Bruised

too many marks and bruises
on alabaster skin
branded by the touch of those
that still linger on your fingertips
afraid of the next tell-tale sign
to blow up what is left of her pride
running out of patience,
and from a place in hell
where secrecy is only
a figment of your imagination

iPhone pillow talks,
instagratification,
how long does your thrill last?
until you have emptied
your bottle of Bushmills?
until whoever’s make-up is smeared?
when reality is breathing down
your neck?
or rather
when you wake up alone, again…

only five hours to Paris
whispers of the Seine
balm for her soul
you know who is waiting for her
celui qui danse
au rhytme d’un cœur fragile
she took your car by the way
was it worth it?

 

© november child

photo credit: Aparajith Bharathiyan via Flickr

Detonate

Whispers in the Willow Tree

 

She is difficult that one,
snapping at me
more than once
if I just run by without
properly admiring
her beauty, and how
prettily her radiating canopy
overlaps the bank.

She always urges me
to sit on the grass, relax,
enjoy the scent of her, and
of her lake. I can’t bring myself
to tell her the water smells
quite brackish, so
I just take shallow breaths,
and hope she will not notice.

She is quite proud
of the cracks in her bark,
(beauty marks she calls them),
and her spot by the lake
she has defended
for many years,
though I think she
hates the cold season
when she has to shed
her leaves, vain little thing.

She likes to flaunt
her graceful limbs
to emphasise her stories.
I know she fibs,
what with remembering
knights and the ring
of their horse’s shoes
on cobblestone pavement,
but who am I to judge?

 

© november child

photo credit: Roberto Verzo via Flickr

in response to The Sunday Whirl Wordle 301

Mindlovermisery’s Menagerie Writing Prompt #209 “It’s All in the Title”

Radiate

Infinity

It is human nature, this need
to understand, to know.
Knowledge being the power
that catapulted us into
world dominance.
In order to comprehend,
names are assigned,
numbers generated, and
formulae created, defining
everything, so we can wrap
our heads around it.

In the event of
utter perplexity we
theorise, hypothesise,
at times we have been known
to simply make things up,
and don’t get me started
on interpretations.

And as we proudly present
our accumulated data,
God shrugs good-naturedly,
and Infinity suppresses a giggle.

 

© november child

photo credit:  Pix to Words

in response to Pix to Words Infinity ~ Pic and a Word Challenge #88

Catapult

Clouds

I am a master at clouds,
such a nice fabric to work with.
Of course, this art is little
appreciated, an empty
blue sky widely favoured.
I am afraid, humans lack
the refinement to process
true beauty.

Just look up, look at the sky, I think I
have outdone myself once again.
Only No. 9 is a bit out of alignment.
Always the rebel, a problem child,
too often adrift, stubbornly
bending this way and that, forever
out of shape, trying to take over
the sky,  and constantly demanding
the extra effort which can be
quite exasperating.

 

© november child

photo credit: James Stutzman via Flickr

Adrift

Sunrise

I still glow in shades of rose and gold
in the aftermath of a gorgeous sunrise
that slowly but surely crept under my skin
while I watched Sol seize control of the day.

And while today I proudly wear my new
daytime skin, tonight as Sol descends
I will shed it in favour of cobalt and flashes of silver
and pay tribute to Mani on her lonely ride.

© november child

photo credit: Aristocrats-hats via Flickr

Descend

On the Edge

Remember all those cute promises
and good intentions?
And yet here we are,
standing on the edge
of a precipice once again.

Counting sleepless nights,
shed tears, and wasted efforts,
only to realise the balance
will never add up.

 

 

© november child

photo credit: Black Station via Flickr

Precipice

Breaking the Cycle

She puts herself out on a limb
every time she tries to coax some
kind of acknowledgement out of them,
but instead of ending up better,
she finds her spirit broken over again,
adding more fragments to the
Saturnian rings that make up her aura.

She has never learned to refrain
from poking around in the ashes
of the bridges she burnt, maybe
hoping against hope, that some of
the ghosts she raised would rewrite
the stories into the fairy tales she craves.

Sometimes she prides herself on
having broken the cycle of destruction,
but as long as her skin is too thin,
her goal is their approval, and
she caves in to the radiation of their
indifference, she is in a halfway state.

© november child

photo credit: original photo by Farrukh via Flickr

in response to The Sunday Whirl Wordle 298

Better

Suburbia

Wintergreen hedges
(no rotten leaves here, please),
cut precisely into square,
impenetrable walls,
fencing in narrow front yards,
doing no favour to the pricey
whitewashed houses
masquerading as the
epitome of respectability.

Double door garages, witness
to what a man is able to
provide, though red tile roofs have
lost their sheen because
money only goes that far,
multi-paneled windows
keep in the noise of
quarrels which, officially,
never took place.

Unbothered by Saturday’s
car washing and lawn mowing,
freedom beckons not too
far away, in the shape of
a night sky aglow with
the reflection of city lights,
the skyline visible
if you scramble up that hill.

© november child

photo credit: Mark Hadley via Flickr

in response to Mindlovermisery’s Menagerie Wordle #153