Sparked by Words

Posts tagged ‘regret’

Spilled Water

 

A few ounces of water barely fill a glass

Transparent, silent, static at the bottom

Topple the cup, and water flows everywhere

The surge of ounces conveyed quick as a tide

Saturating the books on the shelf, soaking their pages

A clumsy accident we say, and maybe that’s true

 

Grab the nearest cloth and press dry each book

Yet the pages between covers remain damp

They’ll dry in an hour or three, curling like waves

Each sheet bearing a permanent water stain

Dusk gray or dove wing brown as pages shrivel

The rippled intaglio of having been doused

 

We harbor truth within our heart’s deepest coves

It slumbers quiet as a secret tucked in a locket

While hate flows from our tongue, lashing blindly

A snake hissing danger at the edge of reeds

Sorry is a sibilant word, sliding soft from our mouths

Like fire, water burns and leaves a riven scar

 

Just a thought 58

 

 

Image of glass of spilled water courtesy Max Pixel,  CCO Public Domain

 

 

Advertisements

Kind of Like Stars

Kind of like stars – only the ancient light of them remains

Not yesterday’s anger either, just the sticky path of our tears

What was it we argued about that now I can’t recall

Less the chores of our lives than slights that pierce our flesh

And make me bend as if holding my ribs will heal the pain

 

Kind of like rainbows – name their colors but never catch them

Not the wind either, just the toppled twigs, the skittering leaves

How did I not see you shiver, the confusion in your eyes

Why did you fail to ease the ache of my heart, my soul

Though one part of me is as tender as all parts of you

 

Kind of like water – without shape of its own, only a wild surge

Not the thirst for assent either, just the hungry plea that you see me

Will you call my name, touch my hand? I cannot swallow

Still we yearn to press beyond what we can’t hold in our palms

Love and acceptance, memory and future, all of all between

 

Kind of like fragrance – bereft of corpus, only a scent we inhale

Not the spices we measure either, just the smell of you against me

Even if you leave, I will still feel your breath on my cheek

Yet I run to gather flowers and seeds, as if they will thrive

You will always be a living presence in my life, today, tomorrow

 

 

Just a thought 56

 

Painting, Lovers, 1928, by Felix Nussbaum, courtesy Wikimedia Commons