Carry

Some days you just
flash forward and you realize that,
holy crap, I've got sixty more years of this.
And then you wonder what sixty years feel like, because
whatever small amount you've acquired by this point is basically
laughable.
That's sixty years of taking walks,
sixty years of cold winters,
sixty years of walking into a sketchy Walgreen's and
staring at empty aisles. Completely normal things.
Maybe you'll walk in someday with a kid on you
arm. And then your kid's kid.
Maybe you'll go walking in a park
and have them slung behind you
piggy back.
Carry them like you
carry those sixty years past
on your shoulders.

I can't turn it off.

This lamp is too bright in my room.
It used to be comfortably dim, no
unfounded aggression, just
beautiful lulling complacency.
This lamp is too bright. It slaughters the
mood and imposes hope. I liked it
better when it was just quiet and
lifeless and dim, because
like calls to
like,
does it not?

Maybe she will find it again

(This sort of shares some themes with my post from last week, hope y'all will bear with it)

Years ago, her muse left her...or she left her muse, neither is very clear on how it happened.

But happen it did, and her pages are black and white and dead…

She drags them from their slumber, bringing back what ought to be gone.

She can’t help trying to resurrect the words., the pages of what once was.

So she sits at her desk; she sits on her porch, on a nature trail, in the back of her car, waiting and praying and chanting around the flimsy manuscript dead before its time.

Some days she thinks about her muse, and where it must have gotten to.

Perhaps Fiji; it’s supposed to be nice this time of year….well, any time of year.

The muse is gone, though, and she remains.

How many spells will it take, how many bouts of dark magic?

What will it take to earn her passage to far off island in the sea?



-Kat

Jewels

Autumn is the scarves around necks and the boots on feet.

Autumn is the sapphire sky growing dimmer with each hour.

Autumn is the crunching of leaves and the snapping of twigs.

Autumn is the rosying cheeks and red-tipped ears.

Autumn is the beginning and the beginning of the end of a new year.

Autumn is the cinnamon and apple-picking without reaching too high.

Autumn is the morning diamonds, wet on webs and leaves and grass on the verge of dying.

Autumn is worn book pages under fingers beginning to tire.

Autumn is the warm dusting of colors on tree tops, the ombré from green to gold, orange to red.

Autumn is the jewels in eyes glittering with the rain.

Autumn is the steam from a mug held in chilled hands, not quite ready to yet 

fall 

off.

-Suzanne 

(So sorry this is late! I wrote it Thursday but for some reason it never posted.)

At The End Of The Row

Black white and bare, the photographs; stripped of their significance by the shining floor and lifeless walls.

She walks into the museum late, almost does not get in.

And she knows where she’s headed: to the black white pictures in her long dark dress, black floor white wall room.

In all her uniformity with the palate of the pictures, she bears unspeakable eccentricity.

The people in the photographs are long dead, and she the necromancer.

She only looks, she does not touch; touching is wrong.

At the end of the row, the picture is empty.

Museum closed, the lights flick dark; she takes her place.

Bowing her head in mourning.

All the haunting frozen moments, and she among them waits.