I scratch a few words
And lift my pen to see
A waste paper basket
Overflowing with need
Stitched and twined of intrigue
To vulnerable to say
A togue tided insecurity
With words I long to say
Categories:
waste paper basket, desire, endurance, irony, love,
Form: Free verse
A waste paper basket, a trash can, a bin
Whatever you call it, some things won’t stay in
The things that you write
Long into the night
May make, when discarded… one hell of a din
*
Don’t write by moonlight at midnight
Do not trash your tale late at night
For powers unseen
And terribly mean
May use it to give you a fright
I know, for it happened to me
I tell for I need you to see
I binned every word
And later I heard
A screech of malevolent glee
*
I lie wide awake in my bed
My discarded verse in my head
I tiptoe downstairs
With prickling neck hairs
For something smells like it’s long dead
A full moon sheds just enough light
In the room where I sit down to write
But somehow I know
It won’t let me go
This thing I created tonight
It lives for it never can die
I think I now understand why
I wrote about strife
My words gave it life
And you can’t kill words, though you try
The waste paper basket taunts me
It’s dark in the room but I see
A claw on its rim
My thoughts turn to Grimm
It mutters my name… and I flee
Categories:
waste paper basket, horror, writing,
Form: Limerick
I find the one remaining photograph from my wedding:
everyone is still smiling, despite the way things turned out
(time can fade print, but the smiles remain fixed forever).
Somehow, that one picture survived;
the others had fallen victim to Mum's scissors,
long, long ago.
My dad is wearing his blazer and one of my ties;
he's looking healthy (just as I remember before the cancer...)
long, long ago.
My mum in a new suit, is much younger-looking, and well.
I wish I could step into the happy picture,
and keep my parents as they were then.
My wife and I are wearing our shining new rings -
long, long ago
they were sold and melted down for other newly-weds to wear.
I remember the deep love I felt for my wife then.
Mum asks what I'm looking at and she tears out part of the picture...
my ex wife is still smiling from the waste paper basket...
Date written 24th September
Writing Challenge 2, September 2019 - The Photograph
Sponsor, Wiishkobi Ode
Categories:
waste paper basket, loss,
Form: Narrative