I'm just an image in a sepia photograph.
I look at you with doleful eyes. You'll never hear me laugh.
I'm a piece of paper, brittle and crinkled,
just like the old man you once saw, wrinkled -
a man now gone, who exists no more.
He's left the world. Put me back in the drawer.
The final, phosphorescent
water slows,
To weave a microscopic lace
of white,
A meditative riverbed that
flows
Beneath the omnipresent
stars of night.
The tide returns to where it
first began,
To heal the jagged, deeply
broken floor,
To wipe away the enormous
life of men
And soften the crinkled
of the ocean.
It is a perpetual, primordial
design,
An everlasting victory over
death,
Traced softly by a entwining
line.
The wave dissolves inside the
open sea,
A brief snapshot of pure
infinity.
He spoke of angels and demons,
Obsessed with supernatural beings and terrors.
In hopes to discover their wings and horns,
To know why angels have light,
and demons embody the dark.
Blinded by the urge to claim an angel's glorious heart,
He neglected the living and breathing,
And yearned for the warriors of heaven & protectors of hell.
I bared my divine soul—take it all, I told him.
His eyes crinkled in disgust.
My soul looked damaged, not fit for an angel,
And too clean for a demon.
He claimed I was neither,
He aimed for the soul of either.
My back, bruised from the weight of broken wings, ached.
My scalp, still sore from silver strands torn away, burned.
My eyes, now black and blue, leaked of tears—
They used to be gold.
The stranger dismissed me,
Off to enchant an angel, to steal their soul.
Why search for it, when I offer you mine for free?
autumns crinkled leaves
winters harsh touch on landscape
dried vegetation
fig tree stood sturdy in backyard
moon cried, sighed, shone nevertheless
lilies splendid we picked some sweet
breathing nature's savoury lore
rain showers continued soaking
we donned our brown velvet jackets
feet safe in crinkled leather boots
henceforth wrinkled folds golden holds ~
gold burnishes our folds henceforth
feet nails dissipate in ether
velvet frays to shreds in clouds bled
skin flakes in soft spring rain showers
breath continues octagonal
blooms tightly curled, first lily shy
moon fully undressed brings fresh corn
sighs ripple surface of fig drinks ~
A wet crinkled brown leaf skimmed my face,
when absorbing the mild milieu ahead,
this peep of day random leisurely,
meander amidst the stunning wild life,
mirror to olympic onset of proud,
major town and its spirited clan,
in an inkling a cascade of hue tinged,
thoughts, reflections, insights, life questions,
swirled in a bright lustrous swathe profound,
inside this brain of mine attuned to spheres,
I commenced to ponder on matters,
meaningful, mystic, mind enhancing,
cheerful cyclist with heartfelt greeting,
jogger in deep breathe whose sudden halt,
despite his schedule to engage with,
me, this being they scarcely even knew,
fixed a slot for sound red ruby witness,
warm shepherd folk smile whilst their kin gaze at,
bees, butterflies, songbirds, cute insects,
children have this innate facial expression,
as adults do when reflecting quietly,
fountain sprinkle of hum and haw linger,
countryside in blue sky urban realm,
that sunshine ray to my blissful muse
Falling eggs, loopy candy canes, spirals.
I have enough for Valentine’s Day, sometimes.
Lost doorknobs, crinkled bathroom floor mats.
Valentine’s Day is slurping up water by the wet floor sign.
Until you don’t need a sign like that anymore.
Sticks laid down like words.
Bubbling like my age, and time.
Sandpaper.
Valentine’s Day is a waffle fry cut up into fourths.
Shower come to life.
Valentine’s Day has a message for me.
To eat chocolate quietly.
To wish upon a pile of slime.
And blow up a balloon right this time.
I have a message for us all.
To enjoy the randomness that began to call.
Valentine’s Day pressures us every year.
But really it’s just February’s tear.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The envelope’s edges are crinkled and battered,
like a leaf forgotten underfoot~
its seal remains tight, unbroken.
Inside, the ink bleeds into hesitant rivers,
words dissolving into what might have been
I miss you or come home.
