november child

the curse of a sentimental heart & a skeptical mind




Lounge music now floods the room,
its slow groove and soft volume
a bit too lulling for my taste,
turning the brown leather couch
with its invitingly soft cushions
into a trap for tired minds.

We are saved from
falling into a happy delirium
by the smell of fresh coffee,
and the impatient hiss
of the Italian coffee machine
busily grinding the dark beans
for the addicted crowds.

Judging by the artful symbols
he is patiently sketching
onto cappuccino canvasses,
the barista surely is one of those
moody, starving art students,
my mother gravely warned me about.

His cats, carefully drawn
into the soft white foam,
are a marvel, so pretty,
you hesitate for a moment
of appreciation followed by regret
as your spoon collides
with the aromatic liquid.

© november child
photo credit:
in response to: The Sunday Whirl Wordle #278 A Baker’s Dozen



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:

The Sunday Whirl, Wordle 276

Little Ghost

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.

© november child
in response to: Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie Wordle #123 ‘October 3rd, 2016’
guttersnipe/chorus/birdcage/spectral/(late)/break/dusk/serve/(crow’s mile)/button/brawl/inertia

photo credit: Wikipedia

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