Dawn, a bed comes ashore,
dripping and fog laden.
Tuna sandwiches float
on foaming waves of nausea,
aqueous globs of salty oils,
surface. Punctured sea-dreams
float; flabby and flatulent.
The day paddles around aimlessly,
tides, rather than wait,
slosh about spongy ankles.
A rubber flipper mislaid
off the Normandy coast,
slipstreams through time,
one lost sand-encrusted flip-flop
bobs on by.
May have to snorkel longer
if there is any hope of seeing
the sun sink.
Eventually aquatic ghosts
depart for a younger past.
Back on the swaying deck
of a queasy reality
a fresh wind dries sheets.
Footprints in the sand
are spied through a fisheye lens.
A shipwrecked yesterday
is waving,
glad to be finally rescued.
The canvas waits beneath a tempered blade.
A pale silver knife, not forged for war, I wield.
I paint the silence that the wounds betrayed.
The sky lies torn in strokes of celeste shade,
each slash more raw, no truth left unrevealed—
the canvas waits beneath a tempered blade.
No brush can bruise the dark the way I’ve flayed
these hues loose, their former grace repealed.
I paint the silence that the wounds betrayed.
My muse—half shadow, half cascade—
emerges from each mark I will not shield.
The canvas waits beneath a tempered blade.
No line stays; no form can be obeyed.
I seek what's felt, not what can be concealed.
I paint the silence that the wounds betrayed.
She stares back now, the shape that art mislaid—
a scar turned sycamore across the field.
The canvas waits beneath a tempered blade.
I paint the silence that the wounds betrayed.
“You’re gonna lose that girl”, they sing:
the one who wears my diamond ring.
They ask me why I even date her -
she’s not a great communicator.
She got mislaid when out in Ronda,
until I bought the new transponder.
She’s unaware her room’s a cellar,
or that her name is Helen Keller.
There was a line crossed long ago
that showed me all I need to know .
Upon my journey boldly drawn
when boundaries were almost gone,
and midnight's inky crochet shawl
ripped my esteem on thinning pall,
with thorns of hate. , of might have been
the far off light that I had seen.
When lines trespass my space, to raid,
I'll guard borders which were mislaid
to stop pleasing each friend or kin;
though hatred harms real love within .
So I choose kindness quite sublime
in the name of my own graced time,
for warm embrace of empathy
tranforms hate to tranquility.
I woke up and forgot my password.
Everything seems back-assword.
It must be somewhere, but mislaid,
among a paper mountain, I'm afraid.
Something's really weird and strange.
Has my brain been rearranged?
As this odd feeling lingers,
I can't even feel my fingers,
and while my digits seem fat and numb,
they won't even oppose my thumb.
My vision's blurry and I feel weak.
When I open up my mouth to speak,
instead of meaningful words,
out flies butterflies and birds.
Even when I try to scream
like a kettle blowing steam,
there is not a single sound -
just a silence that's profound.
The sun looks more green than yellow,
and the ground is made of jello.
I'm not sure who I am.
Can you tell me my name?
I was someone when I went to bed.
Maybe, now I'm somebody else instead.
Am I gone? Will I be missed?
Or do I not even exist?
I wish I knew where I reside -
once again, "Password Denied".
Consider this an SOS.
Please send help to my address.
Where have they gone, the days of my life. All the days of the years of my life? Oceans of days lost in the past, unnoticed, unheeded, slipped from my grasp.
I recall with regret and some small despair and wish in my heart I had been more aware of time passing by and living my life.All the days of the years of my life.
Where are they now, the friends of my youth, the friends that I made in my youth? Shadows of friends, memory mislaid. Vibrant young memory, when did it fade?
I try to remember what I’ve left behind, the road I have travelled, and what I might find if I journey back through the days of my life to the days of the youth of my life.
Where did they go? Bright days of my life
All the days, of the years, of my life.
Young Heather found a feather
one day in some cold weather;
just there, right there, on the road
landed, where the wind had blowed.
“My wooly hat it’s plain and pink
I’ll put the feather in, I think.”
young Heather thought as she bent down;
"It’ll turn my hat into a crown."
A dove whose feather had mislaid,
observed from window, as this maid,
with feather, turned from awkward girl
to princess, who would make heads swirl!
A stitch in time saves nine, lest, out of step lose pep, 'ere gains back mislaid track; cruise control, lose neutral.
practice makes perfect
as perfect is relative
subject is practice
Sitting here thinking
about the past
regret for time mislaid
What’s done is gone
all swans in song
— tomorrow’s yesterday
(The New Room: May, 2024)
He said I was pretty
and I blushed.
