not sure how many words

[GuiltyPleasure]

Spiders

All the babies have flown,
each with his (or her) safety net
that has left a silken memory
of the route they took to
their winter home. Shining
threads dance with light as
it streaks from leaf to leaf
on the hydrangea bush.

A walk in the garden, now, will
find you wrapped in a filigree
of the finest threads that are
hard to remove (think of the
hapless fly). Smaller than
a pinhead, these tiny spinners
will grow into a bigger, longer
legged version to frighten the
squeamish at bath time or
catch your eye scurrying for
safety under the sofa. Don’t
kill it, we need them, they
only need re-locating to a
less intrusive place.
​

 

[Piscator]

Nano Expresso Coffee

I put a pinch of nano-expresso coffee

into the hummingbird’s sugar water.

If you thought they were fast before

then you should see them now.

I had to brew a cup for myself

just to follow them.

 

[EllenMore]

Closing Time

I watched you all evening—
shooting pool, ragging
with your mates.

When you finally left,
I snatched up your almost empty glass
and drank the dregs,

because that was as close
as I could get to your lips,
and, oh, how I so wanted to taste them.

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

The Reader

I have an enduring love
for books. In libraries,
or bookstores.The old ones with that particular
smell of venerable things
that are begging to be
rejuvenated once more.

Unfolded, they offer more
than the words conceived
by the author or poet.

Cursive comments,
scribbled in the margins or
the occasional folded letter,
an accidental bookmark,
a reminder of a
favourite passage, perhaps.

Once I found a love letter
on soft, rich vellum written
in pen and ink, overflowing
with ardour that never found
the heart it was meant for.

All these treasures, bonuses
in antique volumes, meant to be
found by a lover with a different
desire.

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

For Shara and Terence​

Hands like parentheses
holding hope.
Dark eyes looking to distances
beyond the horizon
where love lies,
unexpected and perfect.
Slender arms like vines
open to welcome tomorrow
and it comes, like thunder
rolling down her shoulders,
bringing, too short, years of joy
and inevitable grief.

 

[Angeline]

Good Morning Heartache

Sometimes I can still
conjure a memory: the scent
of his pillow and how I held it,
sniffing the last vestiges
of him, dreaming of the way his skin,
smelled when I nuzzled his neck.

Sometimes I can still
hear how he moaned when I
scratched his back or traced
my tongue along his ear. Oh
the way his eyes glowed, our eyes
locked when we moved as one.
How, I wonder, can all this
feel so present in me even now?

Sometimes I say Good Morning
Heartache because what else
does one do with such blinding sorrow,
wide enough to cloud the skies,
but invite it in and sing the blues?