One day, I hope not to wait

Watching as you erase  me

In new faces, places and stations.

I do not want to always hear

Your hurried goodbyes, two and a half minute

Long conversations about how busy you are,

While your friends laugh in the background.


I do not want to watch my days go away

As I watch my phone to make it ring,

My decision to be cold and not pick up

Evaporating the moment I hear your hey.


One day I hope to be you

Letting places and people push me around

Then I will not have to try

To make you a memory, it would be too easy

To forget you in the time I am busy.




The Lovely Lady in Grey

Writing201: Poetry

Day#6 Prompt: Hero/Heroine, Form: Ballad, Device: Anaphora, epistrophe


The children loved to wait in the way

Where walked the lovely lady in grey

Their lives were mostly sad blues

The lady’s smile gave it a brilliant hue.


The children were poor, you see

Their clothes were torn and dirty.

But when walked the lovely lady in grey

They felt the beam of the brightest part of the day.


The children in wait every morning lay

For there walked the lovely lady in grey

She brought food, she lingered a while

They loved it best when she would smile.


The children led rough lives in mean streets

And slept cold beneath tattered sheets

So when here walked the lady in grey

Her smile was like a pretty bouquet.


One day the lovely lady in grey looked in the mirror

And decided life wasn’t worth living with all the horror

Her death mattered to few, no flowers on her grave except

The wayside flowers picked by the children who wept

For the lovely lady in grey.

Kisses and Salt

NaPoWriMo Day#1: Prompt from http://www.napowrimo.net 

Go to Reb Livingston’s Bibliomancy Oracle (http://bibliomancyoracle.tumblr.com/). Clear your mind, push the button, and then write a poem based on the quotation that the oracle provides.

The oracle provided me with this:

Don’t count on Lot’s wife:
her salty kiss only brings
copious tears. Lots. 


from “Lotto” by Timothy Bradford


Your soft hands on my aching back

The very hands that inflicted the pain,

Now coming to soothe the hurt you’d caused


What was I to believe in?

The hurt in your eyes that I couldn’t erase

Or the words you carefully picked to cut me with?


I was so lost in all your contrary signs.

I wanted to trust in the gentle kisses

You placed on my tear stained cheeks

But the frenzy with which you tore me

Lingered in my mouth like a mouthful of salt.


I was so young then,

Could you not have forgiven me

A little easier, a bit sooner?

Because now every time I want to trust

The comfort in your kiss

I choke on the salt rising up my throat.



What is it to be happy?

Is it a constant state of mind,

A barrier which holds strong

Against every adversity, trial or loss?

A calm confidence which stops you from breaking

Even when the world is closing up on you?


or is happiness found only in fleeting moments,

In a distant memory, stale laughter, almost forgotten dreams?

Is it just a pause

Between the tireless grief that is life,

A moment of cool relief merely to hold on to

When daily you burn in the heat of life?


Do you have to seek happiness,

Knocking shamelessly until you find it?

Or does it come to you,

And embrace you in a moment unexpected?

Is happiness real, or is it just a superstition we invent

To bring some meaning to our senseless lives?



You’re set to play poker (or Scrabble or something else . . .) with a group of four. Write a story set during this game. Or, describe the ideal match: the players, the relationships — and the hidden rivalries.


We sit around the round table,

Which gives you the illusion that

We are equal, while I know the truth:

I’m so much superior.


One of you shuffle the cards

And deal it with amateur hands

I watch you peek at your cards expectantly

And laugh when I think how easily

I will win this game. 


We play, you place your cards eagerly

I watch the innocence in your eyes,

And feel a sickening pity for you

Because you still believe in fair play.


My face is expressionless when my turn comes\

You look into my eyes and trust implicitly, 

Never realizing that I will always play you,

That I’ll bluff once again. and once again,

I’ll win.



Those days when I wake up feeling

As if my spirit had fled my body

Leaving behind a hollow corpse,

The days when teeth bite my insides

Every time my lips stretch into a smile

When my eyes become cloudy suddenly

And tears trickle slowly, like a barren monsoon


Those days when all I am is reduced to being a hypocrite

When faking comes so easily that I feel that it defines me

Frantic laughter, senseless words, desperate smiles

Cover up my frailty in front of myopic eyes.


On such days, I hesitate to meet your gaze

And realize, in the depths of your discerning eyes

My hypocrisy, my cover, my protection fall away

And I’m left trembling in my vulnerability.


When I look at you on those days, 

I cannot figure out which emotion engulfs me:

Is it my scorching need that you see me this way?

Or is it cold hatred for you because you see so easily

What others can never see, what I hide so well?



Tell us about the harshest, most difficult to hear — but accurate — criticism you’e ever gotten. Does it still apply?


Words are so absolutely fatal

They hurt you with a pain that

Starts from your stomach and

Spreads throughout your body

Until it hurts to move, it hurts to breathe.


Tears are a feeble defense against words

They fall silently, accepting the truth words say

Yet begging the words to stop talking

Tears are treacherous, they validate truth

They let words know they have triumphed.


“Selfish, selfish”, words taunt me, 

And my tears flow to accept it.

My eyes turn everywhere, wildly

Searching for the comfort of a lie

But words sealed my pain inside me.


“Selfish, selfish”, I hear the whisper sometimes

In the most innocently deceptive places

I have learned to control those treacherous tears

But the pain in my stomach persists,

And it still hurts to move, it hurts to breathe.