if you could see me now

did you see me when I was falling?
how bright I shone?
how I spun while flailing
leaving a retinal trail
to move your senses
and draw you in
beckoning you
in to describe me
to inscribe your wishes
on my skin?
did you see the imprint I left
when I crashed
into your stone heart
resistant to ripples?
now I lie cold and dull
smoothed and overlooked
and watch the stars
waiting for one to crash at my side
and make eternity less lonesome
if only you would see me now


really just about the state of this heart

here, there used to be
now great boulders
have been gouged
and loaded
and hauled away
in truckfulls
the rockface exposed
as salmon-pink flesh
under a scab
torn-off too soon
looks onto industrial debris
strewn like fishbones
after a feast

here, there is now
only a hole
into which nothing
can be imagined
that can give any solace

here, no one
can recall
what came before
but it had to be
better than this

photo source: Google Maps https://goo.gl/maps/bKxV2ZamLFS2


so much is lost
to wrong time and place
too soon
too late
and parallels
that can never touch
of proximity
or mutual

a lesson on colour

all the lectures
in the world
on light
and waves
and chemicals
and cones
couldn’t teach me
about colour
like painting
at dusk


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


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


the first time I blushed
the second I blistered
the third left me scorched
as I turned to coal
burning long and ardent
leaving shapely ashes

though I may look
only discoloured
now the tiniest gesture
threatens to blow me away


Look at the ends
to which we’ve gone
to run from our end
so much duller
than our beginning
At the end of the earth we sit
with fork and knife
each on the right side
still waiting to be served
We play parlour games
we’ve always played
to pass the time
as though nothing has changed
I wonder if this is how
one lives without seasons
with no change for which
to wait or plan
and if that changes
what one dreams of
or how one plays out
their last hand

rites of passage

First I was grudgingly acknowledged
An irritated
What do you want?
Then I was measured for potential
A surreptitious
What can I do for you?
Soon I was artfully respected
An opportunistic
May I be of service?
Now I’m being dutifully tolerated  
A saccharine
How are you today?
Soon I will be dismissed
A succinct
Will that be all?

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