she listened to his words,
the pauses, and spaces between.
she heard his stories,
and the lines he never had to utter.
so much of his story had already
been written
in the creases across his brow,
and the deep composition
of his frame.


long notes from an oboe
drew her in,
solemn and low

songs never sung
notes of heaviness
head hung

soulful notes with clarity spoke
all that she felt and
how her heart broke


leathery feet
against sun burnt sand.
calloused from time
travelling this road
long and endless,
or so it seemed
since this journey began.
only now
the end was nearer than
the beginning, and his skin
was growing thin
around his lips and heart.

a "fragile" poem for Robert Lee Brewer's Wednesday poetry prompt.



they stayed up late
wearing out their eyes
amid growing chills
and the gathering dusk
their talk painting dreams
held onto for, one-day
and against a starry night sky
someday, seemed so much closer
more tangible, than today


throwing rocks at these glass walls
celebrating the shattering confetti
fresh air rushes in without excuse
life is so much sweeter when
you have nothing to hide


sometimes i am angry;
angry in frustration as the earth pulls away
fingers digging in, ground slipping away,
despite my pulling, groaning, and grappling.
and i can't help but think it will all be lost
despite my best efforts.
and i am angry.

Joe Hesch's challenge today at dVerse is, "Don't stop! Don't worry about what others might think. Just write." While love, peace, and happiness are easier on the reader, sometimes the more difficult emotions we experience are more honest, and harder to face.


knobby knees, bony, angular,
stick out in front of me;
unchanging reminders of all the gawky and
awkward growing up moments that i'd just as soon
forget now that i've become so
much more educated, articulate, refined, curved.

skin stretches over bone. a bicycle fall scar runs
along the outside of my left knee cap. and i am still
"monkey-ears;" swinging from the jungle gym
book under my arm, locked over the parallel bars by
knobby knees, bony, angular.

a chance to talk about growing up, and when we don't at dVerse


amid the swinging sound of the band,
the banjos and feet a'stomping across the floor,
i was lost to the cheers of celebration and shouts of joy.
lost in the still silence between this irreplaceable moment,
and all the moments i had somehow let slip away.
i vowed then and there in my heart, to hold on tighter this time .

In a call to really hear, Tashtoo has invited us to share our stories, memories, songs.  Come take a listen at the dVerse bar.



   The stranger pounded fervently against the roughly hewn oak boards standing between him and the biting wind. The low rustle moving through the heavy branches was barely audible over the sound of his heart now pounding in his ears. How long had he been lost? It couldn't have been for more than an hour, but the forest had quickly darkened overhead and the faint glow he saw now, and heard again, brought little comfort to his aching body.
   Desperately he brought his fist down again, now harder, now faster, almost falling forward when the door finally groaned on its hinges as a grisly browed man peered out from under years of wrinkles and a greasy hat. "Lost are ye?'" he scratched out in a voice that had seen more jugs of corn liquor and 'baccy than human souls. He shuffled back, as the glow of the fire warmed cabin drew the stranger in, and dropped a heavy bolt into the latch shutting out the sinking darkness.
  A simple table set near the hearth with two chair drawn up beside it. The old man poured a thick dark brew from the kettle on the coals and set it opposite him at the table. "That'll warm ye bones,"  he chuckled as he pulled a tin plate from a shelf concealed in the shadows that stretched along the wall. Embers flashed in the reflection of a surprisingly well sharpened blade as the host carved a chunk of cheese from his own plate then dipped the knife into a kettle swung from a thin iron bar over the flames. The stringy meat he added to the tin plate smelled better than it looked, but the stranger was hungry and grateful. With a thump, the old man struck the blade into the table boards and resumed his seat opposite the stranger.
  They sat in silence, the old man chewing away at the fibrous meat, the stranger sensing he was being watched tried to concentrate on the film atop his mug. That's when he caught the gleam in the eye, the one eye, of a mangy cat resting by the door. He shifted uneasily in his chair, the old man raised his brows; questioning, knowing. In two swift strides the stranger determined he'd rather face his odds in the unknown the forest. Sliding the bolt with a grunt, he stumbled back into the depths of the night.

On the 101st anniversary of the birth of Charles Addams, Living Poetry has challenged us to write something a little darker...



so many nights of strained voices,
frustration and tears.
where the only "piece" she got
was of someone else's mind. 

in patches of sun-buttered carpet, 
and the musty pages of a well worn book, 
she finds all the peaces
her heart has ever ached for. 

finding peace, in all of our poetry pages, tonight on dVerse


thin icy
fingers trace across
window panes

cryptic notes
early commuters
scrape away

beneath pale
breathy clouds their dirge
finds a shroud

Explore Lunes, Haikus, and shared poetry with today's dVerse prompt.
In a related note, Frost's "Fire and Ice" was a feature in today's New York Times.