november child

the curse of a sentimental heart & a skeptical mind




Indecisiveness leads nowhere,
he says using the motivational
intonation, the one that is
usually reserved for team meetings.
He shows a lack of understanding
for the complexity of doorways.

It’s easy to be confident when you
never opened a portal to hell,
it sounds a bit snappish, his
leadership voice does that to her
sometimes. She lacks the words
to explain that behind the prettiest
doors may lurk unseen horrors,
and a lot of locks do not
necessarily safeguard something precious.

At some point you have to make
a decision, but this time you won’t be alone,
he promises. Not much of an
assurance really, when she is still not
certain, if the door that lead her
to him, might be one she should
have left unopened.

© november child
picture taken with iphone 4s



A shadow has settled
across your heart,
so dark, I am afraid
it can not be erased.

Red hot anger
has eaten away at you,
crippling you in ways
I can not even fathom.

Your torment is real,
your pain sincere,
I just wish you would see
you are hurting yourself.

© november child


photo credit: Kevin Reese via flickr


One drop of blood
infused in the oily liquid
in his Seer’s bowl
breaks the stillness
of his mind,
uncovering the truth
about  the man.

This drop reveals more
than a shock of silvery curls,
a rich velvet cloak
or the golden amulet,
sign of  an affiliation
with the ruling class,
ever will.

The blood speaks of
burning jealousies,
petty rivalries,
and busy scheming.
A smile lights up the Seer’s face
as an idea echoes in his mind
and his plan takes shape.


© november child
photo credit:
in response to: The Sunday Whirl Wordle #272

Lady In Distress

Up on the bridge he stands,
facing the far away coastline
countering the rolling sea
with a wide footed stance.
And he revels in the rush
the sun, wind and sea always bring.

He watches the barge
spin along in roiling waters
and considers her value
with a satisfied smile.
She’s a wisp of a lady
compared to a schooner,
no elegant beauty catches his eye.

Yet he chose her, filtered her out
from among those other coasters,
she stood out like a shark’s fin
among playful dolphins,
with the speed, fine lines
and sturdy construction she displays.

Her holds are filled to the brim
with grain, oils and spices and
she shoulders the weight with ease.
He will soon own her,
hold her under lock and key,
a fine asset she will be.

Pulling up alongside the little lady
he observes his men
as they throw the grappling hooks,
sun reflecting on drawn blades
and above him the Jolly Roger
billows in the salty wind.


photo credit: Kevin Boyd via Flickr
in response to: Value
and The Sunday Whirl Wordle #268

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

Into the Storm

Into the storm we run again,
the proverbial flock of lemmings,
just one quantum step from the edge,
one second from hitting the water with a plop.
With the imprudence of children
we run ahead without a plan,
models of remote-controlled ignorance,
victims of oversight and custom
we are left to beat the odds.

Brazenly we face obvious disaster,
ignoring all transparent warnings.
We refrain from proper precautions,
ravelling things further with our discursive patterns.
Our common sense is tempered by arrogance
and we feel so sanguine about our ability
to weather anything that bars our way,
we callously dismiss the fact
that those storms were created by us.


©november child
in response to:

Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie Wordle Special Addition Contranym “September 5th, 2016”
photo credit: Stephen Wolfe via flickr


Slight movement of the bushes
like a soft wind blowing.
Big paws parting the grass,
not a sound breaking the silence.
Yellow eyes watching the prey,
nothing escapes her notice.
Muscles twitching
with every elegant move
as she patiently closes in,
her body stretching
for the onslaught,
her strategy already laid out.

Watch her, fear her,
never underestimate her,
the fierce protector of her cubs.
A duty born of love,
she will let nothing hurt them.
Run, pull back fast
to save your pathetic little life,
she is already on to you.
She will destroy anything
considered a threat,
collateral damage
means nothing to her.


© november child

photo credit



Midnight hour
the chapel bells toll,
the crisp air containing
first whispers of winter.
As I sneak through the garden
I recoil at the noise
of brittle leaves crunching
beneath my bare feet.

My flimsy silk nightgown
leaves my blood freezing,
still I am compelled to answer
the alluring trill of your whistling,
your invitation to play,
a demand I am unable to refuse,
so I push my cold body and hurry
to avert your irascible moods.

You are half spirit, half man,
not to be toyed with,
your angelic features misleading
but might inadvertently be
the cause for these exquisite thrills.
As always your calling
instills in me a promise of
imminent danger and sin.

You smell like timber and mint
which is rather eccentric,
but then you are fae
sampling nature’s perfume
and your taste tends to be
of the exotic and sassy kind.

© november child
in response to Brenda Warren’s The Sunday Whirl Wordle #260
photo credit: Claudia Dea via flickr

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