Patches of pink
sprinkled on
blue and black.
Frothy clouds
absorb his glow
as the sun drops
below horizon.
“How much
do you think
will fall?”
she asks.
“Forecast says six
to eighteen inches.”
He doesn't bother
looking up
from book
when he speaks.
He has become
accustomed to this ritual.
He reads
his stories
as he sits
in comfortable
recliner kids
gifted him
upon retirement.
She stands
at window and watches
stories unfolding
on street
just steps
from their
cozy front room.
He listens
just
enough
to join
just
enough
in dear wife’s
conversations.
Just enough.
“Enough
to cover
those weeds,
I hope.”
She lifts her chin
as she looks
at tousled track
of land next door.
Subtle hints of contempt
invade the normally
sweet strain of
her soothing voice.
“It makes
the rest
of the us
look so
so trashy.”
He is tempted
to say more,
but
what’s the point?
Expressing his thoughts
would leave
buried bruises.
The evening
would be uncomfortably
cold
...but quiet...
Easier to
mumble approval
and focus
on his stories.
His wife's
white noise
becomes the
soundtrack
to his precious
books.
“Lot
of snow.
I hope roads
are clear.
I hate the thought
of kids traveling
in bad weather.”
This time
he looks up
from book
to watch
winter scene
whirling
and swirling outside.
“They’ll be fine.
We'll have a great Christmas
together.”
Update: December 24, 2025
When I revisited this poem today, my jaw tightened and my teeth clenched. I was embarrassed by some of the awkward phrasing. I can see now where I wanted to sound clever and tried too hard. The language started drawing attention to itself instead of letting the moment breathe.
This reread reminded me how often simplicity does more work than a crowded combination of “creative” words. As George Orwell famously advised, “Never use a long word where a short one will do.” It is a lesson I seem destined to relearn.
So here I leave you with a revision, shaped by quieter choices and simplified imagery.
I didn’t remove meaning; I removed noise.
Removing the Noise
Nothing dramatic happened to this poem.
It just sat.
For a few years, actually.
When I came back to it, the noise was obvious. Not because I had learned a new trick, but because I had enough distance to hear it. The lines that once felt clever now felt crowded. The moment itself was still there, but the language had been standing in front of it.
Time did the editing before I did. All I had to do was listen.
I didn’t simplify because I wanted to be minimalist. I simplified because the poem finally showed me what it needed — and what it didn’t.
That kind of revision can’t be rushed. Sometimes the most useful tool is letting a poem age until it tells you the truth.
Trash into Treasures (Sort Of)
This poem didn’t start out as anything precious. It started out noisy and awkward, trying too hard. At the time, I didn’t know that. I thought I was doing something clever. Looking back, it feels more like an early level I had to play through.
Revision, for me, has turned out to be a long game. Early drafts aren’t failures. They’re where I learn how the poem works. Some lines don’t survive, but they still matter. They get me to the next version.
With time, the rules become clearer. I start to see which lines slow the poem down and which ones help it move. A few stubborn phrases hang around longer than they should. Not because they’re right, but because I’m not ready to let them go.
That’s the upcycling part. Not turning trash into treasure, but breaking things down and keeping what still has value.
So yes, I have to be brave enough to write garbage.
That’s how I move forward.
How to Play
- Entry Level
Start by writing the poem badly. Don’t worry about noise, clarity, or elegance. This is the tutorial stage. You’re learning the controls. - Earn XP
Every awkward line earns experience. Even the ones that make you cringe later count. You don’t get points for polish here. You get them for showing up and finishing. - Unlock the Next Version
Set the poem aside. Time is the real cheat code. When you come back, you’ll see what slows the poem down and what still moves it forward. - Level Up
Begin removing noise. Shorten lines. Choose quieter words. Keep what still works. Let go of what only helped you learn. - Boss Fights
Some lines refuse to die. They feel important, even when they’re wrong. Sit with them. When you’re ready, cut them without guilt. - Save Your Progress
Keep old drafts. They prove you earned this version. - Endgame (For Now)
Publish or walk away. Either way, the poem is playable. And when it stops working, you can always start a new round.