Hushed whispers of the turning page
Leaden weight of the words in my hands.
As shadows dance on textured walls
The story unfolds in endless waves
And my mind once shackled, now free
Of heavy chains binding me to this life.

Surrounded by books for they’ve become my life
Never tiring of thoughts on the written page
For words are ancient keys to be forever free.
And each time I hold them in my hands
Memories wash over, an ocean of waves
crashing against a mentality built of solid walls.

Here in my peaceful mind, there are no walls
No death to fear for I am eternal, cherishing life
I rewrite my troubled past, ride the restless waves
As I turn yet another yellowing page
Caressing each one with soft wrinkled hands
For the poetry I write sets my anxious soul free.

In this world of words my heart roams…

Photo by Philipp Wüthrich on Unsplash

Touching the scar on my arm, I let my finger trace the line.

The diner reeks of nostalgia, the linoleum is worn, but the coffee in the battered cream-colored cup is hot and strong. I sip, watching the two uniforms place their order and adjust their stools at the counter.

The glass door opens, the bell tinkles merrily, and he walks toward me, pausing, he towers over me, but I stand my ground. He sits in the booth. The table separated us, and he leans forward, reaching for my hands. I pull back, plaster my spine against the vinyl seat, ramrod straight, and drop my fists into my lap. But I won’t look away.

I had forgotten his eyes were blue. If I could forget that, perhaps I can leave behind the rest. Memories flash, slashing red and deep. Tear-stained faces, broken promises, and outright lies…

“So, tell me, Marina…” Jackie began as she put her work away for the day. “What big plans do you have for Valentine’s Day?”

Marina shook her head and sighed. “I no have a the big plans. Is a very sad day for me. Very sad.”

“I’m so sorry,” Jackie replied. “Did you have a boyfriend back in Greece, and you miss him?”

“Well…yes and no.” Marina furrowed her brow. “Is complicate to exclaim a you.”

“You mean, explain.” Jackie wiggled into her coat on and tossed Marina hers. “Whaddaya say we blow this joint and have a few drinks at Bubbaloo’s?”

Marina shrugged. “Explain, exclaim…”

“My treat?” Jackie was on a mission to cheer-up her office mate. “C’mon, it’ll be fun!”

“‘Blow the zhoint?’ Zhackie, I no smoke a the Mary-wanna…”

Jackie giggled. “No, no! ‘Blow this joint’ is an expression. It means let’s go; let’s get out of here.”

i wear my losses
on a chain
‘round my neck
copper
silver
gold
charms
containing locks
of stranded memory
tied with red ribbon
sometimes they are
featherweight
sometimes they weigh
the world
sharp edges prick
at my tender skin

i have carved regret
deep in the palms
of my hands
heather
oak
bittersweet
smoky
from the hearth
where I kneel prostrate
praying to silent gods
for second chances
i am not sure
that i have earned
rough stone floors
abrading chilled knees
punishing me
for my sins
© 2019 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All Rights Reserved

I am the setting sun,

A breath away from shadow,

Flaring brilliance before the night,

The day grows dark,

I become the gray,

The in between…. day,

And brilliant stars,

Beauty ready to unfold,

A myth hiding from the world,

Yearning for clarity,

Just out of reach,

A phantom touch,

Threatens my soul,

Leting go may make me free,

Or crack my mind,

What prize is worthy,

To risking the toss,

Of the coin of Eris,

Only love,

It glimmers in the moonlight,

Flashing colorless silver,

Victory on one side,

Insanity on the other,

Spinning in time,

Waiting for a gentle hand,

To strech out apon my heart,

Catch chaos,

And determine my fate,

Am I to be the torch,

Dancing in the darkness,

Or the dawn,

That brings a new day.

Best wishes -SirHanz

You were always the Mr. Perfectionist ; ordered and meticulous

but the day you left, you were in such a hurry

that you remembered only to pry away your heart from me,

that you also took away my heart, is of no consequence,

my heart any way was of no use to me

as it was meant to beat only for you (but I digress)

I find signs of you scattered all around

in folded laundry, crammed drawers,

old shoe boxes and the medicine cabinet

the raw hole beneath my ribs where your heart resided

has become a cesspool of aching memories

every time a thought gets snagged on its jagged edge

I begin to unravel…

the unfulfilled dreams still smolder somewhere in my eyes

the unkept promises hang in limbo arms akimbo

unquantifiable desires burn my skin with crackling reminiscences

unrequited love is such a cruel monster

it refuses…

Perhaps some things should not be said
In poetry,
Or maybe
They can not be said
Meaningfully by me.

As does nearly always happen
My train stopped, dead
At Clapham
(Though not for its proper, brief
Stay). We did not pull away.
What can be said
About grief
(Not experienced by me)?
Perhaps some things should not be said
In poetry.

When, that evening I came back
The track at Clapham
Was clear.
We made good time.
Though a drear
Thought did cross my mind,
But I find
That some things can not easily be said
In rhyme
By me, as I sit here, warm
Thinking of the ajacent platform
And how our train stopped, dead,
But, perhaps some things should not be said
In poetry,
Or at least by me.