november child

the curse of a sentimental heart & a skeptical mind




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



I get fearful
of the havoc you create

when the impatient
wind of your adronitis
rattles the hinges
of my barricaded doors,

when your insatiable
hunger for closeness
drives you to illicitly
override my security protocols,

when your husky voice
demands revelation
of every shred of misery
Pandora’s box has to offer.

I get frantic

when you’re on the hunt
for the black-winged goddess,
safely tucked away within.


© november child
photo credit: artist unknown via Pinterest
in response to Mindlovermisery’s Menagerie Wordle #106 “18th April 2016”
(I know it’s an old one, but I saw someone using the words and I liked them, it’s a variation
on my “Intrusion”)


Those were the good times
when they observed the night skies
for the gleaming moon chariot,
watching me goad my lovely horses
across the heavens at full speed.

When they secretly hoped to catch me
in a little intermezzo on Mount Latmus
with the beautiful Endymion,
fool he is for choosing his eternal sleep.

With melancholy I remember the times
when a total eclipse of  the moon
was fearfully thought  of as a sign
they had incurred my seething wrath.

Now  they have all sorts of telescopes
and call watching me science,
I curse you, Philolaus, for diminishing
the omnipotence of the gods.

And if only Zeus were not so tame now
involved with other worlds,
and such a stickler for rules,
I would conjure up a little something
to turn your sciences upside down.

© november child
photo credit: Rodrigo Vera via flickr
artwork: Endymion – George Frederic Watts (1817 – 1904)


endymion 3294014001_ae96d0f77b


Slowly she walks,
her white dress rustling,
her hips softly swaying,
to the sad nocturne
of thready voices
singing her name.

Her path leads along
the winding banks
of the river Deceit,
her words all but drowned
by the deafening whoosh
of its gurgling wild torrents.

She is called elusive,
a myth born of ignorance,
fed by the strident noise
and scratching chorus
of  those ruthless servants
kneeling before Apate’s shrine.

For in her holy well,
her abode of honour,
if one cares to listen,
her voice rings sonorous,
never reduced to a buzz
by the crackles of the mundane.

In there, when annoyed,
her anger speaks loudly,
spreading the truth
with a percussive force
resembling the whistle and pop
from a lash of a whip.

So she continues undisturbed,
which is the way of a goddess,
collecting more voices
for her choir of verity,
secure in the knowledge that
truth is not off-key and has no echoes.


© november child

photo credit: Darron Birgenheimer via flickr

in response to mindlovermisery’s menagerie Wordle Special Addition Sound !August 1st, 2016′

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