malinkee - Hello Poetry

One morning, while the sky still wore The shade of spoons left in a drawer, Mrs L. — composed, if rather keen — Noticed something odd. Obscene, In fact. Her husband’s cheek — once softly blessed With a dimple, modestly expressed — Was bare. A flat and dimple-less expanse Where once her gaze would often glance. “Where’s your dimple, love?” she said, Cradling oats and coffee-bread. He frowned — moustache beneath his nose — As though the answer might disclose Itself through grooming. “Which dimple’s that?” he dared reply, With sleepy brow and wary eye. As if he didn’t know full well The very place her kisses fell. It used to sit — just here — she swore, A quiet dent she once adored. Where sunshine danced and secrets slept, And once — she swears — a tear had wept. Now gone. Just bristles. Trimmed with care, Still scented faintly of “don’t you dare.” The dimple lost. And with it, doubt — Was this the same man, inside out? She watched him more in days that passed. The dimple gone, her questions vast. His ‘tache, unchanged, looked honest still — But dimples rarely leave at will. And then, one morning, just like that, It reappeared — both shy and flat. He smiled, a little off, but true — The dimple twitched, and there it grew. “Where’ve you been?” she half accused. But dimples don’t explain their moods. It only deepened — small, polite — As if to say, “He slept all right.” Since then she checks. Each morning, neat: Moustache? In place. Dimple? Complete. And if it's gone — she keeps in mind: Something’s brewing. Or he’s lied. But all was well... until that day She caught her own reflection’s sway — And found, beneath her sleeping frown, A moustache growing. Soft and brown.

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Apr 29, 2025

Apr 29, 2025 at 4:01 PM UTC

The Moustache and the Dimple (an ironic domestic poem)

One morning, while the sky still wore The shade of spoons left in a drawer, Mrs L. — composed, if rather keen — Noticed something odd. Obscene, In fact. Her husband’s cheek — once softly blessed With a dimple, modestly expressed — Was bare. A flat and dimple-less expanse Where once her gaze would often glance. “Where’s your dimple, love?” she said, Cradling oats and coffee-bread. He frowned — moustache beneath his nose — As though the answer might disclose Itself through grooming. “Which dimple’s that?” he dared reply, With sleepy brow and wary eye. As if he didn’t know full well The very place her kisses fell. It used to sit — just here — she swore, A quiet dent she once adored. Where sunshine danced and secrets slept, And once — she swears — a tear had wept. Now gone. Just bristles. Trimmed with care, Still scented faintly of “don’t you dare.” The dimple lost. And with it, doubt — Was this the same man, inside out? She watched him more in days that passed. The dimple gone, her questions vast. His ‘tache, unchanged, looked honest still — But dimples rarely leave at will. And then, one morning, just like that, It reappeared — both shy and flat. He smiled, a little off, but true — The dimple twitched, and there it grew. “Where’ve you been?” she half accused. But dimples don’t explain their moods. It only deepened — small, polite — As if to say, “He slept all right.” Since then she checks. Each morning, neat: Moustache? In place. Dimple? Complete. And if it's gone — she keeps in mind: Something’s brewing. Or he’s lied. But all was well... until that day She caught her own reflection’s sway — And found, beneath her sleeping frown, A moustache growing. Soft and brown.

