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.

reverse

The sunset was behind me
as I drove my submarine--
I spun my craft 'round backwards
so I wouldn't miss the scene.

But that just made the sun reverse
and set late in the east;
So I drive now in forward gear
and the sun does as it pleases.

second

A second chance came twice
to lead me from my bed;
I called it evil, trouble, vice,
and bade it leave instead.

It left but soon brought back
an option third, but same.
I took that third time's charm because
it now called me by name.

puddle

I stepped around the shadow, singing
'not yet' to the noise
and walked myself back the way I'd come.
In circuits, always climbing back,
sweating in the sun,
I watched that patch of shade:
a cool reward for work well done.

But by the end, and having mowed
the last of unkempt grass
the shadow of the tree had peeled back--

the sun had moved, and dried to dust
my small puddle of shade.