november child

the curse of a sentimental heart & a skeptical mind


February 2017


Nobody knows me as well
as you do, but it is not enough,
bared to the bone is not enough,
nothing is ever enough, is it?

You always dig deeper
in search of jewels and pearls,
I share with no one else,
so you can add them to your crown.

I can feel the holes in my mind
where your curiosity extracted
parts of me, the scraps and bits
that caught your interest.

And I wonder what will happen,
when my neural pathways dry up,
no longer retrieving juicy details,
when I have nothing left to give…


© november child
photo credit:

In the Shadows

In the Shadows. Waiting. For Him. Again.
It seems it is all she has been doing lately.
Nerve-wracking hours spent glued to a window,
hoping against hope, set up for disappointment.

Wishing. In the Shadows. Praying. Again.
Urging the next headlights that brighten
the dark corners of the room, but never
the darkness in her heart, to be his.

Hurting. Crying. In the Shadows. Again.
Humiliated by the memories of the smell of
too sweet perfume on his skin, and the trail
on his back where nails, not hers, drew blood.

In the Shadows. Scorned. Angry. Again.
Facing the self-loathing caused by
her indecisiveness, when all it takes is
to pack his suitcase and leave it at the front door.


© november child
in response to Michelle Toussaint Photo Fiction #77
photo credit: Josefine Jonsson


‘How’s purgatory?’  he asks,
his pointed ears twitching
with curiosity, his purple eyes
fixed on a point behind my irides
in his usual, disconcerting way.
He rocks back and forth with this
strange, rhythmic movement,
a sure sign of his impatience.

‘I wouldn’t know, I’ve never
been there.’
I feel uncomfortable
talking about this. I hadn’t planned
on doing purgatory. I’m more the
kind of person.
With him, you never know if it’s
just nosiness or rather a hint of
what is to come.

‘Funny.’  He giggles, he always
thinks I’m hilarious when I’m at
my most serious. He notices my
consternation, his laughter trails
away and his little face turns serious.
‘You do know where you are, don’t you?’
That said, he pops out of existence
into whatever spatial dimension
he calls home.


© november child
photo credit: wikimedia commons


Marooned on a planet,
whose axial tilt seems
to have taken an undeniable
swing to the right,
and shows clear signs of
blurred boundaries,
I refuse to give in to
hopeless lamentation.

I fill a radical sky with rainbows,
line up candles on window sills,
make deals with angels, elves,
and a couple of trolls
to stir things up a little,
and spray pink graffiti
on imaginary walls.



© november child
in response to The Sunday Whirl Wordle 287
photo credit:

Act of Defiance

Scepticism paired with incredulity
is my answer, and resistance is
my reaction to most of your
pieces of wisdom that lack
sound judgement, but are nevertheless
foisted upon everyone within your reach.

All those factoids, and stereotypes
you picked up along the way,
absorbing them, making them
your truths without scrutiny,
passing them on unfiltered,
never wondering, never questioning
the source and its validity.

I am so tired of everyone
making up excuses for you,
eager to protect your fragile ego.
You know, change is possible,
the chance to transform yourself
presents itself every second of every day.
You merely are unwilling.

Being not so bad is simply
not the same as being good.


© november child
photo credit: Bill Collison via flickr

絵馬 Ema

Small wooden plaques
breathe prayers
into unconcerned winds.

Heartfelt wishes
bleed hope
into indifferent rain.

to an uncaring universe.


© november child
photo credit: Stefan Lins via flickr

This is Serious

I try to squeeze eternities
between seconds,
as I watch you get dressed.

I aim at expanding
those intimate moments,
while the dim light sends
shadows dancing across your skin.

Me gustas.


© november child
photo credit: boxography via deviantart

Music Business

I am offended
because my body is
a bit of a moron,
swaying to songs
whose beats, bass lines,
and rhythms,
are calculated to please
in order to sell.

It has become
a traitor,  falling for
half-hearted singsong,
disloyal to
my mind’s ache for
the unusual, the extraordinary,
a melody that will resound
through the ages.

Faced with
shallowness, I long for
sounds that challenge me,
music with an
edge, or a trait
that connects with
the root of my being.


© november child
photo credit:
in response to The Sunday Whirl Wordle 286

Time to Toss the Dice

When you feel the dice
tumbling in your head, you know
life is about to take a crucial turn.

In your hands, they lose
their randomness, striving
to fall in your favour.

Chance becomes your
mistress, fate reshapes, and
commands luck to serve you.

‘dovie’andi se tovya sagain!’


© november child
photo credit: Benoit Courti
in response to  Random-Michelle Photo-Fiction #75
Quotation from Robert Jordan’s Wheel of Time series

Blog at

Up ↑