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Literature Text
His house is made of crumbling slats
of rotted knotted oak
peeling paint
and weakened joints.
The wind blows unfettered
through unshuttered apertures
dragging fresh sunlight in
and memories away.
Even on the clearest days
he visits the front porch
less and less often.
He prefers to explore
those rooms further in
where tide and time have yet to reach. Sometimes
he might be gone for a week.
And one day, too soon
(not soon enough)
his ramshackle dwelling will collapse
tumbling six feet down
abandoned at last.
of rotted knotted oak
peeling paint
and weakened joints.
The wind blows unfettered
through unshuttered apertures
dragging fresh sunlight in
and memories away.
Even on the clearest days
he visits the front porch
less and less often.
He prefers to explore
those rooms further in
where tide and time have yet to reach. Sometimes
he might be gone for a week.
And one day, too soon
(not soon enough)
his ramshackle dwelling will collapse
tumbling six feet down
abandoned at last.
Literature
Things Change
He rode their tandem bike, alone.
Literature
Advertisements
She was only six when the funeral homes started sending us advertisements, all competing with each other to be the best, to win her business. To win our business, more like; six is hardly old enough to understand what's going on. It's not old enough to understand why everyone is covering their mouths with their hands and failing to hold back tears when you walk into the room, or old enough to understand why people begin to outright sob when you start talking about what you want to be when you grow up. Once it was a doctor, before that it was a fairy princess, but right now it's a policewoman.
And of course all the children have heard about t
Literature
Spelling Counts
The line read:
"Fallow your heart",
I wondered what more there was to say.
Fallow your heart, leave it
empty and waiting for a season
so love can grow, nourished,
in a replenished, whole ground.
Fallow your heart so it does not become
Worn and barren with overuse.
The line read "fallow your heart",
but the poem, overworked,
meant only "follow".
Please remember that spelling counts.
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There is no house. It's all a metaphor.
And a damned depressing one, at that.
Written for #fotoFRIDAY; inspired by Jerome Ruin by !markramstead. (A black and white close-up of a small wooden cabin or shed on the verge of collapse.)
Update, as of June 15: What a wonderful surprise; thank you to ~literatureODD for the feature.
And a damned depressing one, at that.
Written for #fotoFRIDAY; inspired by Jerome Ruin by !markramstead. (A black and white close-up of a small wooden cabin or shed on the verge of collapse.)
Update, as of June 15: What a wonderful surprise; thank you to ~literatureODD for the feature.
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