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



I play sick
I am sick
I play sick so I can play
I am living

I am dead
I have been dead
alone before

Now I am dead
among them
but can’t let them know
Or they’ll confine me
and adorn me
into some semblance of life
I don’t want to be altared
Just given room
to play
at not being dead

There were moments
very few
when I was alive
but they weren’t real
The others
were not there
Or they were
the dead ones

I’ve have never met
another living person
while being alive

the secret to my success

That last ditch effort
you wouldn’t heed,
forced me to water
the desert longing left
just to pass the time.

It grew into a forest
of Jurassic proportions.
Flora and fauna
I wouldn’t have dared imagine
filled my landscape
’till there was no room
left for you.

Dungeon Prompts: The Turning Point



Disdain has stained my lips
a grinnish red of contradictions
piled stairway high to escape
more realistic depictions
of the fictions
that used to make my mouth water
with enough words
to flush out distortions
and swell the proportions
to fit my devotion

But mostly
to drown out the voices
that said it wasn’t so

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You’re the rocks on the tracks
That derail me
so I can look in ways
at things I’d never see

And you,
you clear the way
so the going is easy
as long as I stick to the path

Her (riding the metaphor);
But I need
detours and curves
and to swerve round bends
if I’m to stay intent and alert

Him (making way for her):
I would give you those
and add potholes and cracks,
but I know you’d veer
at the slightest bump
with small chance
that you’d come back

Her (fiddling with a rock in her pocket):
Funny how it never works that way for me.

Him (getting his broom ready):
Doesn’t mean it never will

View original post

perfect day

today is a perfect day

the sun burns hot
the air is cool
colours burst in unexpected places

ideas from vague theories
bloom into complex constructs
and fall into plans
flowing into purpose

still there is time
for coffee and conversations
and lunch on the terrace
and everything’s infected
with Spring’s momentum

that must be why
you didn’t pause
to look my way



If I had you I wouldn’t care
About the cold or weather fair
If I had you I wouldn’t need
Fancy meals and endless treats

I wouldn’t care about success
Or the state of my dress
I’d never wear my heels high
Or trace dark lines around my eyes

I wouldn’t decorate my home
With artifacts of what I’ve done
I wouldn’t love without limits
The souls I have nourished within it

I wouldn’t stay up all night
Mixing colours to capture the light
Of that day I last saw through
To all that which you wouldn’t do

I wouldn’t have packed up and moved
To lands too far away from you
To ever see what you did
Without the love that I hid

View original post



With you removed
my mind turns
to the body politic
Instead of roaming
all over yours
Thoughts curdle
into globs of witticisms
the reflux of indignation
spat into the wind
Instead of expanding
to your endless horizons
twirling you like candy
I want to make last

Let us then turn
to nobler causes
Where resistance means fighting
to gain freedom
Instead of fighting the need to express it

View original post

so what

So what if each spectator is unique
and each sees colours
hears sounds

They will file in
take their seat
rise and cheer in unison
and file out to their graves
(as will those who don’t)

The show remains the same

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