Nothing in my stocking,Not a trinket nor a thoughtful bauble.Just dust and memoriesReducing my pace to a hobble. The deft, skillful, seamstress’s hands—Confused and enfeebled now—Made their mark long long ago.A magic I couldn’t disavow. Kindly fill my stocking.Just a silly doodad or helpful tool.Something to raise my spiritsWhen there is nothing merry or bright.…
The bird in my handDoes not sing; it barely chirps.Over there? Birdsong.
You never told me your favorite colorOr about the monsters under your bed.I don’t know how you take your coffeeOr which thoughts you prefer pushed from your head.I won’t venture with you into the yonder, wild and blue,Or even admire you in any place your grace adorns.I can neither aver my aversion to good fortuneNor…
I coaxed your petals into full bloomBy nurturing your needsOn moonlit nights or in sunlit beams.A careful whisper, a hand that feeds,And, in tenderness, sweet surrender.Precious cargo, calyx-protected.Envy of the effete and lechers aplenty,Overlooking the oft neglected.
Some time ago, I was taking a creative writing course in one form or another. The instructor offered a challenge (assignment even) of writing a short story. A very short story. The story could be no longer than fifty-five words. Nor could it be any shorter than fifty-five words. Additionally, we couldn’t create a clever…
Yeah, I see it too.Fast as you see it, it’s gone.Take what we can get.
Sad, sad metro gnome.So, so far away from home.Poor thing. All alone.
Broken and mendingMy heart’s scars tell you no lies.I’m real. I’m enough.
I claw at my face(This storm will soon be lifting);It does me no good.