There’s A Man

There’s a man at my door.
He’s not moving anymore.
He just stares,
Icy blue and brown,
Through the concrete
At me.

There’s a man at my window.
He’s not breathing anymore.
He just taps,
Clicky clack and double rap,
Through the pane
To me.

There’s a man in my room.
He’s here with me.
He just stands,
Staring and stroking my cheek,
Through my skin,
Bleeding me.


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5&6/365 – Slacka

Not only did I skip yesterday, day 5 for those keeping up, but today you don’t even get a recent image! But I’ll share 2 to make up for being a slacka only a few days in.

I have a major case of wanderlust and I haven’t gotten to satisfy it nearly enough lately. What about you guys?

These are busts in the museum on Delos, a Greek island and world heritage site. Taken with my Canon T2i and … probably just the standard lens.

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And this is a gondola in the canal in Venice, Italy. Also taken with my Canon.

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Funnel Clouds and Silence

Word dump writing attempt, prompt – WordPress Daily Prompt – Funnel

Music of choice: Artist – Balmorhea – no specific song or album, just listening to them on Spotify.

Funnel.

Funnel clouds.

I’m from tornado country.

When I was growing up it would rain all winter, cold shocking rain that pierced your skin when it hit. When spring came the rain didn’t stop, it just warmed up but brought with it heavy downpours and storms.

Try explaining tornado sirens aka repurposed air raid sirens to people who have never had to worry about them before.

Or why the yellow sky sets me on edge.

But the purpling blue cloud of a man descending on our skyline doesn’t.

People seem to forget how quiet it is …

Right before the storm.

That’s not a saying just because, it’s true.

The birds know.

Beasts know.

When that funnel hits the ground …

They’ve been telling you.

It’s the same with all disasters, earthquakes …

Almost with human made ones too.

Heartbreak.

The silence almost always precedes it.

Hits to the gut, the legs, the back …

There was always unimaginable noise

Yelling, screaming …

Then silence.

Or at least a call for it, “shut up!”

The universe begs us to be quiet.

Listen.

There will be plenty of noise when that funnel cloud hits the ground.

It sounds like a freight train, rumbling everything around.

Walls start crumbling …

When I was in school they pretended that having us sit in the hall with our heads covered and our asses in the air would protect us.

It’s ironic that it’s almost the same position you end up in when life’s noise becomes too much.

On the ground.

Hands over your head.

After all, your most precious commodity is your brain.

You can break your spine,

Lose your legs,

Never walk again.

But as long as you can still think,

As long as you can still reach for that silence.

Understand.

My 10 minutes are up.


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Numbered Days 4/365

My heart could be filled

But truth be told …

My days are numbered here.

This disease is terminal.

The doctors don’t know what to do.

“Well,” he says as he raps spindly hands

“You can’t stay forever in the land of the damned.”

Indeed Father Time.

It appears I’ve been diagnosed with life.

I can’t stop my feet from wandering

Or my mind from pandering

The sweet effects of a sunset over the sea.

I suddenly, it seems, have things

I need to be

Rather than this old burnt out bag of flesh

And crumbling calcium deposits collected for me.

So tell me dear, tell me love

You know our days are numbered here …

3/365

When I was in high school I lived for the Sunday comics. I would grab them and get to cutting much to my mom’s disdain. “But your father hasn’t read the paper yet!” The sports were on the other side and he didn’t watch or care about sports but my chopping the comics out before he had a chance to claim the whole paper as his pissed him off.

I hung them up on an old chest in my room.

He’d occasionally rip them down.

It was a fun dance.

When I moved out years ago the old chest I had most of them hung on was promptly hauled into the attic. Over the years most of the comics have worn away but this one I saved.

What Secrets This Lake Keeps

What secrets this lake keeps
When the dark nights rain
And it’s just humid enough
For the lake to stain
With the ghost of clouds
That couldn’t quite take flight.
There’s a story here
Only unfolding in those nights.
Billy lives in that mansion across the way.
Him, his mistress and a perfect family.
He shines the spotlight over the lake
When the fogs settle in thick.
Billy claims it’s for the speedsters,
Whipping in and out,
Keeps them quick.
But I know the truth,
Of Billy and the lake
And the girl he vowed to take
As his first, his wife.
His heart and soul she was.
Until one day sweet Billy found her
Facedown in the red mud;
Gunshot wounds
To the back and head.
The gun was his
And sweet Billy was no saint.
Scared, he hid
Her body at the bottom of the lake.
Now he shines his spotlight,
When the fogs coat the waters thick
To keep the specter of his love
From spilling his secrets like oil slicks.


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Songs of the Lonely

“The lunatic is on the grass …”

Picture and a poem, what a treat neither have anything to do with actual treats though.

Picture day 2 of 365 is here.

Songs of the lonely
Coming through.
Tears on parade
With mascara running down their face.
Hands shoved into pockets,
Coats turned up to the wind,
As the band marches by
With armies of aching hearts
At their side.
Well look at us now,
What have we done?
Spinning, spinning,
The band marches on.
Brass and bracket,
Drum corp beats,
Perfect harmonies
For songs of the lonely,
Passing each other in the street.


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