Tag Archives: writing

Poetry Corner – “If”

Posted by Denise on

“If”

Possibility crooks its manicured finger
To lure in the bereft and unsuspecting;
The grass on the other side beckons–
“Could be” trails the air like languid smoke
As it moves toward a future we yet know nothing of.

What to do when I am ensnared?
Beguiling are the daydreams of another life
That haunt me when I am completely alone.
There are many different paths to travel
Each with their own gilded allure.

Possibility is a magnificent hostess
Throwing out a bejeweled arm to the dazzling array.
Which one to choose? Like a child among treats
My imagination samples them all before deciding
Which one’s payment would not be hard to bear.

There are paths where I could lose my soul—
Yes, that expense would be far too dear;
But even worse is the route I could take
Where I stood idly by and did nothing at all.
Catastrophic that could be for you and me.

You wonder the reason behind my claim
Backed by that succulent two-lettered word.
Honestly, by now, I have reason to believe
That my future might not be the same
Without you.

Poetry Corner – “Secret”

Posted by Denise on

The idea for this website, as I have expressed before, came from urging from my ex–Mr. Nameless if you will. (If you couldn’t tell I have based a couple of characters off of him.)Earlier this year, I was trying to come up with content and this was one of the things I sent him. In hindsight, this one makes me a little ill–it seems so saccharine. No wonder he didn’t say anything; I guess he didn’t want to hurt my feelings… 😉

________

“Secret”

I hold you in my palm, fingers closed over—
When everyone is gone I hazard a quick peek.
In corners I delight in the memory of you,
Holding it close when I cannot sleep at night.

To tell the world—the ease is elementary!
But this thrill has too much allure,
And not everyone is worthy to partake
In the knowledge of something so rare.

What induces that smile? The gleam that hints
At a hidden treasure buried in the depths.
“She looks as if she’s gotten lucky,” they say,
And if they knew, they’d know—I have.

Sunday Snippet – Superhero (Mark and Abby)

Posted by Denise on

Four years ago, around the time Alias entered my life (bringing Michael Vartan and Jennifer Garner in as well :D), I started making plans to write this story called Superhero. The tale centered around Mark Perry, a detective who loses his wife at the beginning to a tragic car accident, and Zora, the little girl he meets while in the hospital. At the end of his stay, he decides to take Zora in until her parents are found or someone adopts her. He eventually adopts her himself. Several years after Abby dies, Mark takes on an investigation that leads back to his and Zora’s pasts.

Maybe someday I will pick it back up–or integrate it into my other works.

Michael Vartan for Mark Perry! Tee hee.

________

He knew that he loved her from the moment he’d laid eyes on her.

He had been in uniform then, fresh out of the academy, working his way up through the ranks. This stint in the throes of the Traffic division was temporary and thankfully so; he was bored stiff with the prospect of signing speeding tickets for the rest of his life. He knew, much like most of his fellow graduates from the academy, that Homicide or  Vice were more coveted than Traffic. He planned to make his reputation in Homicide, and usually what Mark Jameson Perry set out to do, he accomplished.

But that day, he was thankful that he had the chance to cross her path.

It was a hazy, hot day, the sort of day that bred madness and mischief. Already he had stopped several reckless joyriders who thought that the weather was ample reason to speed through posted speed limits, and most of them were barely legal.

It was around two p.m. when a red Porsche Boxster came breezing past him going ninety in a seventy-mile-an-hour zone. He rolled his eyes, trying to squash his exasperation. After glancing behind him to make sure that no one was on the road behind him, he zoomed back out onto the highway with his lights flashing and his siren blasting.

Other drivers obediently moved out of his way as the Boxster wove itself through the light traffic so it wasn’t long before he’d caught up with the bullet on wheels. From his vantage point, he could ascertain that the driver was male, and he was accompanied by a dark-haired female. A dark-haired female it seemed, from here, who was quite exasperated with his love for speed. She glanced behind them and saw Mark following. She shoved him and made him swerve. Luckily there was no one around them except for the police cruiser so it caused no damage.