48

A. wasn’t one to mince her words. Fierce, quick-tempered, loyal to the bone — the sort who once played handball, and could silence a room with a single look. These days, she stuck to peppermint tea and the occasional passive-aggressive text, often punctuated with “...” and a well-placed fine then. Her husband, V., was the quiet sort. Kind, in that maddeningly detached way. Spoke in half-sentences, disappeared into the shed when emotions flared, and claimed he was “thinking” whenever things got awkward — which, frankly, was often. Then one morning, A. woke up and noticed her right index finger had vanished. Not broken. Not bandaged. Just... gone. Like it had got fed up and walked off in the night. — Have you seen my finger? — she asked, holding up her hand as if she'd misplaced her keys. — Have you checked the bedside table? — V. said, without even looking up from the crossword. — Oh yes, darling, it’s probably nestled next to my dignity and your listening skills. She glared. He blinked. Back to business as usual. The days ticked by. She managed — stirred tea with her pinky, tapped out angry messages with her thumb, gestured like an arthritic conductor. But something in her simmered. Because she’d been building up to something. Something final. You know the sort — the big conversation. The “we need to talk”, the emotional hand grenade with the pin already halfway out. She had the whole thing rehearsed. Words sharp as cutlery. Tone set to devastating but controlled. And when the moment came — she raised her hand, ready to metaphorically pull the trigger... Nothing. No finger. No bang. Just her, stood there with a half-formed point and a face full of steam. V. looked up, calm as anything, and said: — I think I saw your finger near the mirror. Might’ve slipped off while you were rehearsing all those dramatic pauses. She didn’t know whether to laugh or hit him with a cushion. Since then, she’s kept the finger in her coat pocket — not for pointing, but just to remind herself: sometimes, not saying it is the louder choice. And V.? Well, he’s started coming back inside when there’s shouting. Even makes the tea now — once in a while, unasked.

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Apr 29, 2025

Apr 29, 2025 at 3:52 PM UTC

"The Finger" (a peculiar tale of one missing digit and a bullet never fired)

A. wasn’t one to mince her words. Fierce, quick-tempered, loyal to the bone — the sort who once played handball, and could silence a room with a single look. These days, she stuck to peppermint tea and the occasional passive-aggressive text, often punctuated with “...” and a well-placed fine then. Her husband, V., was the quiet sort. Kind, in that maddeningly detached way. Spoke in half-sentences, disappeared into the shed when emotions flared, and claimed he was “thinking” whenever things got awkward — which, frankly, was often. Then one morning, A. woke up and noticed her right index finger had vanished. Not broken. Not bandaged. Just... gone. Like it had got fed up and walked off in the night. — Have you seen my finger? — she asked, holding up her hand as if she'd misplaced her keys. — Have you checked the bedside table? — V. said, without even looking up from the crossword. — Oh yes, darling, it’s probably nestled next to my dignity and your listening skills. She glared. He blinked. Back to business as usual. The days ticked by. She managed — stirred tea with her pinky, tapped out angry messages with her thumb, gestured like an arthritic conductor. But something in her simmered. Because she’d been building up to something. Something final. You know the sort — the big conversation. The “we need to talk”, the emotional hand grenade with the pin already halfway out. She had the whole thing rehearsed. Words sharp as cutlery. Tone set to devastating but controlled. And when the moment came — she raised her hand, ready to metaphorically pull the trigger... Nothing. No finger. No bang. Just her, stood there with a half-formed point and a face full of steam. V. looked up, calm as anything, and said: — I think I saw your finger near the mirror. Might’ve slipped off while you were rehearsing all those dramatic pauses. She didn’t know whether to laugh or hit him with a cushion. Since then, she’s kept the finger in her coat pocket — not for pointing, but just to remind herself: sometimes, not saying it is the louder choice. And V.? Well, he’s started coming back inside when there’s shouting. Even makes the tea now — once in a while, unasked.