The postmark? Just a blur now~
could’ve been spring,
could’ve been some random Tuesday.
That’s when it slipped out of sight,
getting tangled up in someone else’s story.
Now it hides in a drawer
tucked away with other unused things:
a ticket stub to nowhere,
a key that fits no lock,
and the quiet weight
of all the words
that never left one's throat.
What is a letter
but a breath trapped in paper?
What is silence
but the echo of a name
no longer said aloud.
The envelope waits.
The words wait.
And the hand that might have opened it
is dust.
Good Old Grandpa
My grandpa,
is as round shouldered as a question mark
and he is led about all day
by his wobbly walking stick,
with teeth that aren’t real,
hidden behind a moustache that is
while his memories simmer warmly
inside his crinkled paper bag of a face.
My grandpa,
old and worn on the outside
but sparky and fresh on the in.
For he often,
shakes my hand with fifty pence pieces,
makes sweets pop out from behind his ears
then smokes all like a train
and laughs like one as well.
My grandpa,
Plays jokes on my mother
to freshen her face with a smile
then tells me stories which electrify my brain.
But best of all,
when my dad loses his temper,
Gandpa just tells him
to sit down and behave himself.
Good old grandpa!
Embedded and dormant,
they neither wake nor sleep
but defer and endure
until a sun-seeded air
percolates in countless
humming sepulchral lungs.
There is a foretelling,
an imminent rustle of shoveling wings -
the soil erupts,
whirlwinds swarm tree and leaf.
Now begins the cacophony,
the drumbeat of innate necessity.
Wing plates thrum
against chitinous abdomens,
a fretsaw orchestra hollows out
cavities for creation.
Grasping obsessions
become strangleholds of insemination,
then unto death do they pour.
We who sweep away or step upon
their stiffly crinkled corpses,
to our numbed ears comes a solace
as the raucous interlude abruptly ends,
nor do most keep account of the years,
until the next pronouncement
of yet another reincarnation blares forth.
Such a tiny body
With her crinkled brown dress
Too fidgety to hold
Adults wanting so much less
....presence
Men, relatives
Eager to play their games
Tickling areas with strength
While secrets held their names
...steady
Words slipped out
Hands gathered around the throat
Blocking breath of life
Choking primitive notes
...still
Buried deep in the hips
Years of pain stuck in bone
He came to heal
The compulsion of alone
...Prince of Peace
Written by Trudy Schrader on 01-05-2025
A hot white moon
Against a wickered black
Ignites a gnarled ridge
A cold metal breeze
To strip the trees of summer sleeves
And paint a trace of crinkled red
In darkened hollers
And dried creek bends
And burrows tucked tight
The night rustles news
On punctuated cue
That winter shall be here soon
Your Word, O Lord, is loveliness.
Thus it is fitting that your Gospels
are clad in shining gold and silver
Made to gleam and impress and remind us
that your living wisdom is a treasure beyond all else.
Yet - fair and proper as it is -
I think of the humble, well-worn
simple and plain Bible of a saint
Tattered cover and crinkled pages
Borne through sweltering jungles
Stained by rain and sea and sun
And my heart burns at its beauty.
And even lovelier still is that
which I cannot see -
Your holy Word known so well by your saint
Imprinted upon their very heart.
2025-10-26
written ~1:50 PM
my parents were comedians
Dad’s sense of humor was overt
over the top, he flat out laughed like a crow
his eyes crinkled like Santa’s
Mother’s sarcastic wit was undeniable
her delivery was spot on
her quips were sharply honed
before they left her mouth
we kids had no chance of not being witty
She said she would break my heart, not knowing that those who had come before her had left only a swept-up pile of shards. I told her she was welcome to whatever leftover bits she desired. She smiled and crinkled her nose and called me silly. But when she left, she took the pieces she wanted most - to collect in her drawer, perhaps someday to become part of a mosaic hung in the sunlight streaming through her window - and left the rest behind. Still, that's the beauty of a heart that's been broken - there are so many pieces, I can't possibly live long enough to ever give them all away.
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