One drop of blood
infused in the oily liquid
in his Seer’s bowl
breaks the stillness
of his mind,
uncovering the truth
about the man.
This drop reveals more
than a shock of silvery curls,
a rich velvet cloak
or the golden amulet,
sign of an affiliation
with the ruling class,
ever will.
The blood speaks of
burning jealousies,
petty rivalries,
and busy scheming.
A smile lights up the Seer’s face
as an idea echoes in his mind
and his plan takes shape.
Every time I cross this bridge
and pass by those love padlocks,
thousands of them,
I hear their deep-drawn sighs.
And I wonder
how many of them voice
their disappointment
about broken promises.
From a golden carpet
of fallen leaves
dark, gnarly silhouettes
reach for a sombre sky.
Devoid of their
majestic summer aspects
their beauty is of the darker kind.
The world seems smaller
as grey clouds gather
like wads of smoke
to form a low dense cover.
Heralds of winter’s approach
they carry the crisp, clean scent of snow.
And in concert with nature
we move at a slower pace,
holding our breath while we wait;
keeping in mind
spring’s promise of
transformation and rebirth.
Again, you wear
a cloak of avoidance,
your impenetrable armour
against which all questions
bounce off unanswered,
birthing a thousand
new queries in ones’ mind.
Regardless of the seeds
of trust one plants,
you thrive on detachment,
the telltale signs hidden
behind an affable persona,
until, in the wake of your evasions,
ones’ willingness to try is spent.
However deeply one delves
into your defences,
you never volunteer a clue,
instead try your hardest
to obscure
the way to your heart,
lest it be broken.
What a clever trap
you have laid out for me,
my curiosity piqued
by a trail of compelling baits.
Tiny glimpses of steadiness,
sweet samples of safety,
delicious treats of trustworthiness,
too alluring to resist.
From within my bubble of chaos,
my world of emotional roller coasters
and a history of running away,
I stare at your enticing offers
like a child longing for the cookie jar.
And you watch me
in quiet anticipation.
photo credit: Dave Shafer via flickr
A subdued morning sun’s
feeble rays
strain to reach
beyond closed eyelids.
Open windows,
forgotten relics
of a displaced summer,
deliver autumn draughts.
Cold settles
on exposed skin
ending the cosy inertia
of relaxed limbs.
Regret sets in
at the approach of
chilly, overcast days and
long winter nights.
In the flickering light of candles
the quill glides over parchment
in long, graceful strokes
unleashing words of an elegance
long lost,
composing prose that emanates
the fragrance of centuries
long gone.
A fort of pillows and blankets
she has built,
a clumsy, pitiful refuge
from the thunderous battles
fought outside.
Clashes she is too young
to understand.
Her future fort
will be made of elusiveness,
boundaries, and distances
she will meticulously maintain.
Of all the arguments
the ones that scare me most
are those we never had.
I feel them weighing us down,
hanging over our heads
in dark, threatening clouds.
I feel their charge in the air,
in the distance I already hear
the rumble of approaching thunder.
A feisty little ghost he is,
my spectral guttersnipe.
He was only eight years old,
this tiny survivor of many brawls
with his running nose, bare feet,
chipped, broken teeth
and dirt streaked face,
no buttons on his frayed jacket.
He worked odd jobs
from early dawn ‘til dusk,
sweeping streets, selling matches
and ostrich feathers,
running the gentry’s errands
for farthings or food
or picking their pockets
for silk handkerchiefs.
He knows a lot of things
a child should not know
about being cold and hungry,
of floggings and the scars they leave,
served time in dirty cells at Newgate prison,
smoking and playing cards
with the other condemned
to relieve the inertia of waiting.
So I just let him sit
in front of the bird cage,
listening to the chirping chorus,
unsure if he is trapped here
like those birds
or if he just enjoys being
an untroubled child for once.
photo credit: Wikipedia
All those moments
you shared with me
were hundreds of little gifts
you bestowed on me,
each one a second
of iridescent beauty,
each one a tiny
pearl of happiness.
I want to preserve them,
string them on a silk line,
compose them into
the most stunning necklace
and wear them around my neck,
fashion them into
the most revered jewelry
I will ever own.
© november child
photo credit: TenthMuse Photography via flickr
Recurring thoughts
have carved
deep canyons
into my mind,
eroding
my tranquility.
photo credit: curtesy of Pix to Words
Up on the bridge he stands,
facing the far away coastline
countering the rolling sea
with a wide footed stance.
And he revels in the rush
the sun, wind and sea always bring.
He watches the barge
spin along in roiling waters
and considers her value
with a satisfied smile.
She’s a wisp of a lady
compared to a schooner,
no elegant beauty catches his eye.
Yet he chose her, filtered her out
from among those other coasters,
she stood out like a shark’s fin
among playful dolphins,
with the speed, fine lines
and sturdy construction she displays.
Her holds are filled to the brim
with grain, oils and spices and
she shoulders the weight with ease.
He will soon own her,
hold her under lock and key,
a fine asset she will be.
Pulling up alongside the little lady
he observes his men
as they throw the grappling hooks,
sun reflecting on drawn blades
and above him the Jolly Roger
billows in the salty wind.
november child 