When the Boxster was safely on the side of the road, Mark pulled up a couple of yards behind it and cut his own engine. He got out of the car with his ticket-writing pad securely in his pocket.

The driver of the cherry-red Porsche was a young man who didn’t look any older than seventeen. His long hair was a dark blond, and his jeans were designer. There was a bit of an insolent twinkle in his blue eyes that put Mark’s hackles up.

He opened his mouth to speak, but then his eyes shifted upward. And found her.

She had curly dark-brown hair pulled back from her pale, heart-shaped face. Her full mouth was painted a rosy shade of crimson underneath an aristocratic, up-turned nose. Her slate-green eyes were apologetic as she stared at him anxiously. Unlike her male counterpart, which seemed to be a close relative after a further look, she was contrite and afraid of his presence.

“Is there a problem, Officer?”

The disrespectful voice broke through his reverie. His eyes drifted back to the pair of blue eyes staring impertinently at him. “Yes, there is a problem. Can I see your driver’s license, registration, and proof of insurance, please?”

Saying nothing, the guy leaned over and opened the glove compartment. He pulled out the required documents as the woman grabbed his wallet and pulled out his driver’s license. He rolled his eyes and took it and then handed it to Mark. The name on the ID was Eric William Rowan. The address that was listed indicated that he was of the platinum card set, and Mark’s estimation of him was right: he was sixteen years old. The Eric in the photograph was smirking just like the live one was now. It seemed that insolence was a chronic character trait.

“Eric Rowan?” Mark inquired.

“The one and only,” Eric quipped. “I think you can tell from that picture that it’s me.”

The woman sighed heavily in exasperation. “Eric…”

“Relax, Abby,” the guy named Eric said in a low, conspiratorial tone. “I’ve got this.” He turned to Mark with an arrogant sort of contrition. “Listen, uh…”—he paused to make a big show of reading Mark’s name tag—“Officer Perry. I’m real sorry about all this. It’s all a misunderstanding, I’m sure. I hope we can clear this up quickly.”

Mark merely blinked at the young man with flat green eyes for a moment before finishing the ticket. “You were going ninety miles an hour in a seventy-mile-an-hour zone. I hardly see how this could be misconstrued. You have eyes. You have perfect reasoning, though you act like you don’t because you’re too young to think about your mortality. The signs are posted for your security and others.” He tore some sheets from the pad, gave one to Eric along with his driver’s license and proof of insurance on the Porsche. “Have a nice day, Mr. Rowan.” He flicked a glance at Abby, hoping that he would look at her for as long as courtesy would allow before walking away. But his eyes would not move from hers for what seemed like the longest instant…

“Thank you, Officer Perry,” Abby said in a gentle tone, breaking the hold that she had on him.

He gave a slight nod as Eric rolled his eyes. “Good day, Miss. Rowan.” He turned and walked away, having no clue what had just happened and how it would change the rest of his life.

* * *

They met again three years later, but this time, it was in a more formal setting. He had learned a great deal about Abigail Rowan since that first meeting, and every morsel of information was as succulent as a finely cooked meal. His job gave him access to databases of information, but he mostly relied on information he got from articles written about Abigail and her family.

Abigail was the oldest child in her family. She had two fraternal twin brothers, Eric and Ethan, who were as different as black and white; Ethan was the intense, serious one whom everyone assumed would follow in Father Rowan’s footsteps, and Eric, even though he was the older of the pair, was the reckless one, always disappointing his father and causing trouble. Their parents, Robert and Katharine, had been married for nearly a quarter of a century; while her husband conquered in the political arena, Katharine Rowan spearheaded various campaigns for the rights and welfare of women and children, shown pictured on stone steps looking rather radical for a woman of her stature. It was rumored in gossip columns that Robert disapproved of his wife’s work, deeming it extremist and unnecessary. But Katharine, who had grown up on the opposite end of the spectrum from where she now resided, figured it was her right as a human being to help those less fortunate—those words exactly became a sound byte within mere minutes speaking them.

