The shadow world

There is a shadow world

Mimicking the real

It casts itself upon our walls

Prettily outlined in sunshine

Shadows playing on the wall,

In the hall, a copy of the tree

Just outside, a negative of

Its image, standing in for the real

Thing, as solid as the thing itself

There is a shadow world

Mimicking

A cool morning

The cool bright morning brings the cleaned up drunks to the stoops outside their doors
Their hair slicked back, clothes neat and pressed, they talk as if addicted only
To the sounds of their own voices, cheery after a night of debauchery, now
Forgotten, and of which only the dark twinkle in their eyes tells the tale

Brightness that won't be denied

The light is careening off the air

In a slalom of sensation

Brighter than it has a natural right to be

Closing my eyes won't save me

From its preternatural distinctness

It will not be shut down

Why are you dragging that suitcase around town?

Luggage should only be carried-- or pushed or pulled-- on long distance excursions.

Those packing who knows what to schlep to their day jobs need to be sanctioned and shamed.

Wheel carts on subways and buses are a nuisance the rest of us should not have to endure or trip over.

Your curiousity arousing: What's in your bag? clog the sidewalks and endanger pedestrians. You're going where? With all that luggage?

The exception to this ban on wheeled bags is if you are a sales rep, wheeling around samples, which you will leave at each of the places you visit. Perhaps you could get a wheel bag that collapses once empty, so at least on our trip home together, I won't trip over your baggage.

What If...

What if 

When we landed
Behind enemy lines
No-one seemed to notice

And when they finally saw us
They waved a mild hello
Fingers fluttering in greeting

What if

    When we waged war
    No-one engaged with us
    But just shrugged and
    Walked away, carrying
    Bundles of wheat and stacks of corn to market

And when they passed us
Waved in salutation
Nodding as they went by

                        

   What if

We practiced the fighting 

Alone on a field of battle

And when they saw us

Grunting and struggling with cannon and gun

They stood and watched

Gathering around us 

Like a crowd of cheerleaders

Applauding our efforts as if for show

Waving a small flag

Not theirs but ours

In acknowledgement

Sad refrains: a sextet of songs from the heart

Brilliance in a moment is a flash,

It blinds like sunlight after darkness,

Scintillating but not scorching

Cool light blue with promise

Diamond-hard and crystal-clear

Simple like days following night.

I who do not want for words, scratch for answers
Ruminating on the mundane, wistful over the everyday,
The ordinary tears at my heart, teases my pen,
Haunts me in pain
I am haunted by small things that seem so big
Life's questions are simple and sweet, the answers
Sometimes, tragic
Sometimes grand, often unheeded as they echo
The ringing of a buses's bell, stop requested, stop
Granted.

I do not want for words
Thoughts running uneasily in the patter of rain,
Life's questions are grand, sometimes tragic
The answers simple and sweet

Your words have stung me into silence

Silence has been between us all these years

Once it was broken, like when you broke my

Heart, again, heedlessly, with no care for me

The silence will have to heal me now

Pain is good for the poor heart

Hard on the heart made

Tender by caring

You who do not know me at all, 

How can you wound me so?

Why would you want to? for the happy

I am not part of your life

I do have my own reasons to

Be happy

Reasons for happiness abound

They surround me in moments

I can claim for my good

But you, you are out of reach

Sadness passes for the happy at heart

Like the prick of a rose, it stings in a moment

The sweet smell of the flower intoxicates

It soohes away the hurt as if it were a balm

Sadness passes like clouds in a sun-full sky

In My Kitchen

By Superedit (Own work) [CC-BY-3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

My kitchen memoirs are free of any fancy footwork (notice my restraint in not spelling this with a "d".) Cutting onions to avoid any mishaps with serrated edges, peeling carrots to avoid scrapes on the hand provide all the excitement I can take in the small space. Well that and any bubbling pots. Hot liquids can splatter, as you no doubt know. 

By Author Laurence Housman Publisher Bodder and Sloughton [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Oh, yes, and the one potentially life-altering experience came when the oil caught fire before I added the pancake batter to its surface.
Advice-- stand back, turn off the gas, perhaps not in that order-- turn off the gas, stand back, and wait til it pipes down, watching carefully that nothing else becomes engulfed it its drama.