22

She was a woman as morning over misted rivers— luminous, and unerringly true. Even silence, near her, took on colour: a hush shaped like the song of a lark. All things her spirit touched began to bloom. Bread rose in her palms as if it breathed; paints fell upon canvas like wind-stirred ripples on water. Her words were not spoken— they rang, like a bell left swaying in the nave of some forgotten chapel. But love— love was her most native element. She did not bestow it— she drew breath through it. And he— he was the one her breath had chosen. Her light warmed his winters, her gaze a northern star to steer by. Yet even wrapped in all her warmth, he could not speak the language of feeling. Fear lived in him— not of her, but of what he might lose by standing bare before her truth. Fear of misstep, of rejection, of seeming small beside so vast a love. So he turned elsewhere— to ease, to refuge, to someone whose nearness asked less of him. With her, words flowed. No stakes, no mirrors held to the soul. He mistook that ease for life. It was only escape. He did not see: to speak freely to one who holds no map of your depths is not intimacy— but absence in disguise. He fled the weight of real connection. He forgot that true love does not offer shelter from fear— it bids you walk through it. And she, his wife, felt it as if through skin— first wonder, then ache, then the great hush of soul withdrawn. Not anger stilled her— but weariness. She became quiet as a candle ceases to burn for eyes that no longer watch. He saw her dimming and thought: age… He did not see— it was not youth that was fading, but the thread between them. When he reached for her again— with offerings, with gestures, with words too late— her spirit had turned from all that glitters. It sought what does not tarnish: truth. And there, within the marrow of stillness, deep beneath grief, she found a voice. Not borrowed. Her own. At first it wavered— a bell in dawn-mist— but day by day it gathered tone. She remembered: the love she had given, so freely, had never left her. It had always lived in the hush before speech, in the breath before touch, in the Source. In God. And in finding Him again, the silence within her gleamed— brighter than any song. He no longer knew her. He searched for the flame that once burned for his warmth. But she no longer burned— she shone. She asked not to be understood, but felt. Not possessed— but approached, with awe. As one approaches a miracle that demands presence. The road to her heart had not vanished. It had risen— steep, narrow, unwavering. It could still be walked. But only barefoot. Only brave. For love— real love— is not a flight from fear, but a pilgrimage through it. Only thus is light born.

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Apr 24, 2025

Apr 24, 2025 at 4:14 AM UTC

Where Light Is Born

She was a woman as morning over misted rivers— luminous, and unerringly true. Even silence, near her, took on colour: a hush shaped like the song of a lark. All things her spirit touched began to bloom. Bread rose in her palms as if it breathed; paints fell upon canvas like wind-stirred ripples on water. Her words were not spoken— they rang, like a bell left swaying in the nave of some forgotten chapel. But love— love was her most native element. She did not bestow it— she drew breath through it. And he— he was the one her breath had chosen. Her light warmed his winters, her gaze a northern star to steer by. Yet even wrapped in all her warmth, he could not speak the language of feeling. Fear lived in him— not of her, but of what he might lose by standing bare before her truth. Fear of misstep, of rejection, of seeming small beside so vast a love. So he turned elsewhere— to ease, to refuge, to someone whose nearness asked less of him. With her, words flowed. No stakes, no mirrors held to the soul. He mistook that ease for life. It was only escape. He did not see: to speak freely to one who holds no map of your depths is not intimacy— but absence in disguise. He fled the weight of real connection. He forgot that true love does not offer shelter from fear— it bids you walk through it. And she, his wife, felt it as if through skin— first wonder, then ache, then the great hush of soul withdrawn. Not anger stilled her— but weariness. She became quiet as a candle ceases to burn for eyes that no longer watch. He saw her dimming and thought: age… He did not see— it was not youth that was fading, but the thread between them. When he reached for her again— with offerings, with gestures, with words too late— her spirit had turned from all that glitters. It sought what does not tarnish: truth. And there, within the marrow of stillness, deep beneath grief, she found a voice. Not borrowed. Her own. At first it wavered— a bell in dawn-mist— but day by day it gathered tone. She remembered: the love she had given, so freely, had never left her. It had always lived in the hush before speech, in the breath before touch, in the Source. In God. And in finding Him again, the silence within her gleamed— brighter than any song. He no longer knew her. He searched for the flame that once burned for his warmth. But she no longer burned— she shone. She asked not to be understood, but felt. Not possessed— but approached, with awe. As one approaches a miracle that demands presence. The road to her heart had not vanished. It had risen— steep, narrow, unwavering. It could still be walked. But only barefoot. Only brave. For love— real love— is not a flight from fear, but a pilgrimage through it. Only thus is light born.

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