It was a cold night in February when they crossed paths once again. He’d donned a tuxedo for a charity event he was sent to provide security for as a favor for a good friend. Aside from working in the bullpen at work and going out with drinks with the guys after work every now and again, Mark’s life was filled with a jumble of time-passing activities. He was complacent, but not completely happy. There was a big difference. He could feel it every time he found himself on a date with another stand-in for the woman he felt was his soul mate. Still he went on and put it aside to act out his life, which was not all that bad.

Mark stood at the door, watching the guests as they walked in. Oscar Willis, one of Mark’s good friends and a fellow cop, occupied his post beside him, appraising the banquet’s guests with a bit of speculation in his dark brown eyes.

“Quite the party, isn’t it man?” Oscar asked in a conversational tone. “I heard they had Martha Stewart cater.”

“I remember you,” Abigail remarked, tilting her head a fraction. “You gave my brother a ticket three years ago.” Her chin lifted and a strange light came into her hazel-green eyes. “So have you sought me out to give me one?”

Mark looked startled. “Of course not, Miss Rowan! I…”

It was then that Abigail began laughing, the glorious sound flowing over him like sweet music. He realized that she had been merely joking and that she really didn’t think he’d come there to give her a speeding ticket. Feeling sheepish, Mark chuckled nervously along with her.

“I was merely jesting, Officer Perry,” Abigail assured him. “I’m sure you have your reasons for being here, just as everyone else does.”

Noticing something in her tone, Mark countered, “Do you have a reason to be here?”

It was Abigail’s turn to be startled, which intrigued Mark but she recovered quickly. “Whatever do you mean, Officer Perry? I have plenty of reason to be here. I am a part of the Rowan family and I must be here to back my father. We are a unit and it is important that we appear as such.”

The way she said it, the very deliberateness of it, was practiced. She had prepared the statement in front of a mirror, with her father’s approval. She was Daddy’s Little Girl, outfitted with expensive threads and clever phrases. The articles and the papers never hinted at this, never gave a clue that Abigail was the kind of woman that Robert Rowan wanted to be by his side—slightly different than the woman he’d married. Or perhaps her had been so smitten that he’d overlooked it. But now that he knew, it gave the glided image of the woman with whom he was secretly in love a bit of dullness. It was a scratch, an imperfection.

“That’s justified,” Mark commented, “and very admirable of you all, but what if you didn’t want to be here?”

Something in her eyes flickered as it had before, but she was one for a quick recovery. “It is not a question of desire, Officer Perry.” Her tone was slightly imperious now. “Giving in to desires is reckless. I have an obligation to my father to be here, and I am fulfilling it. It doesn’t matter what it is that I want otherwise.”

“So there isn’t something you’d rather be doing tonight? Hanging out with friends? Curling up on the couch with a book?”

“Those things, while nice, are a waste of time for me,” Abigail insisted. “I have no time to spend doing idle things. Every action I take has to take be a step forward. I am grieved to understand that you do not feel the same, Officer Perry.”

Mark, ignoring the scene around them and the implications, stepped closer to her. She drew up as if to make herself seem taller, and it didn’t serve to intimidate him. It, however, made them diametrically opposed.

“What has that man done to you?” Mark demanded in a low tone, watching her cheeks flame. “Have you no mind of your own?”

“I do have a mind of my own, Mister Perry!” Abigail cried angrily, her Mister as acrid as sulfur. “I choose to support my father in what he does, and I’m sorry if you think that is wrong.”

“It’s not wrong. That’s not what I’m saying. Giving support to a family member is not wrong by any means. But your heart has to be in it. You have to want to do it as much as you want to do something you like, not treat it as if it were a dental exam.”

“How dare you assume…? My heart is in it!”

Mark appraised her with the tough, observant eyes of a cop for a long-enough moment to make her fidget. She had looked more alive in the last few moments than she had all night long, her pale cheeks tinged with rosiness and her green eyes filled with fire, and she had the nerve to lie and say that her heart was in this façade?

