I don’t miss much about my old city commute. Driving 40 minutes to the train station, cold waits on the platform. Sweating under layers while being pressed on all sides by strange shoulders. Pushing back out into the cold. Trudging eight blocks to the office. Peeling the layers off. Tugging them back on at the end of the day. Trudging eight blocks back to the platform. But the one part I miss happens during that second wait on a platform. The faint, high pitched whistling and the gleam from the train’s headlight reflecting off the tunnel wall as it rounds the corner into the station. That part always made me smile. reaching from the dark a shimmering ray of light to carry me home
The cold crept in quietly overnight, crawling and creeping its way into the flowerbeds, smothering the silent screams of the huddled blooms. It left them shriveled and twisted, and lingered in the morning light to admire its work. The flower corpses remained tangled in the dirt flowerbeds for an entire day. Eventually they were unceremoniously ripped from the earth later by their caretakers and dumped into plastic buckets while the cold leered from the shadows. The flowerbeds remained bare, like freshly mounded graves, for the rest of winter. winter’s cold grip strangles the last remnants of autumn’s blooms ****** Thank you Freeverse Revolution for the prompt, monster. I took some inspiration from a poem I saw posted earlier by Basilike Pappa, and tried to us personification in this one. If you interested in seeing what other new things poets are trying this week, check in with the Dverse crowd.
March brings the rain. It starts off light, covering every branch, blade of grass and spider web with a fine mist. The droplets start to form, and patter against the side walks. They fatten and settle into a steady drumming. Puddles form, the ground softens. The drumbeat picks up and a stream begins to run down the street. A wind picks up and changes the meter to double time, lashing the trees, driving a river down the pavement. The mud traps my feet, and water stings my face while roaring in my ears. All I can do is clench my eyes shut and clamp my hands over my ears to shut out the madness until the world is silent again. rain’s cacophony deafening, unrelenting drowning out the world ********************* Thank you Dverse for the prompt!
The first time I saw death outside of a funeral home was 11:57 on a Tuesday. I was walking down the street near my office building when I spot two officers up ahead. They are standing by a man laying in the middle of the sidewalk. It’s slushy and cold. An ambulance pulls up, no siren. Two paramedics emerge. One talks to the cops while the other pushes the mans face back and forth a few times, examining it. A few feet away, tourists are snapping pictures of the Old State House across the street, as if they can’t see the dead man lying next to him. But I’ve seen him. Every morning walking to work, and every evening walking back. He huddled by the granite wall of a bank. He had a dirty pom pom hat and layers on layers of grimy gray clothes. I can’t tell what leaves him laid out by his usual spot. As I get closer and closer I become more and more furious at the callous people so determined …
I used to have a demon living at the base of my spine. When she felt like it, she would pierce my skin with a sharpened claw, cut a slit open, force her way out and crawl slowly up my back. She would cut the skin at the base of my skull and slide her claws in under my scalp, forcing me to listen while she whispered in my ear. “No one wants you here,” she would whisper. “They can’t wait for you to leave,” she would hiss. She would continue to torture me until I fled wherever I was. Only then would she slither down my back again. Even when I was alone I couldn’t escape her. She would crawl out at night while I was in bed, whispering terrible things while I tossed and turned. Until the day I caught her. Pinned her between my back and a wall. Reached over with one hand and sewed her mouth shut with black twine so she couldn’t hiss in my ear any more. She tried to …
As much as I enjoy the holidays, I always feel a small sense of relief when they are over. There is something comforting in packing up all of the Christmas decorations, returning my house to normal, and settling back into a routine. I wonder if it’s because the holidays are so external. Full of music, bright lights, presents, wishes, movies, parties, hugs. I want to be a part of the happy exuberance, but am more than ready to return to an internal normalcy come January 1st. year end revelry heralds the return, much missed a quiet stillness ******** Thank you Dverse for Monday’s prompt, it provided much needed inspiration!
I sense the change in the air almost too late. I inhale the scent of frost, decaying leaves, a distant fire and realize the sun has almost set. I quietly slip out my back door, away from my new wife and our little baby. Once I’m out of view of the neat row of houses I race towards the woods. I run until my breath is ragged and the last rays of sunlight fade among the trees. I crouch, hunched over, waiting, waiting, until the pain comes. It shoots down my spine, every vertebrae flexing, and spreads out to every extremity. I feel my back press against a tree limb that moments ago was several feet above me. My hands clench, toes curl, and I scream and scream until the screams finally become howls. cloaked in the blue cold the full moon illuminates an unraveling
My back hurts. I blame it on a lot of things, my mattress, my couch, my desk chair at work. Not enough yoga. Too long of a commute. None of which are the problem. The real issue is, I slouch. Sinking behind the arms of my couch, behind my computer screen. Perpetually trying to hide. Even when I’m not slouching, I’m trying to hide. I apply for a promotion at work, and immediately begin to hope that I’m passed over. I spend hours preparing stories and poems for submission, and never send them in. I am the epitome of Imposters Syndrome. Perpetually holding back, waiting to be found out to be a fraud. A fake. A terrible writer who’s also horrible at her job. But it has to stop. It’s holding me back, and riddling me with doubt. And it’s physically starting to hurt. enough is enough no more slouching, no hiding time to sit up straight
At night I toss and turn while the rain lashes my windows and all the words I’ve spoken today lash me mind. I wonder, which were the missteps, the mistakes and that leads to all the words I’ve ever spoken raining down on me. drenched in midnight blue electrified by lightning old nightmares revived ************* Thank you Free Verse Revolution for the inspiration! Visit here to add your own contribution to their nightmare themed prompt.