging on lightness and purity,
a threat to innocent bystanders
by leaving overall distrust
in a festering swelling.

They have sparkling veils
of shiny, insincere promises
which flake off in a heartbeat,
their devious whispers
no longer mutable,
once the desperate wish
for ignorance has been released.


© november child
lies index
in response to: The Sunday Whirl Wordle #264


photo credit: Shannon Tompkins via flickr


Five more mornings
when the pink tinted glow
of  a far away sunrise
will greet you before
I even go to sleep.

Five more days
of  dim sum and chow fun,
the tastes of which
I am unable
to steal from your plate.

Five more evenings
as you wander
packed foreign sidewalks
on streets whose names
I am incapable to pronounce.

Five more nights
of reaching into empty space
before wings of steel
finally take pity on me
and carry you back across time zones.


©november child
Photo credit: Cory Hatchell via flickr


Jeanne d’Arc

The altar towers above her
as she genuflects
and feels the pumiced floor
connecting with her knees.

Her bristly grey hair shirt
feels as thin as satin
even though it is worked
from the coarsest linen.

The front of her shirt
is sodden with holy water,
drenched in an effort
to wash off her sins.

A veil of frankincense
chokes the air, almost tangible,
clouding her senses
as the chill of the floor tortures her skin.

She sets down the candle
watching the viscous flow
of molten wax touch the ground,
then raises her eyes to the enamelled cross.

Her saviour’s angular features seem waxy
beneath the barbed crown,
devoid of the reassurance
she is craving to receive.

She prostrates herself,
ignoring the prickly discomfort,
as her feverish forehead
touches the icy rock.

Her hands rest in the deep clefts
moulded by thousands of hands
that touched the tiles before her,
leaving marks of devotion on the ground.

She will remain there
in rigid determination,
a malleable, devoted tool for her God,
unwavering in her faith.

Waiting until again she hears
the ethereal melody of the holy choir
reminding her of her duties
to dauphin and country.


© november child
photo credit: Jim O’Connell via flickr
in response to: Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie Wordle Special Addition Touch “August 29th, 2016”



I watch as you carefully pick up
the fragile ladybug
that got caught in the curtain.
I can’t help but stare at your hands,
those hands that had me
right from the start
and I am captivated by
their gentle movement.

We count the black spots
there are eight,
our lucky number.

I watch your fingers
as they delicately
follow the outlines
of the tiny wing covers,
and I shiver
when I recall those fingers
composing their song
on my skin.

© november child

photo credit: Guiseppe Lacalandra via flickr


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