“I don’t think so, Miss Rowan,” Mark disagreed, sidestepping her and walking away. With her lips pursed, she just glared at him and said nothing, but it seemed that her glare was tinged with a bit of humiliation. “Good night,” he added, as an afterthought over his shoulder.

* * *

Dear Mark,

I have given what you and I discussed the other evening a lot of thought. It is not every day that I cross someone that makes me question what I am and with what I have surrounded myself, and I have to admit that my anger came from my misapprehension. If there is one thing that I hate, it is to be told I’m wrong about something. I get that from my mother, I suppose. Anyhow, I offer you an apology because I feel that you have no cause to be ridiculed for your knack for questioning (something I think will serve you well in your occupation) and my anger was misdirected. You just happened to be there when it erupted, an unwitting trigger, perhaps, which was rather unfortunate.

I hope I have not alienated you and lost your companionship. That is what you wanted, isn’t it?

Sincerely,
Abigail J. Rowan

Mark looked at the note in wonder as the others looked at him with interest. The last line echoed in his head, sounding more sassy and shrewd than it had come off at first glance. That is what you wanted, isn’t it?

Had he been that transparent? Oh he could just kick himself.

Poetry Corner – “Midnight Moon”

Posted by Denise on

“Midnight Moon”

To the eldest, the middle, and the youngest,
The hothead and the blockhead battling incessantly;
To the dancer, the dreamer, and Mr. Urbane,
The Chameleon, the dove, and the hummingbird;
To the one we lost too soon at unknown hands,
The Mama, the Aunt, and the Predecessor;
And to even you lingering in the shadows like Yoda to fix the end–

Welcome back.

Poetry Corner – “Unrest”

Posted by Denise on

Sometimes I shock myself how cynical I can be.

It’s October 17, 2011. My brother’s birthday is the following day, my little sister’s the day after that. My memory is fuzzy on this one, but my guess is that something had happened between myself and Mr. Nameless. (To clarify, so far there has been Mr. Shameless and Mr. Nameless. More to come when I get enough sleep to think of monikers. Tee hee.) I  tend to overthink things (of course) and I felt compelled to versalize (I know that’s not a word, but hey) my uneasiness for whatever reason. And then it flourished into something deeper, it seems. I am not sure.

I may extend this, so perhaps it’s more like a snippet right now?

________

“Unrest”

It’s the rumble in the jungle
It’s the plague in the lake
It’s the shock that makes your heart quake
It’s the lead on the evening news
That makes Mama head for the booze
Tear the mattress, dig up the jar
Chill hits no matter who you are

Here comes the unrest

Extra, extra—here’s the headline
While we’re gaping we’re losing time
The hole’s spreading before we prepare
The wrong man’s in the electric chair
And you’re worried about weave in your hair
At the barest sign of any ill
You’re calling the doctor for a refill

Here comes the unrest

The Woman in the Fire – “Avery” Part I

Posted by Denise on

As a writer, I go through phases during which one character is more appealing to me than another. At the moment, Danie holds a particular fascination for. She is one of my original characters and has changed form since I created her in 1994. (Can you blame me? I was only nine years old!) I posted about her on The Fall Girl a couple of months ago, listing reasons why I would love to be her for a day.

The Woman in the Fire is my chance to tell Danie’s story and to strengthen my writing–as is any opportunity.  I hope you all like her. She is going to be bullheaded, rash, witty, insolent, and beautifully bitchy.

_____

“Avery” 

The only thing she remembered after the Incident was waking up in a stinking alley amid jagged soup cans and her own blood seeping from a head wound.

It had been cold; the thin layer of cloth she’d worn—a back-closure hospital gown—barely trapped her body heat, and the concrete had usurped any heat that she managed to maintain. Her muscles quivered violently. The pain radiating from her middle had been so immense that her head swayed against the weight of near-oblivion. Her legs had not been strong enough to support her; she had earned more bumps and bruises for trying to stand. There had been no clues to identify her current location or how she could have gotten home. She had been powerless.

