You don’t have
to write them all
but thoughts
deserve a chance
To live beyond
this time and place
in words reborn
to dance
You don’t have
to set them free
but guilt
will curse your ink
For thoughts unread
trapped in your head
to wander
— indistinct
(The New Room: July, 2025)
The chimp stretches its arm,
a small hand, palm up under my chin,
fingers and thumb supple,
a pink-pawed sharing.
It’s a palmistry offering,
if only I had the skill to read it.
There is a lifeline.
It looks a lot like mine
if my hand were his.
I see a heart-line,
it seems open and flowing
as if this ape were following
another meaning of ‘heart.’
The handler moves on.
I check my own palm,
note the similarities, even see
an indistinct squeezed crease,
where the heart line bifurcates.
A sign, but of what?
And why does my hand
look like an old map of the moon,
while his looks like the hand
of a poet?
I miss you now, miss the scent of your perfume smeared all over my body, just after hugging you tight, feeling our heart signals jamming frequencies around us, miss the melting moisture your hands catches whenever I caress you fingers, I miss the slowly dying feeling of my spine when you sooths your silky soft fingers on my back, miss you now,
I miss the raging flames running in my body streams, whenever you lay your seductive libs on my neck, I mean, the drying marros in my bones, the flashing blank spots in my brain, miss the velocity of my pulse, racing so fast, distributing shivers all over my body, miss you now,
I miss the sound of your voice, as you whisper indistinct words of love in my left ear, I mean, the vibrations in your tone, as they forge their ways into my eardrums, I could sense my body ports, shutting one after the other, miss the pure reflection of me whenever you open your eyes, trapped inside those beautiful eyes, miss the warmth in your laughter, whenever I crack jokes with you, MISS YOU
I sweep the kitchen again.
The crumbs are back.
I sweep the kitchen again.
At midnight, I hear indistinct noises.
That I only recognize as pizza crust sounds.
The crust sings a song.
Singing about how pepperoni is so overrated.
Crust is delicious! Delicious! Delicious!
I think it’s just the psychosis kicking in.
I don’t want him to win.
This crust made of hardened dough.
He survived the oven, that I know.
But being thrown away?
After being burnt all day?
No way!
I still hear crumbs.
I wasted another day.
Sweeping.
Maybe next time…
I'll eat the crust too.
Forget the mozzarella, or the cheddar.
I am something better!
I am more than the final bite.
I am the one that gives smiles of delight.
Eat me, or else I’ll disturb your sleep.
Around your house, I will creep.
Eat me, or else…
I sweep the kitchen one more time.
It’s an optical illusion
Has my brain had a contusion
I look on in rapt confusion
It’s a trick of the night
There’s a shadow in the doorway
Coming my way going your way
It’s as slippery as a moray
It’s a trick of the night
It’s shape is vague; it’s indistinct
I didn’t see from where it slinked
Would it vanish if I blinked
It’s a trick of the night
Dogs don’t pass, they turn and run
Like they’re seeking out the sun
Even rats avoid the fun
It’s a trick of the night
Dust and dirt rise in the street
At the tread of unseen feet
Something I care not to meet
It’s a trick of the night
There’s a creaking on my stairs
On my neck are prickling hairs
But she caught me unawares
It’s a trick of the night
There’s a beauty standing there
With a shimmer in her hair
Not a stitch of underwear
It’s a trick of the night
Manly acts I’ve quickly planned
But I do not understand
Is the dagger in her hand
Just a trick of the night
The atramentous night was without light.
Terror pursued the frightened running man.
And got closer the harder that he ran.
He screamed his fear into the Stygian night.
The dark was broken by something blacker.
At first indistinct but was growing near.
The man was running in obvious fear.
He fled as from an unseen attacker.
In panic he turned to impose a ban.
The shapeless pursuer stopped and congealed.
As it did its frightful face was revealed.
He found that it was from himself he ran.
