Missing Words

Continuation of Choice Words.

Ms. Millward was already precariously balanced on a chair when the charm above the front door jingled merrily. She grasped at the bookshelf beside her, swaying slightly. Now, who could that be, at this time of night? She thought, glancing up at the stubborn ink spot on the ceiling. It would have to wait, she supposed.

Carefully, she climbed down. She felt no rush. This library had a lot of tricks up its sleeves – or between its shelves, she mused – and she wasn’t worried. That is, until she remembered that she had closed the library early that day, and was fairly sure she had locked the door.

“Why,” she muttered to herself, picking up her pace as she moved through the quiet library, “do these things always happen in threes?”

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Untitled 4

The light is changing,
the sky a different blue.
I sense spring coming.

I write of words and
weather, for they surround me,
and make up my world.

And I write to shield
myself, my soul, from feeling
too much, too deeply.

To write poems of
my pain and joy, of my hopes,
is too much to bear.

Is this cowardice,
to hide from the world, instead
of living in it?

Of this I know true:
there are changes in the air.
Maybe for me, too.

© The Lightning Tower, 2020

Midnight Whispers

I sometimes wonder
If all the world is a joke,
And we, the punchline.

–

Dark thoughts are easy,
During the midnight hours.
Dreams seem far away.

–

I always find my
Conviction before bed, and
Lose it while I sleep.

–

I am my harshest
Critic in the space between
Wakefulness and sleep.

–

A thought passes me.
What is the point of it all?
To live? To love? Pain?

–

The moon rules the night,
Not outdone by her sister.
This is when she shines.

–

The past rushes to
Meet me as I close my eyes,
To be lived again.

–

I practices speeches
In the dark, knowing they will
Never see the light.

–

These words keep going
Round and round, through my tired
Mind – rest eludes me.

© The Lightning Tower, 2020

When the Past Comes Knocking

Olivia slid into the booth with a sigh.

“Bad day?” her cousin, Frieda, asked, look up from the menu.

“I finally quit my job,” Olivia said, with her head tilted back against the booth, eyes closed.

“Congrats!” Frieda said, putting down the menu. “You’ve been miserable for months. Now you can do something you actually want to do.”

“Yeah,” Olivia said, not moving, “but I don’t know what that is.”

“You’ll figure it out,” Frieda said, picking the menu back up. “You always do.” She grinned, “I do want to be there when you tell Grandma, though.”

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Lost

I am lost in my head,
But I write about the world.
I write of smells and textures,
Of expressions and intentions.
I write of hands trailing over rough bark,
Of hair brushing across faces.
I write of the brisk night air,
And how it makes me feel.

My mind does not rest,
Getting caught up in what-if,
What-was, and what-will.
I hide away from the feeling world,
A method of self-preservation.
I sometimes miss the world outside.
But the beauty can be painful,
When you feel as much as I.

I write of other people and other places,
But I wonder,
How much do I write of me?
Am I in the whispering breeze,
The tinkling rain,
The darkness of my words and the light?
I pull my mind away from the world,
And put it back within my words.

© The Lightning Tower, 2020

Differing Opinions

“I. Hate. Laundry.” Patience grunted as she heaved an armful of wet clothes from the washing machine, and lugged them to the dryers. “Who has time for this? All the time? For the rest of our lives?”

“Patience, I will never get over the fact that you are the least patient person I know,” Margaret grinned over the pile of clean clothes she was folding.

“Yeah,” Patience said with a dramatic sigh. “My mom has regretted naming me that since forever. She says she was hoping I would be more patient than she is, but that I took it as a challenge, and she should have known better.”

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Fragments

What is poetry?
Why, the work of a poet.

But what is a poet?
One who creates poetry.

Then all can be poetry?
Yes.

–

Sometimes I do not feel like a writer.

These words don’t come from me,
They come through me.

I am a conduit for something else.
I am merely hands
And intention.

© The Lightning Tower, 2020

Icebreakers

Vivian popped a dark berry in her mouth, closing her eyes. “Don’t you just love blackberries?”

“I tend to prefer strawberries,” Austin replied, glancing at the plate stacked high with fruit on the table between them.

“Yes, strawberries are good as well,” Vivian said, selecting another blackberry from the pile, “but there is something about the mix of tart and sweet, in the subtle flavor, of a blackberry that just speaks to me.” She chuckled. “I guess that sounds weird, huh?”

“Not really,” Austin shrugged. “It means you are in touch with the world around you, I think.”

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Make It Hurt

“Let go of me!”

“Liam, wait, wait!” Becka panted, trying to hold her brother back.

“I’m going to tear him limb from limb,” Liam grunted, his eyes never leaving the smug smile mocking them from the television. “I am going to go out there right now, and hunt him down, and I swear to god, Becka, I’m gonna kill him.”

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