It had been a sorry state of affairs.

She hated shit like that.

So she simply forgot.

*              *              *

Life improved marginally after that. She found herself assimilated into a group destined to save the world because of her gift.

Gift? you ask.  Yes, our dubious heroine had an ability that had flared up like a bad rash during her life but turned out to be important. Imagine that. So burning down her big brother’s treehouse when she was six hadn’t been such an awful offense after all.

She had been taught to kick ass like by some chick who claimed to be a princess (she still didn’t quite believe it) and how to control her “power.” It had been sort of fun once you got past the hierarchy bullshit.

That is, until one of her group mates had been killed violently by an unknown assailant. The group had split faster than a strained butt seam. No one could trust anyone else. Since no one knew for sure who ended Sakura Tsukimori’s life, the possibility that one of them had done it could not be ruled out.

Bye, bye, superhero team. Hello, lone wolf.

*              *              *

“So you say you don’t remember what happened to you? That’s quite fascinating. I mean, it sounds almost impossible.”

Dammit. Not with this again.

It had been a little over two years after…the Incident. She was no longer the naïve seventeen-year-old left for dead in a Manhattan alley; no longer was she the fiery eighteen-year-old who had burned coifed rich boy Kaneshi Tsukimori. She was now a cynical, indolent nineteen—freshly so, as of one week ago—and matriculating at AudboneHeightsUniversity. She had no illusions about entering the workforce with corporate hopefuls and congregating around a water cooler. She merely lingered there to pass the time until she found something else to carry her to the end of her life.

It was the middle of the day, and she had one more class left: Contemporary Mathematics. She had been sitting in the StudentCenter with her Contemporary Mathematics book on her knee and a bottle of Mountain Dew in her hand under the guise of trying to study. In actuality, she was merely trying to pass the time in a cool place. She had given up trying to care about schoolwork. She had been approached by a classmate from her Psychology class. At first, the encounter seemed innocuous, but then he had ejaculated that statement into the air.

He didn’t know, the prying fucker, but the gloves were off.

There were not many things in this existence that bothered her. But this was on the list, along with fat-free sour cream and Britney Spears. Her past was forbidden ground, riddled with mines.  If he had been aware enough (and not blinded by his infatuation), he would have seen it practically screaming from her eyes. Verboten! Danger!

Inwardly frustrated, she three-pointed the empty Mountain Dew bottle into a nearby trash can. Perhaps those weeks at basketball camp during adolescence hadn’t been for naught. A tiny triumph.

She turned to her companion, eyes filled with feigned inquisitiveness. “What’s your name again?”

He flushed under her unwavering stare. “Rob—my name is Rob. We, uh, were in the study group during the section about Sigmund Freud and the tripartite model in Dr. Webster’s class. You know…”

“Yeah…right.” She recalled the experience as being mildly annoying, but her sociable cousin had wheedled her into it as she did most social interaction these days. Her lips curved at the edges. A hint of contrived mirth. Rob should’ve been petrified. “Can I ask you something?”

Excited by the opportunity an exchange with a beautiful, elusive girl, Rob sat down, leaning forward with apparent interest. “Oh yes, of course.”

“Do I look like the kind of person who would make up some soap opera-esque bullshit about being found in an alley with no memory of what had happened to me just to pique your asinine interest?”

Rob blinked, blindsided. In his fantasies, this was not the direction things took. “Wh-what?”

“I hardly have the time or patience to exchange pleasantries,” she went on, voice going flatter as she spoke, “or share with you a time in my life that obviously is no one’s business, especially yours. So if you are finished wasting my time…?”

His face contorted with disgust. “Excuse me for saying, but you are a cold-hearted bitch.”

As he rose indignantly, she settled back into her seat and nonchalantly delved into Contemporary Mathematics again. “Damn straight, Bob.”

“And it’s Rob,” he spat over his shoulder.

