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Writing

Playing Fetch With Hearts

Like a yo-yo, I believe I’m playing a game until I realize the string and the yo-yo are both trapped in a dance.

I’ve been here many times before and yet I always feel strange. This is not a home. I’d rather be thrown and have no one come pick me up just to end this love game.

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Writing

Flash Before My Eyes

When the sun is setting on this life I skipped through, I will reverse and replay.

I will watch my life and laugh and cry and never once during a love scene will I have to wonder “what if?”

That is not to say I won’t wince or grimace at the times I embarrassed myself or eschewed self-control.

Inevitably though, I will enjoy the show.

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Writing

Would Old Posts Die Out

Should beasts eat their tail!

Venom… years later, at will

Old posts… not yet dead

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Writing

The View’s Awhile

We can try hiking until we find exactly where the sunrise will look best. But we will end up cold and standing on a tilting rock to get an almost perfect view.

Maybe if we hop in an air balloon—but then that would lead to us freezing away while we chase a pretty skyline.

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Writing

Art

You can choose but one

Nonpolitical space/art

True, he fit his name

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Writing

Mochi Will Cry

(At the end of the 8 page dog boarding packet)

In two (2) sentences only!!!!!! tell us about your dog:

Hello I’m so sorry, but I have to warn you, you cannot raise your voice above a firm ‘calling to’ at my dog because if you do he will cry incessantly and it sounds so sad it’s maddening and not worth the effort to endure or to explain the backstory. Good luck!

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Writing

No Time To Think: A Princess Charming Adventure

If love is a hotel…

And my love is on the top floor…

What gets me in the door?

To the front desk?

On the elevator?

With a key to the top floor? (Of course that floor is locked and guarded by fearsome goons.)

To the same room on the top floor?

And into his arms to save his life?

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Writing

Alone In My Mind

With clanging whirlwinds

Still meditating—no breath—

My own voice unheard

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Writing

Lake Michigan Winter Date

Crystal ice like shells

Once we fall through, won’t we freeze?

Scurry back laughing

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Writing

Writer Who Does Not

Writer who does not:

Separate island, stale wind

No thought, words, sound, life…

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Writing

The Starting Over

I stir the cream into my coffee. The sky is lit with the moon and it keeps me awake enough to race with my thoughts. “Compatible,” I think. I keep getting hit with this word when I least want to hear it. When I make a play for permanence, the other party starts their doubts. “Is it me or her timing?” “Is she consistent?” “Is she looking at me right now?” I don’t want to make them uncomfortable, but I do. And then they hit me with it. “Do you think we’re compatible?” And the next move is crucial. Because once they ask, there is only one correct answer.

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Writing

In-Patients

Knock, hinges, then light

Gentle, cold touch as bill mounts

“like to go home please…”

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Writing

Brings Him Glory

I couldn’t think of something more peaceful to do than sit on the grass in the sunlight and let my warmth and the temperature of the grass come to one stable level. It is even more than touching snow until fingers freeze just slightly. Like flow. The beautiful mornings are given to us by God and the perfect temperature is something set by the Lord. Even when we assume details that please us are too trivial for the Lord, remember that he made it so grass shows up as individual blades instead of one large patch of a waving piece of oxygenated plant. He detailed it so that grass is singular. So I must see the small pleasures as singular—a detail given to me, once again, by our true and living God. Because he is living he can also enjoy the fruits of his labor.

Whenever I feel warm I imagine that the atmosphere is giving me a hug, keeping me close and safe and comforted like a child. When it is cold I want to cry. And then both are love and beauty and detail from God and in all he is righteous.

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Uncategorized

Fitting Ghost

I knew you were true so I boiled inside just looking at you.
Content believing anything outside an adulterer was a solid significant other.


Though, while you were here, I was so so sad, finding myself trailing the house like a sleepwalking phantom. Too exhausted to remember not to be found where I ought not. You married a ghost–a ghost that is so fitting for your temperament.
An eclipse of my whole self.
The listlessness an appropriate darker side.
Where you vowed to stay forever and guard it.
A flag on a shifting side of my moon, determined to be in shadow. While the war on earth began.
The trumpet marking the start of carnage was all of humanity showering my sunlight with arrows. A few billion lanses.

—-

I tilted my head forward a few inches to feel heat cloak my face and steam roll down to my collarbones. I inhaled the fiery gas and it burned through my nose hairs and throat. Like something more than water going through me. Looking into the shiny steel pot I saw flesh double over and whine. The meat would be nearly finished soon so a half sprig of thyme would need to be thrown in. Perfect timing!

“Hon, will you hand me the thyme from the cabinet?”


“What would you have done had I not come into the kitchen?

“Please. This morning is sweet. Just pass the thyme. Please…”
She passed it, but not without something to say about it.

“I’m wondering about that shelf you mentioned a few nights ago. The floating bookshelf?” She pauses waiting for me to respond to something that isn’t actually a question. “The one with the marbled plexiglass?”

I loathe that, regardless of being told a million times over, she insists on believing that if she simply inflicts her tones a certain way, she can goad people into answering for things like a guilty child. She intends to make me speak like a toddler on display because I have frustrated her by something as simple as dry herbs.

“Well, all I’m saying is you look like the proper lumberjack. It’d be nice to get some handiwork out of you is all. Not that I don’t enjoy you making organic food for the dog. It’s just…”

This little dance was the most tiring. I didn’t mind the mother-in-law-like nitpicking or the insinuation that me taking a while to build another bookshelf in the house that I built from scratch with our contractor made me less of a man. And of course I cook my dogs food from scratch. He’s a pure breed for goodness sake! But as is the nature of the storm that is my wife, a purposeful drip can be more uncomfortable than water boarding.

But I told her the same thing I told my sister and mom when they asked. “Hon, you are worth every drop of effort.” And it remained true as long as I kept saying it out loud. One day I wouldn’t have to say it at all. That’s my hope. Everyone married over twenty years says it just gets easier after that. We’re six years in and I’m wishing I could time-lapse the next fourteen years. “And you look hot as hell today!”

That seemed to please her and she waltzed out of the kitchen. If it weren’t for the way we level out in bed, I don’t know how long I could’ve kept this up.

“Honey, I’m here for you,” I call after affectionately.

“Well it’s like being here with a ghost!”

Categories
Writing

02.18.22

Yip, yip!… yapping too…

Both good and evil doled out.

This can of worms I…

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Writing

No Water, Just Blood

Trapped! You are my cage

Banging on your bars, palms bleed

No water, just blood

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Writing

Love Then Lost

All the while we snooze

Sorrow billows, tears…. pillows

‘Tis better to have…

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Writing

Short Story (Quick Read)

Oh wait… just how short?

Very funny. Real quick read.

Back to tasks at hand…

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Writing

This A.M.

Clouds move, but don’t pass

Clung to me with “I need you”

Darkened day and night

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Writing

Untitled 02

Head turned, frostbitten.

Watching? I hadn’t noticed.

Melt before serving.