After all these years
you’re still hanging around
in the shadows,
stubbornly refusing
to be seen,
even with the new
motion sensor lights
on the front of the house,
just a glint of blond,
a white dress,
a cold Saturday alone.
You drift in when
I’m asleep,
you never let me
see your face
hear your voice
feel your heart
you are nothing
but a Mass card
buried in a drawer
my father threw away
decades ago
with the rest of the
memories.
THE OFFICIAL SITE
Follow my journey to writing, Blogging and publishing my musings..
Understanding the World through words
Just another WordPress.com site
"There isn't anyone out there who isn't Seymour's Fat Lady."
Museum of Documentary and Fiction
It's a walking contradiction; partly truth and partly fiction.
thoughts about music by David Beardsley.
Photography, Animals, Flowers, Nature, Sky
Photographs & Philosophy - The Periphrastic Mind of Kenneth Justice
author, poet, & teacher
My composition blog
Beautiful Beekeeping, English Cottage Gardening, and Cooking with Honey
Living a life of creativity, via music, books and films.
Kc's Diary : Dubious posts on life's heavenly ups and damn downs :P
Website of Freelance Writer
Writer
Poetry, Art and Music
Definitely *not* flarf or abstract.
Oh yes. This one is very good! Thank you! I read this among all the coursera inbox fillers and stopped dead to reread, reread, reread. Nice but sad too. (I see only a small spot for some tweaking but it isn’t necessary either – you could remove the words “you are nothing/but” and even put them in the title, where some telling has good place. (As “Nothing But Shadows” for instance). Then ‘ A Mass card…) becomes more sudden and more of a metaphor. But it’s also good with it in there, just a flavor difference.)
An old faded memory. A playmate of mine was killed when I was just a kid. I have no living memory of her, just faded wisps of the circumstances of her death. I was wondering why this was coming back around, until just after I wrote this last night- and realized that Friday is the 35th anniversary of her death. The cold, lonely Saturday was March 4, 1978- the day of her funeral.
I am not haunted by the little girl who died, but by the little boy that grieved for her in silence.
Thank you
I didn’t hit like, because it felt too facile for this. Lovely piece.
Thank you.
Sent via DroidX2 on Verizon Wireless™
Still trying to find a voice that isn’t random.
What’s strange is this doesn’t feel like a poem.