Cold and running out of light,
a winter's afternoon seems
to gather the last few things
to put on view -
clouds hurrying across the sky
with shapes that suggest a face
or a butterfly
and hanging just above
the rooftops, the pale outline
of a daylight moon.
And the mood
of a late afternoon settles here too
in the long shadows cast
by words across a page
through which the mind
passes, seeking out something
to attach to, the glow
of its own moon,
a flickering memory looking
for a breath
and ahead, lodged somewhere
in the coming dark, a small,
indistinct blur, closing in
towards a rendezvous.
Hands hovering above the sink.
The sound of blinds shuttering doesn’t make me blink.
The mirror catches all.
A shining chasm on the wall.
Across the threshold, into the sound.
Sounds indistinct so I don’t turn around.
I could have crashed, but still I don’t blink.
Next thing you know, it’s the kitchen sink.
Hands in soapy water.
Water that slowly gets harsh and colder.
But I don’t feel anymore.
There could be nothing outside that door.
Although, I suppose, there’s probably grass and flowers.
But I’d rather sit inside for hours.
My hands are washed, the dishes are dry.
Nothing is real, so why even try?
asleep in a bloom
on the lake of pearl moonbeams
water lily dreams
green frog in black night
drifting in rock-a-bye dark
where stars make their mark
moonlight tiptoes soft
on cool petals of the pink
shadows indistinct
colors mourn for hours
at the lake of pearly dreams
observing black themes
TWILIGHT ZONE
Be wary, as it may be fool’s gold
A challenge to the normal reality
Nothing’s ever like it seems to be
No way back, so alone and cold
Off-centre, even just on the edge
Like balancing on a narrow ledge
A stranger story may now unfold
A background hum, so indistinct
The scene shifts as if one blinked
As if your soul is about to be sold
We are in an alternate dimension
Can you feel the building tension
Even one’s breath is now on hold
Wondering what may now emerge
Blood pumps as one feels a surge
An unlikely story that’s to be told
As from nothingness it has grown
We’re all now in the twilight zone
Years of lifetime thrown away,
I am encaged of bars I created myself.
The host and the hostage;
The prisoner and the prison.
They are all the same,
They are all me.
I have been here long enough
To have befriended the shadows,
Shadows that are almost indistinct
From the cold dark floor that I lie on.
My cries fade out through the bars
And the shadows swallow me, whole.
.
*poof*
that wuzn't cannabis
'twuz mine into the visible
*foop*
now you thought you seen me
nope
you don't
mine slips back unto the
indistinct
Yards
Jameson
Thuh bone
Mine lisp
'fore the midnight
gongz
PENUMBRA
A semi-hidden place
Out of the limelight
Hovering in shadow
And almost unseen
But still a dim copy
Sometimes cast large
And sometimes not
Its own shade of grey
Moving in synchrony
An indistinct identity
As if self-conscious
Yet knowing its role
To echo and follow
Like its black cousin
Faithful until it’s dark
COUNTENANCE
attention
to detail
with
the
passion
of
subtle
expression
the
stark
instinct
blurring
reality
in
the
indistinct
recognition
so
restrictive
demonstates
an identical
purpose
to
overwhelm
in
relief
A long-ago January, my love and I spent a month in France. We rented a quaint
apartment up a hill from the road near a lake. The view from the window included lovely mountain flowers and grass down a path to four bar cafes, alongside each other, with outside tables. The apartment window captivated me. I could watch the people, hear their laughter and indistinct voices. All four cafes were quite busy, especially at night, which surprised me, as there is only one small village to support them. I would pour a glass of Cabernet, sit back and watch while my love was busy writing. The scene was enchanting, as if lifted from a painting. The lights from the outside dining made reflections in the glass of the pastel doors and windows. The waiters would go in and out, carrying large trays, while the patrons would walk back and forth between cafes. Sometimes there would be a shout followed by laughter It was a happy scene I'll never forget.
The prose above is entirely fictional.
March 4, 2023
for "Four Cafes" Prose Contest
by Julia Ward
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