Vital

I wish you did not grin
at the straps of my bag
digging into my skin.
Cut me some slack,
I can handle the weight.
And I swear, every single item
stored in the cavernous depths
of this bag, is of utmost importance.

I can trim anything from
nails to trees, I carry tools that
could repair anything if I knew how,
and you never know
when a fishing line might come
in handy. I admit I am a bit
unsure about the seashell,
but I promise, something somewhere
in there can undo the end of the world.

I can not begin to comprehend
how you can survive
with just a wallet.

 

© november child

photo credit: Roxanne Ready via Flickr

in response to The Sunday Whirl Wordle # 294

Sizzling

She leaks impatient magic
as she waves away your doubts
with an impetuous gesture
of her delicate hand,
her fast sun burning an additional
hole into your defences.

She sizzles with angry magic
as she punishes your resistance
by putting her hands
on those delicious hips,
her electrical storm travelling
down to the base of your spine.

She sparkles with wilful magic
as she manages to unhinge you
with one of her impish smiles,
her  intensity sending your shy mind
on an outrageous adventure.

And your foolish heart
is giddy with excitement – again.

© november child

photo credit: Baary via deviant art

in response to: Sumyanna writes – Prompt #8

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

Ladybug

I watch as you carefully pick up
the fragile ladybug
that got caught in the curtain.
I can’t help but stare at your hands,
those hands that had me
right from the start
and I am captivated by
their gentle movement.

We count the black spots
smiling,
there are eight,
our lucky number.

I watch your fingers
as they delicately
follow the outlines
of the tiny wing covers,
and I shiver
when I recall those fingers
composing their song
on my skin.

© november child

photo credit: Guiseppe Lacalandra via flickr

Shiver

I Am Not Her

I am not her

so let me not walk
in the shadows of your  past,
do not force me to enter
the labyrinth of wrong  turns

make me not feed
off an empty plate,
do not let me starve from
your fear of getting close

let me not hear
the whispers of bygone days,
do not chain me
to the post of revived clashes

make me not dig
in the ruins of the departed,
do not force me to brush off
the dusty bones of past deceit

make me not part of
what you left behind,
do not crucify me on
the cross of your flashbacks

count not my mistakes
on old balance sheets,
free me from
lapsed mindsets and regrets

bring only yourself
when you come to me,
bless my innocence
by remembering

I am not her

 

© november child

photo credit: Carol Mitchell via VisualHunt

in response to: The Sunday Whirl Wordle #263

Mistake