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november child

the curse of a sentimental heart & a skeptical mind

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musing

Last Hold

The night sky’s amazing
protocol of the past
beckons with a surge
of flickering lights from
uncountable distant suns,
that might just be ghostly
messages of the vanished.

And, as always,
my eccentric mind
is doing somersaults,
dwelling on my own
sort of fancy philosophy.

What if we are the Last Hold,
our galaxy the last light
in a dark, and empty Universe.
Drifting, all alone,
but still drifting,
defying the laws of physics
through pure human stubbornness,
unaware until the last light
has winked out?

 

© Novemberchild
photo credit: H. Heyer via wiki commons
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Footsteps

I look at the trail
our footsteps left
in the sand, and think,
any scout worth his money
would surely know
everything about us.

Your long strides,
so forceful, and steady,
focused on your destination,
rarely straying
from your chosen path.

In such stark contrast
to my chaotic tracks.
Always two steps
where you need one,
dancing from left to right,
stopping here and there
for another object
of distraction,
finally running
in an effort to keep up.

 

© november child
photo credit: via Pinterest

Lonely

The flow of your dissatisfaction
at being single meanders
through your sentences,
staining them with the cold blues
of an angry sea.

But memory is a highway,
and we all take different exits.
My only peripherally involved
mind remembers all too clearly
what yours wants to suppress.

They are all there,
at your disposal
if you would accept them.
The memories of
those countless nights
you showed up at my door,
so ready to drown your misery
in a bottle of wine.
The many times I covered you,
and your pain with a blanket
after you fell asleep
on my couch.

Mostly I recall your eyes,
and this frightening emptiness
that seemed to have
burnt itself onto your retinas.

Do you not see that you
always were at your loneliest
whenever you were
in one of your relationships?

 

© november child
photo credit: via uMad

Defensive

I thought he was quite handsome,
fluttering back and forth importantly,
showing off those vibrant colours
on his tiny, fragile wings.

So endearing when he started
following me around. I wondered
if it was my perfume which
deliciously smells like summer.

He never left my side, even after
I went back inside, he just
settled in a safe distance and
stared at me in a pensive manner.

‘Look at you’ he said all of a sudden.
‘You’ve become boring. All earnest and
always busy. Where did your smile go,
and what happened to your soul?’

And I got a little defensive, not sure
if I still liked that cheeky rascal.
I really have no time for this when life
is pushing me this way and that.

After all, he is just a butterfly.
What does he know about
responsibilities?

 

© november child
photo credit: Neil Halin via Flickr

Distant

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

Acoustics

I hear you,
loud and clear.
Each quiver,  crack,
change of timbre,
every pause,
and most of all
your silence
cries out to me.

© november child
photo credit:  kingofwallpaper.com

Pause

Quiet

It’s quiet, too quiet.
Freed from the shackles
of preoccupation
with everyday activities,
thoughts raise storms.

Fractured abstract syntax
interrupted by obscure symbols,
too speculative
for immediate grasp,
yet eerily familiar.

This feeling
of just needing to retrieve
that one missing piece of the puzzle
to understand the mechanics
of the Universe.

 

 

 

© november child
photo credit: wallpapersafari.com
Abstract

Defensive Measure

This pain, the one
right behind your eyes,
that cuts into your brain
with the force of a saw,
and slowly leaks into your temples
until it dulls your senses,
makes it hard to keep
track of life.

Over the years it
has become your shield
against words and deeds
you can’t cope with,
and a great smoke screen
to hide the bits and pieces
of life that you’d rather avoid,
a defensive measure
you’d surely miss.

 

© november child
photo credit: YouTube
in response to The Sunday Whirl Wordle #289

 

Fragments

 

Sometimes I feel them reaching
out to me,  all those pieces of me,
little dust motes that settled in
the places my heart left behind.

Sometimes I hear them calling
out to me, all my sighs, prayers,
and doubts, tiny dandelion seeds
that got carried off by the wind.

 

© november child
photo credit: Feggy Art via flickr
Doubt

Intrusion

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: EskiPaper.com
Arid
Juicy

Purgatory

‘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
heading-straight-for-heaven
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
Rhythmic

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
Seriousness

City Asleep

I lean into the stillness
of a city asleep.

I embrace the dense cloud cover
sealing in night-time illumination’s
surreal orange light;
banned from leaping up
into infinite space,
it raises a dome of seclusion,
cheating us into thinking
we are cut off from
the rest of the world.

I hum to the feeble tune
a single siren wails
in the distance,
and walk to the timing
of redundant traffic lights,
whose warning is lost on
the few resolute pigeons
reaping the harvest that
discarded food offers.

I carefully avoid stepping
on the interchangeable truths
neon lights write on dirty tarmac,
while cheering for the tiny ice rebels
in their quest of concealing
the concrete monsters
with a white veil
of fleeting beauty.

 

 

© november child
photo credit: Katerianer via deviantart
The Sunday Whirl – Wordle 281
Infinite

Patience

Canvas is patient
accepting red hot anger
in violent splashes,
enduring my blues
in teary streaks,
beholding black despair
in quivering brush strokes,
always silent, always forgiving
to the emotional turmoil
until it’s all but vanished
under new layers of outbursts.

© november child
photo credit: renu parkhi via flickr

Vanish

Artificial

I feel like an outcast,
the only one
who hears the screeching of the brakes
and the closing of subway doors,
who smells the staleness of public transportation,
who sees them.

Their eyes glued to sacred phones,
tunnel vision for fear of missing
a chatter, tweet or post on the Net,
blocking the outside world
and any interaction with earphones.

Their faces eerily glowing in the artificial light,
blank masks captured by tiny, colourful screens,
the only apocalyptic event on this train
would be the loss of WiFi connection
or, worse even, a dead battery.

Their fingers wrapped around cups of coffee
like talons around prey,
while the other hand frantically scrolls,
uploads, reloads, downloads files,
and types messages to an invisible audience.

And as I watch the changing light patterns,
flipping back and forth between
grey landscapes and black tunnels flying by,
I am a bit disappointed that
of all the aliens who could have taken over the world,
we were invaded by a bitten into apple.

© november child

photo credit: commons.wikimedia.org

Sacred
The Sunday Whirl, Wordle 276

Echo

Your words still echo in my mind

your touch still echoes on my skin

I wait for them to subside
so I can remember
who I used to be

 

© november child

photo:  artist unknown

Echo

Eye Of The Storm

Your mood is dark today,
mirroring the gloomy November sky.
Brooding has furrowed your brow,
your angry grumbling
conjures up storm clouds.

A true descendant of Thor,
thunder echoes in your voice
and lightning flashes in your eyes.
Dark energy crackles in the air,
surrounding you like a dreadful shield.

I take a deep breath and brace myself.
Warded by a four-leaf clover
and armed with a cup of tea
I enter the cave
heading for the eye of the storm.

© november child
photo credit: Chris Bird via flickr

Mythical

Dark Clouds

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.

© november child
photo credit: Dennis Amith via flickr
Argument

Unsettled

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
chest/after/you/submit/date/rinse/will/free/scream/mess/ashes
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

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