bat

up to bat, all dirty knees and dusty shoes,
traveling the streets that brought the fog rolling gently in
at a dead run, bad pun
but better than splitting the thick grey cloud
with flutter of misplaced wings.

--
Bats--baseball term, vampires: I'm so original. Oh well.

latter

seeing the world through a camera lens,
where the eyes can easily take a silhouette
and lend it more than mere shape;
in florescent light that neither seems too dim, nor yellow,
no warmth on skin from accustomed unnatural glow.

--

rather than title, inspired more by this picture, taken this morning as dawn broke through my dirty window, and the contrast between what my camera and my eyes could see:

studio

posed, poised fingers cast intriguing shadow
on parted lips
and other such headlines--
breathing in, out,
changing the substance of the photograph,
as the viewer catches unedited blinks, stiffness
struggles--

a war wages behind slightly bloodshot eyes
to find that certain mystique,
enough to shine through extensive 'shopping
and still sell the overpriced watch that dangles
from her well-shaped wrist

it is, after all, what they pay her for,
though it's a shame the struggle will be
discarded, cut away:
making this job look far too easy.

--
I've fallen out of the habit of thinking poetically.

fractured

fractured was the wrong thing to ask,
lost now in the words arranged
contrary to dreams
circling the dilemma anticlockwise--
though time holds all the cards in this game of chance
perhaps it would be better with a plot,
thoughts lined up as they should,
a quota for each day
to take like vitamins--
building strong bones
for your story.

--
More NaNo musings. I don't outline before writing; sometimes I wonder if I should.

winter comes

winter comes to burn the light I brought
searing through the snow of swirling thought.
find the words to turn the sunset back
as the ridges bruise an inky black.

winter comes to glorify the dark
space between the days which took my mark--
scrabbling for the crumbs I scattered, spring
holds the answer tied in tidy strings.

winter comes, and I am unafraid
chilled beneath stained sheets--the bed I made.
rest befitting wealth, this crown of thorns
pierces through the cross that I have borne.

winter came and left behind a dream;
I have not yet slept enough to see.

--
Thoughts about the coming cold, and how I'm struggling with NaNoWriMo this year.

homemade

I had a home made of shadows, but it was too dark;
The home made of music proved too much a lark.
My home made of colour was closer to please,
but my favourite by far was the home made of cheese.

netflix

I sit, legs crossed
against polished wood
listening to the snap of the sails
and lapping tide

a hard-won calm
for I have not yet caught a fish;
this morn has borne naught
but the teasing flicks
of fins on my net.