Suddenly ideas beamed towards her. She could see them streaming through the window. Smell. Cookie. Stairs. Lots. Sunshine. Porch. Chicacoos, chicka, chickadoos. Birds. Crumbs. Up. Chair.

She could.

Her mother was talking in the bathroom.

Go downstairs. She did that before. It was hard but she could do it.

No falling. To the kitchen. To the cookies. They were up with the red chair. She could climb. The big part against the sink, like John did. He gave her a cookie too.

She pushed off her blankets and rolled her legs off the bed. This was the hard part. Reach the floor, almost, and let go without falling, without Mom coming.

“Mrs. Gerakis! You know you shouldn’t get up alone. Robbie will be here at 8:30 to help you wash. After breakfast, maybe we’ll sit on the terrace. But no hiding bread in your pockets. Those pigeons are dirty.”

She slumped back on the pillow, legs dangling. Words. “No,” was all she heard. No cookie. No stairs. No chickadees. No John. Not ever again.


 Daily Prompt: Agile


saving grace

and when our wired limbs
crossed and snagged on intent
were done releasing their tensions
you lay, hair frayeď
mouth splàyed open
with no remorse
for the stains that drained
deodorant clumped
under arms raised
without grace
to take more space
than earned
I took in the waste
grateful for the image
that would serve
to move me past and on
once you would wake
to be so much less
than what I made of you

daily post: patina


I saw you in that car
parked in the dark
your face a half lit moon
gazing at the screen
your finger hovering
ready to delete and move on

Your face reflected a world
of pain and joy
suspended in a void
an alternate universe
being destroyed

I envied your strength
to pinch it to black
as I wished I had done
a whole lifetime back
when I could still hope
time would erase and replace
the empty space 
with new wonders
instead of a glowing
screen gone blank


fleeting thoughts scattered
swirl round to gather
at my feet with the leaves
dispelled like remnants
of withered dreams
the frozen trunk won’t feed
fall’s fading light
is far too bright
for the void it breeds


Little windows framing lives
endless boxes piled sky high
Rosey hopes wilt
to dusty pink
etched with rusted
forlorn dreams
The sidewalk teeming
with discarded traces

of love displaced
for a quick fix
parked in the dark corners
of feigned smiles
that barely beguile
enough coins
for cab ride home

little things

I don’t like you tonight
It may be the stars
Or the ceiling light
that’s too bright
Or my skin that’s too thin
and drawn dry and tight
But your very breath
sticks my hair on end
And my empathy won’t extend
round the bend of the bathroom door
past the socks on the floor
and the bills ignored
and all I cannot mend
as quickly as I defend lost causes
to fill up pauses
that may reveal
more emptiness
than intended

mindfulness (I’m trying)

I worry
About the car that didn’t fit
And is parked in the no parking zone
(Ticket me but please don’t tow)
That article is due tomorrow
The application for a job I can’t take
is due two days later
One hundred and three corrections the week after
With a day long course to prepare
What can I make for supper
Sunday’s laundry still in the machine
A husband waiting to be loved
Latch onto a verb and follow her words
Damn you
Five years of work being explained
So why not at least align those graphics to the left?

Her nervous tick is showing
I smile (no, not at you, creepy guy)
Perhaps she’ll pick up on my support
I’m drawn by the colours of the banners behind her
Reflecting off her face
Purple on the left
Orange on the right
Her dark grey dress
And pale grey tired face
Keep the clash at bay
I exhale
There’s nothing I can do about any of it now.

snagged again

smiling in pictures
(you said, as if to console me)
doesn’t mean you love your life
so now I sit
sifting through all
it could mean instead


At the high end of the market
the meat is pricier
but under the cologne
and expensive wrapping
these portions are still meat
meeting up to grind
hoping to find
a reflection sweeter
than the acute inspection
that awaits them at home

And I can sway like the others
under the light of late summer
Make like it matters
that my wine is as chilled
and light as the chatter
of birds with no need for words
to spell out the signs
held up by time
ticking ornately by

Night is coming on strong
as cologne mixed with sweat
set in air
conditioned to keep
the numbers aloft
But there is nothing soft
in desperation
or the blaring pink strobes
that probe transparent fabrics
for a hint of low cost hope
to make up for the price
already paid

Blog at

Up ↑

%d bloggers like this: