Spent

Just the other day I thought about dVerse community and how long it has been since I wrote a poem. It feels like waves crashed over me and kept me under water, barely letting me break the surface in time for another inhale. Maybe this old thing I revisited today might push me in the right derection.

Edward Atkinson Hornel - Portrait of an Old Man in a Scarlet Tunic 1881

Edward Atkinson Hornel – Portrait of an Old Man in a Scarlet Tunic, 1881.

Autumn is crashing his bones,
his heart a silent drummer.
Oh, how it drummed so loud
in his waisted summer.

He longs to cry once more,
but it seems his tears
have been used up
in his wasted years.

His hands have been broken
in one too many strife;
he crossed too many lines
in his wasted life.

If only he could feel
just for a moment, whole;
but there is no return
for his wasted soul.

The roots cruelly transformed
To the ties that bind.
It seems the run is over
for his wasted mind.

My offer for today is an old thing I wrote few years ago…I was watching a wrestling match on TV and it made me think about the lives of pro-wrestlers, of the risks they take from day to day…from town to town…to earn few bucks here and there. How dark is their autumn and how cold is their winter?

Spinning Hearts – Revisited

My fellow Friday Fictioneer Björn Rudberg commented on my FF short story, how it fits perfectly to the prompt that’s up on dVerse. To write about a secret, without actually revealing them. So, I decided to revisit the story and try to transform it into a poem. I’ll let you, my dear readers, to be the judges on how successful I was.

ljiljan2edit

Like a whirling dervish,
I futilely try to fill this emptiness.
It was always my favorite place,
this secluded courtyard, our secret garden.

Quiet little corner,
where we used to talk…
where we used to dance
our perfect routine, our whimsical relationship.

These days other people
dine at our table,
sharing stories, wine and laughs…
But I never let them go out to the courtyard.

And when they leave,
I walk out and dance.
Pretending you are here.
Practising my carefully choreographed therapy.

I spin on my tip toes,
forgetting the world,
remembering us.
One day I’ll admit the truth….Just not today.

Thank you Björn, for opening the doors for me, I hope my poems will find a  warm place here.