It’s been more than a year
since I’ve seen your face,
heard your voice
Rarely a day goes by
where something
doesn’t remind me
that I knew you
and you were special
The books you read
the things you loved
are all still here
Sometimes I smile,
sometimes I cry
Either way the hole
you once filled
remains empty
Despite the distance
of time passing
I still think of you
grateful for the chance
to call you a friend
– – –
Words: free-verse, c.b.w. 2015
Fairy dust falls
every time it rains
Sunlit drops twinkle,
sparkle and shine
Magic so high,
it flies
Petals of white,
pink and red
unfurl each spring
bright and sweet
Magic so near,
it breathes
Beyond belief
some might say
Yet, in all things
it lingers
Magic so close
it sings
– – –
c.b.w. 2015
The Seine at Bennecourt, Winter – Claude Monet, 1893
It was December – a bright frozen day in the early morning.*
Snowflakes settle into a white field that slowly turns to gold as the sun rises above the horizon. Lost to each other, no longer free.
Trees blackened by winter’s bite reach up like charred spider webs. Searching for spring or perhaps waiting for the birds to return. Arms empty and twisted, they wait for the wind to give voice to pained moans.
Off in the distance where the pine trees live, soft pings of icicle wind chimes travel through the forest and into the field. Those long fallen snowflakes listen, wishing they could fly again.
– – –
* Eudora Welty, from A Worn Path.
Special Note: The opening quote was a writing prompt from my writer’s group last week. It’s amazing what can come of a single quotation and 15 minutes of writing time.
– – –
c.b.w. 2015
I can’t get out.
I checked the locks. I checked the windows, the alarm, and the closet doors. Are all the lights off? What about the front gate – is it closed and locked? I checked them all once, twice, three times.
I’m almost out the door. The car keys are in my hand. In ten minutes I’ll be at work, where I won’t worry so much about the locks, the windows, the alarm, the lights, and the closet doors.
Wait, did I check the lock on the back door?
I have to go back and check. Then, I have to check all the locks, again. Every doorknob, deadbolt and window latch. I touch each lock and turn every knob to make sure it doesn’t twist open. I turn the deadbolts just to make sure they are all hard over in the locked position.
Then, there’s the windows. I pull up on them to make sure they don’t open. Recheck the latches to ensure I didn’t shake one loose when pulling up the window. All are fine, but now I can’t remember if I turned off the upstairs light.
Up the stairs I go. The light is off, but I touch the light switch just to make sure. Then, I go through the house and touch all the light switches to prove they are all in the off position.
I can’t stop.
I can’t get out. I stand in the middle of the living room, clutching my car keys. The exit is just through the kitchen and out the door, but I can’t leave. This is ridiculous – I know this as well as I know I can’t stop.
And then, I wonder: Are the doors and windows locked? I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
“Stop.” I whisper to myself, buy my voice is not strong. It shakes as I stifle the tears. Once again, the demons inside are winning. I draw another deep breath and dig for what little strength I have left.
I race through the kitchen and force myself through the door. I’m in the garage and I can see my car. I lock the last lock – once, twice, three times. I jiggle the door knob just to make sure . . . but, wait.
Is the refrigerator closed? And the pantry door? Is the oven off? I didn’t check! I lean my head on the door in defeat. I have go back inside, again. It never ends. A voice in my head says, “No. You don’t have to,” but I cannot obey.
I’m touching every lock, window, doorknob, and light switch. Once, twice, three times.
I can’t get out.
– – –
c.b.w. 2014
Perched on the navy blue sky, the stars look down and wonder why the trees are so lonely and the ground so dark.
Could it be because the leaves have bid adieu? For weeks bright orange, yellow, and red lit everything up with their happy cheer.
And how those friendly leaves loved to chatter with the breeze and the birds. They left a bit too early, the stars can’t help but think.
The wind still talks with whistles and whispers, but no one answers except for the soft crackle of newborn frost.
Owls sit on barren black branches as a chill sinks into the night air. A crescent moon hangs with the stars, wearing a crooked smile this Hallow’s Eve.
Flurries float in the air catching the light of the moon. With winter’s first flight, the stars catch a ride and light up the ground.
– – –
Happy Halloween!
Every wonder where the traditions of Halloween originated? I wrote a post a few years ago that covers everything from costumes to pumpkins: Hallowed History. Enjoy!
– – –
c.b.w. 2014
C.B. Wentworth 