OctPoWriMo Day 28: If The Sun Never Rose Again
A dark heavy blanket lies over the land,
and the bright white lights that shine through its holes
never dim as time goes on.
The moon in the sky still pulls up waves over the sand,
and those waking now from sleep
wait for eternity until dawn.
No more warm rays of light.
The night never becomes day.
If the sun never rose again
we would all fade away.
OctPoWriMo Day 29: Writer’s Prompt – “Breathtaking”
OctPoWriMo Day 23: Santa Ana Winds
It’s barely seven in the morning and I’ve just gotten out of bed.
The sun has just come up over the horizon
and I’m already sweating what seems like bullets of lead.
I get dressed, walk out the door, and feel the wind on my face.
The weather is brewing something evil
and spewing the devil’s hot breath like a canister of mace.
The mountain gap winds, so dry in their origin,
whip past giving whiplash to those who can still
withstand Southern California.
The Westward winds fan flames so unbelievably high
it feels like standing in front of a heater while dressed in a wool sweater.
Sadly, it seems the warm weather has made all my plants die.
OctPoWriMo Day 24: Water
OctPoWriMo Day 8: The Sickness
She fades in and out of the haze trying to grasp reality.
Her new cough and shaky breath have become her banality.
High fevers and hot sweats plague the entirety of her nights,
As white blood cells guard the body in ongoing fights.
She keeps tissue on the end table hoping she doesn’t reach her end.
She sips tea for her sore throat praying the hot lemon will help mend.
Red medicine and orange cough drops stain the surface of her tongue,
And staying alive to see the sunrise again is her only idea of fun.
OctPoWriMo Day 9: Writing Prompt “Tapping the Ash of Her Cigarette”
A thousand heavy roars of thunder rolling over an abandoned sea,
Aims to drown out the interruptive sounds of chatter, while I write and sip my tea.
I check out of the world for a moment, as I rest the tips of my fingers on top of the keyboard.
The constant static continues to deafen the surrounding air, with the pleasant buzzing of an angry insect horde. (more…)
“A Time to Talk” by Robert Frost
When a friend calls to me from the road
And slows his horse to a meaning walk,
I don’t stand still and look around
On all the hills I haven’t hoed,
And shout from where I am, What is it?
No, not as there is a time to talk.
I thrust my hoe in the mellow ground,
Blade-end up and five feet tall,
And plod: I go up to the stone wall
For a friendly visit. (more…)