As he stalked off angrily, she snorted to herself. “Shame only one of us cares.”

“Daniella Elizabeth—”

Exasperation. She felt it coursing through her veins. At the sound of Jennifer Dunne’s mezzo-soprano voice, her cousin suppressed a growl, and Contemporary Mathematics slammed shut with a thud.

“Leave me alone, Jen,” Danie said. “I am not in the mood to be chided.”

The blonde rounded the chair and came to stand in front of Danie, brandishing a sketchbook and a text on fashion during the twentieth century. She was impeccably outfitted in a peasant top and jeans. Danie would have felt inferior in her drab T-shirt and cotton pants, but she had grown out of such behavior.

“You are not going to have any friends if you keep treating people this way,” Jennifer pointed out. “Rob was just trying to be nice.”

“Rob”—she uttered the name with as much venom as she could muster—“is a passive idiot who was attempting to find a way into my panties by feigning an interest in my sucktastic life.” Jennifer pursed her lips together, cornflower blue eyes troubled. “Trust me, I was saving him a world of discomfort.”

“I’m sure he is thanking you right now deep down inside.”

Danie shrugged at Jennifer’s ironic tone. “It’s what bitches do. We shoot people down and shake them from their illusions, which is helpful in any case. Shit, I practically deserve a medal. Is there a Nobel Prize for Bitchery?”

Jennifer shook her head and rubbed a temple as Danie rose to her feet and stuffed her text into her backpack. She strode away, and Jennifer rushed to match Danie’s ground-eating stride.

“The Delts are having a party tonight,” Jennifer informed her cousin as they exited the StudentCenter. The late summer day was bright and hot. September had not yet cooled in the slightest. Danie rolled her eyes as she shielded them from the onslaught of the light until they could adjust. “I think you should come with me. It’ll be fun.” She looped her arm with Danie’s when she didn’t say anything. “Much more fun than working at the bar.”

“As if,” Danie countered. “I’d rather hang out with the dubious characters at the Rusty Elbow more than the puke-worthy sorority crowd.”

“Hey!” Jennifer protested. “Those puke-worthy people are my friends.”

“Here’s a news flash, cous: you have horrible taste in friends.”

Jennifer gave Danie a little shove. “At least I have friends.”

“Ooh,” Danie retorted, “I feel so wounded. Jen, you’re so mean. Lemme go slit my wrists.”

Jennifer gave up on being appalled and couldn’t stifle her chuckle. “Dee—”

Danie stopped right in front of the Vincent Hall, also known as the Engineering building, which housed her next class. She placed her hands on the shorter girl’s shoulders and peered at her meaningfully.

“Look,” Danie began, “thank you for taking me on as your community service project. I am sure the general population appreciates your efforts and you will be practically up for sainthood for dealing with me. But no thanks. I am fine, Jennifer.”

A hint of a frown marred Jennifer’s pretty features, but Danie did not linger to reassure her. She learned that the best way to stop Jennifer’s mother-like fussiness was to become elusive. In other words, to run like hell in the other direction.

Danie understood Jennifer’s compulsion to look out for her wayward cousin; as the youngest in her family, Jennifer hadn’t had a chance to lavish her protectiveness upon anyone. (Samantha, headstrong and tomboyish, would have balked at that faster than you could say eye shadow. Samantha was the oldest. Couldn’t be any other way.) And Danie was well aware of the fact that Jennifer most likely reported to her family about her well-being—something she didn’t have the patience or caring to do herself.

So she had turned into your stereotypical solitary vagina with a chip on her shoulder. She daily considered the possibility of getting PMS Life tattooed on her back.

Was she justified? Hm. Let’s recap:

  1. Was left for dead in an alley at seventeen
  2. Started burning people (Wait, that was actually fun.)
  3. Earned the distrust of at least nine other people—but she didn’t trust them either—ha!
  4. Had to deal with irritants like Rob My-Name-Is-Not-Bob
  5. Maintained the status of a social pariah

Well, the jury was still out on that one.

