My pillow whispers
in the dead of night.
It begins
with a “knock knock.”
I refuse
to ask.
“Knock knock,”
he repeats.
Again
and again.
Until I respond:
who’s there?
It then devolves
into bad dad jokes
about gutless skeletons
and outstanding scarecrows.
The whispering
never stops.
It never
stops.
After considering
mileage, frame, and tire,
I don’t
have
a favorite
car.
Today, again, children are caught in the crosshairs–innocent victims of political rage.
Back in theDay lifeFelt better,Burdens lighter,Friendships tighter. Was life reallyBetter then?Or does timeWrite fictitiousFantasies? We reflectWith nostalgic eyes,But reality reveals whyLife was simpler;Our charges lighter. Hidden handsBore weighty burdensLightening life—Our parents’ battlesRemain unseen. Friendships faded,Weathered by time.Victims of change?Or did life’s pathsSimply diverge? We cannot returnBack to the daysThat never were.Perfect pastsDon’t exist.
Red circle flashes calendar’s weighty warning.Foot presses down, speeding toward impact.Easing off gas, curves tighten sharply.Grip tightens, eyes lock on the path.Scanning for hazards, road twists ahead.Destination reached, brakes ease to rest.
Laptop restingNext to beverage and biscuitOn coffee shopTable top Customers eyes passingThrough text and tomeBy themselvesAt various book shelves I am sittingAt my pulpit and postTo write what I privately spyAs patrons browse and buy I get it: this poem’s title isn’t parallel to the first one in this series. Rules are meant to be…
The secret
Of a skilled artist
is to blend colors
Paint harmony
In this canvas
We call
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