An Unfinished Project

I look at 

my face, unadorned

in the mirror.

I decide it’s

a good face, 

an uncompromising face.

All those wrinkles –

years forming – show

I’ve been expressive.

The hooded eyes,

small and dim,

are deeply knowing.

That set mouth

is not grimacing.

No, it’s soft

when you look;

but in repose

is still, closed.

This face is

waiting to be

aroused, interested, moved.

It’s not yet

at the end

of its journey.

It may still

develop new marks

of its passage,

of its involvement

in the life

unfolding around it

and the life –

ever new, unknown –

developing behind it.

Written for Friday Writings #79 at Poets and Storytellers United.

What Is the Colour of Anger?

Rage is red, 

a fiery haze

behind the eyes. 

Suffused in red,

an angry face 

blotches to purple.

When wrath solidifies,

slowing and hardening

far past passion,

it darkens further

into engulfing black

deep and deathly.

Old anger's white,

icy – chilling bone 

and freezing blood.

Cold fury stills

the heart, sharpens 

the vengeful brain.

Created for Friday Writings #12: Colour – or the Absence of Colour at Poets and Storytellers United.

In the Blackness

In the Blackness

Over the sea

night settles, breathes.

The vast dark,

womb-like, hushes.

Black rocks glisten.

I become other.

Invisibility calms me,

wraps me: soft

cloak / sheltering cavern –

paradoxically allowing nakedness.

My skin tingles,

more highly alive,

every cell awake, 

every follicle listening, 

deeply alert, thrumming.

Night is my

home, the sea

my mother, and

the merging sky

my safe blanket.

Yet sky and 

sea are also

doors, through which

I find light:

stars, deep crystals.



Sharing with Writers' Pantry #19 at Poets and Storytellers United.

Photo by Joakim Honkasalo on Unsplash

Living the Lie

Living the Lie

Holding myself upright,

tautly solid, silent,

refusing your gaze,

I stride away.

It’s better so,

although your grief

is so fierce

you feel destroyed.

Can’t look back

at your face —

shocked, aghast, bereft,

about to shatter.

I must convince,

with false bravado,

I never truly

cared for you.

You are my

sunshine, my only ...

No! Save it

for later, alone.

Then I’ll sing

all the songs,

cry the tears,

weep the words.

Your family awaits,

as mine does.

Our jobs await,

and our lives.

Let’s go, then,

and live them —

while backward glances 

dwindle, taper off.

If this is 

what it takes

to free you,

so be it.

Written for April 2020 Day 12 at ‘imaginary garden with real toads’, where we’re asked to write about loving someone who doesn’t know we do. I thought I'd give it a bit of a twist.