Did you know crutches don’t float? I learned that today.
Last month I learned that my car brakes were faulty and what a tibia plateau fracture was.
A week ago I learned the name and telephone number of the pretty nurse with green eyes at the fracture clinic. Apparently this morning so did my wife; she tracked me to the park bench next to the pond where I had arranged to meet the pretty green eyes. Before she had stormed off, after hurling abuse, she had hurled the crutches.
Tomorrow I expect I will learn how expensive a solicitor is.
“I enjoy the escapism of writing, and exploring the ‘what if.'” – the writer
By Bartholomew Barker
Though we live in different worlds,
let me be the moonlight glittering
your hair while you dream
and the voice of that tenor
on the radio filling an opera house
as he sings for his new bride.
Let me be the aroma of bread
baking in your oven
on a winter’s day
and the bath water warmth
surrounding your toes, feet
and legs as you slide
into the pure poetry
of a sensuous life.
“I write because the moon is sleeping in my glass of wine.” – the writer
By Dianne Moritz
I cannot write; not here, not there.
I cannot write most anywhere.
Would I? Could I? In a car?
I cannot, cannot in a car;
Not even in my corner bar.
Would I? Could I? On a train?
I cannot, cannot on a train;
Nor like Hemingway in Spain.
I cannot write.
I am not Seuss,
Beatrix Potter, or Mother Goose.
I cannot write.
I’m feeling blue.
Alas, this verse will have to do!
“Sometimes I write just for fun, but still dream of collecting my drabble in a book.” – the writer
By Shaily Agrawal
When I die,
Don’t cover my grave with stones or epitaph.
Let me feel the seasons on my skin.
Don’t tend it everyday.
Let life take over.
Let weeds grow—Wildflowers of every colour,
So, you’d think of me in death
as in life—
A splash of wild colour in a bleak world.
When I die,
Don’t bring fresh flowers everyday.
I won’t meet you, anyway.
I’ll be somewhere sitting in a sunny nook,
Thinking of a lost song or an old book.
So, you, too, better move on.
Let life take over.
“I write because I need to.” – the writer
By Douglas J. Lanzo
Found on Christmas Eve, 2001,
alongside nine evacuees
he was striving to save,
the 344th firefighter
and sole member of New York’s Fire Patrol
lost on 9-11…
after rescuing over 200 people,
including a barefoot woman
he carried over tower lobby glass
from the inferno raging inside,
whose retired patrol father,
apprehending from his son the situation,
geared up to meet at Ground Zero,
but never got the chance;
Omitted as a fire patrol member
from some 9-11 annals
that remember the brave firefighters
who gave their lives that day,
but who deserves to be honored
among his fallen brethren.
“I write when I feel inspired; I wrote this piece to honor a fallen hero.” – the writer
By John L. Malone
Let me see.
There must be some nice things
I can say about you.
Like I stay indoors more often when you’re around,
get in touch with my inner recluse.
I get to read more,
post six or seven poems a week
rather than the usual four.
Less of a slacker.
Red wine tastes better with you.
So too a good roast.
I get to write haiku again on frosts and ice,
shivery, shivery three liners.
And I get to wear my exotic Mongolian beanie everywhere.
Winter I embrace you.
“I wrote this on our coldest day since June 1922.” – the writer
By Catherine O’Brien
I am a seafarer. I am also a fraud drawn to disorder above and below deck.
My crewmates have unlearned my deceptions. I’m a talented actor with an elephantine memory for nautical terms. The sea knows though, it knows.
It spits salty accusations in my face launching its attacks from veils of morning fog. I am careful not to retaliate. I will not be goaded into ditching my facade.
Things have gotten ugly on occasion. It trials new vents for its frustration, it churns its wrath and tries to swallow me.
I’m in awe and humbled that it notices me.
Catherine O’Brien writes “to vanquish the snakes of thought which slither to and fro in her mind.”
By Linda Chandanais
My day off – before I’m out of bed I’ve formed a plan. I’ll alternate writing with life in 2-hour chunks to get something done besides writing.
7 am – write.
9 am – laundry, dishes, make beds.
11 am – write.
1 pm – lunch, vacuum, walk the dog.
3 pm – write, timer sounds, reset, write some more.
5 pm – pee, make coffee, write some more.
6 pm – throw a haphazard meal together for the family while listening to a writer’s podcast.
7 pm – leave dishes in the sink, turn the timer off, write.
Midnight – “Yes I’m coming to bed.” Soon.
“I write for joy.” – the writer
By Alison Ogilvie-Holme
Welcome to my humble cerebrum. Please forgive the mess. It’s late and my meds wore off hours ago. Had you arrived earlier, I might have offered you clarity and foresight, or at least some room in which to think. Once brain fog descends, order is impossible.
Yes, apologies are piled quite high, right next to guilt, and broken promises.
Lazy. Stupid. Selfish. Why can’t you get it together?
Somehow, self-loathing has become more acceptable than honesty. Labels are meant to stick, after all.
No, I’m not making excuses! I mean, not on purpose. And …
I’m sorry. What were we talking about?
“(I write) as a means of escape and creative expression.” – the writer
By Diana Diamond
I’ve been crumbed like a pigeon
I’ve been simmered into a crisp
I’ve been ghosted so bad
I no longer exist
The backburner; a familiar place
Cook me into perfection
Leave without a trace
I’ve been ignored into oblivion
I’ve been gaslighted into denial
I’ve been unmatched and crossed out
Blocked and deleted;
Oh, you name it!
I’m a one-hit wonder;
You hit me once then leave me wondering
I’m a heavy lifter
Carrying a dead horse
The horse is riding me
And now I am trodden
A fatal encounter
But to you, it’s all forgotten
“I write because I can.” – the writer