In the Closet

spooky shore

 

Rattle, creak and groan –

Season’s changing of the guard

Reveals skeletons

Advertisements

Upon an Autumn Afternoon

smokebush mystery

Summer slowly rusts away in copper-plated sighs;

Flowers nod their heavy heads and curtsy their good-byes.

Wind discovers secret nests, undressing hidden lairs;

Leaves, ashamed, blush scarlet veins, and tiptoe down the stairs.

The Closet

wrinkledice.jpg

She smiles,

a slow, careful smile

that curdles on top like bad milk,

a skin freezing in increments over troubled

waters.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says

to the accompaniment of the skeletons doing a jig in her coat closet.

Their White Elephant

Silence sits upon silence,

a mute accumulation;

minutes,

days,

months,

years,

a hush pervades them all.

He won’t acknowledge

the white elephant in the room,

so neither will she;

the stillness deafens,

the lulls clamour,

all resound

with secret censorship

that wails without sound in her heart,

pounds and crackles in his brain.

He looks at her with a nameless longing,

she cries noiselessly into midnight pillows –

but still, the stillness snags,

expanding the girth

of their

white elephant.

*

For more on this topic, visit Growing With God in My Garden

Breaking the Ice

Marooned,

stranded,

isolated,

he turns his shame upon himself.

Choice builds habit,

cube by cube,

erecting frozen walls

which become too slippery to surmount.

Had he raised his head

or his voice,

he would have found that

iceland is

littered with those

marooned,

stranded,

isolated.

But not one of them

raised a head

or a voice,

so the ice

was never

broken…

Disguise

Mysteries are pondered there

Where secrets, clutched in heart-shaped lair

Are locked away, a furtive dare

Nursed in deepest core;

Cloak-and-dagger, covert heart,

Your cryptic self plays cryptic part

To lock away your obscure art,

Enigmatic lore.

Furtive with your truest self,

Selected wares displayed on shelf,

Reserving heart, a shrouded elf,

Hidden from our sight;

Veiled beneath a petalled shroud,

Thoughts are thought, but not aloud,

You remain a misty cloud,

Buried, locked up tight.