As she walked through the halls of Vincent Hall, no one stopped her for a quick conversation before class. She wove through the crowd, her long strides moving her quickly across the floor. Danie came to the door of her classroom and waited along with the rest of her classmates to get inside. As she lingered in the crush, an itch broke out between her shoulder blades.

She remembered this feeling. Someone is staring at me.

With little finesse, she whirled around to look behind her. Before anything suspicious could catch her eye, she heard the grunt of the person behind her. Oops.

“Hey watch where you’re going!”

If she hadn’t been so embarrassed she would have given him a piece of her mind. But as it was, she was in the wrong and she knew it. She frowned, but thought nothing more of it. There was no reason for anyone to follow her. She didn’t mean anything here.

TBC

Poetry Corner – “Lover’s World”

Posted by Denise on

Walking through the mall, looking for a party dress this evening, this came to my mind. I think it’s sort of rough. It’s funny to me as an artistic person, that I find myself fashioning my thoughts into verse. I was told by someone that my poetry is more digestible than my prose. True?

_____

“Lover’s World”

Living in a lover’s world
Struggling in the chokehold
Affection remains on sale
Chocolate never fades or goes stale
I peek in windows for my perfect fit–
Will we ever be happy with what we get?
Cinderella’s chattering, telling tales
Scores of girls searching for phantom males
Sorry to reveal–Prince Charming is a trick!
But you can craft your fairytale any way you pick.

Poetry Corner – “Nameless”

Posted by Denise on

Sometimes the answers to our innermost answers come in verse.

I have not named this one yet.

_____

Silly you, silly me–
Back to this dance of circularity;
Which one wins the prize for stupidity?
I hear the call, Logic remains rooted in place
While Impulse gobbles up the space
Between us–Remember the bad! the Dark One warns–
Thrust in Bright I neglect the memory of scars.

Feet apart and you still lure
Me beside with desires sure;
We fall faster than we intend–
Why waste the effort to pretend?
I return to the crime and you let me in–
Mon ami, don’t wonder where to place
Me; better if you don’t cull out a space.

The stories say that this is hardly unusual
But I believe it bears more perusal;
On another day when I bear the armor
I will take you on and test your honor.
For now I savor your precious company
And attempt to beat the swerve,
Hoping to shock you, build up the nerve.

Sunday Snippet – “Dichotomy”

Posted by Denise on

I have been forever fascinated by the polarity of light and dark. The idea that dark rises came from a Laurell K. Hamilton novel–I want to say that it’s Blue Moon in which Anita Blake remarks to the reader that darkness rises from the trees. I cannot remember if that is the exact book, but I do recall it was one of Laurell K. Hamilton’s. I was sitting around this morning, trying to kill some time before I had to run some errands (since most places open late on Sundays), and scribbling in my notebook.

I hope to someday come back to this poem. Maybe you’ll see it finished 🙂

_____

“Dichotomy”

Darkness rises, Mama says
From someplace she read;
Thick as thieves in shrubbery
Are the malicious, and saints
Dare not cross where shadows begin.

Light falls, the heralds warn
Yelling from the time we’re born
Slight in constitution the ones of bright–
Don’t they have a backbone upright?
In shade they need to be shrouded to preserve hue. 

Poetry Corner – “Little Hands”

Posted by Denise on

On September 7, 2009, a little person came into my life, and even though I did not birth her, I am amazed by her all the same continuously. She possesses beauty and brains and brawn–and she knows it. Her sassiness exasperates me…until her sweetness bowls me over. To watch her flourish has been a blessing that I wish everyone could experience. I don’t see her as much as I used to several months ago, but I attempt to see her often. A precious thing it is to have little hands that love you.

_____

“Little Hands”

Little hands reach up to me
Eyes glittering like starshine
How can I deny this lullaby?
Grew from fetus to fearless before my gaze
Amazed am I these current days
The wondrous things I hear you say!
The world through your sight
I can only imagine what that’s like
But I’ll have you in mine a long time.