He started celebrating
When I agreed.
We were blessed in church
For my new role at home.
He showed me his world
And I built his home.
Then I got that job
And he rejoiced with me.
Every morning, ill wake up before he
And ready his meal and tea.
He will drive me like we were nineteen.
And drop me home like a queen.
I aced around the house like a pro
While he shares a few hours with his bro.
Then like a king, I serve his meal,
While we talk about his deal.
He says he is tired
So, I tuck the kids in.
Then one day, I was late
And he thought I was mislaid.
He lost his charm and turned me around
“Don’t you think I should know your whereabouts”!
Then I saw life
The joys were always a mirage
whilst sorrows, worries and pains
the reality.
My dreams are no longer mine
For I changed it when I said yes
I have been living for others,
While I have my life in plains and terrains.
One day they will know me
But alas, when is that one day?
Vandana Nath
Composed and presented during Women’s History Month
At the end, when time is a skinless finger,
drawing thin lines in the dust.
You may look at all the once acquired,
you might recall all the mislaid.
There may be sadness,
or a mold-tinged nostalgia.
Regrets may scamper like roaches,
into long hidden cracks and shadows.
Straw mice may softly nibble
at your heart-bones.
Those few long handled treasures,
trinkets you thought essential to warm flesh,
are already moving on and cannot be followed.
The rest is an airless room, brim full of castaways,
collections you thought to secretly grow,
but nothing rusts forever in a house of wasted time.
Where have you gone?
tomorrow is too long,
all my tears were wronged.
I waited for you to come,
so many things,
needed to be un-done.
Time slipped into eternity,
my searching faded,
with each days uncertainty.
Every star I captured,
I saved just for you,
every moonbeam too.
I felt betrayed,
I felt abandoned,
unaware you had been mislaid.
I'm older today,
I haven't the strength,
my hair has turned gray.
So I gave in,
beneath a dark sky,
drowning my sorrow in gin.
Unaware you were there,
for all those years I had cried,
beneath God's beautiful sky,
Not knowing you had died..,
"Nothing haunts us like the junk we didn't buy."
Anonymous
"I should keep this," I always say
"I might need it some other day"
Where I put it, there it will stay
That's just my way That's just my way
Stockpile of junk is what it's called
Trinkets but nothing that has crawled
All over the house, they are sprawled
Hubby appalled Hubby appalled
At first, it was just a junk drawer
Until my 'things' fell to the floor
"I'll stop." I promised and I swore
I still want more I still want more
It's a collection of clutter
"Yes, but they're all mine." I sputter
Even that old broken shutter
And golf putter And golf putter
I've no room to walk in my house
Not space enough for a lil' mouse
Couldn't find my favorite blouse
Mislaid my spouse Mislaid my spouse
Missing: God Incarnate
By Mark D. Stucky
Last month I lost Jesus.
Maybe he is not lost,
but I cannot find him
even in usual places.
I couldn’t find him in my prayers.
I couldn’t find him in my church.
I couldn’t find him in the hymnal.
I couldn’t find him in the Bible.
If I mislaid keys, you’d ask,
“Where did you put them last?”
I am not sure where I put Christ last.
Even if I knew, would he be there still?
Or would he have simply wandered off?
Maybe to watch over a falling sparrow,
or to catch fish while strolling across a lake,
or to salvage another stray sinner like me?
Should I nail a “Missing” sign
next to a lost cat poster?
Or maybe offer a reward
on the side of milk cartons?
I hope I find him soon.
I’m feeling lost myself.
(First published in Spirit Fire Review, October 2023. See also my poems “Salvation in an App Store” and “God’s on Mute.”)
(Image by Monica Rodriguez on Pixabay.com.)
She stares into the casket
open, not what he wanted,
but she did, even more now.
“Stiffer than he’s ever been.”
she snickered, silent, unheard.
“O M F G thirty years;
look at you in your blazer
and that idiotic badge;”
she toasted, raising a glass
of cola and single malt
discovered upon finding
the “mislaid” Tantalus key.
“I bet you’ll never guess where
your model steam engine is?”
She whispered into his ear,
“Oh, once more into the breach,”
she laughed and knowingly winked.
“Nothing to say, no repost?”
“Not a cutting, hurtful quip?”
“you’re dead, you say. Can’t answer.”
“I was dead for thirty years!”
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