it's so strange afterwards
when it's finished
when it has been finished for some
time--
she sat on her bed in her bedroom
and I sat in a chair
and I had to tell her how strange it
was--
"nothing against you
but when I look at you now
I can't understand how you ever made a
madman out of me,
how you got hold of my feelings..."
she just sat there and smiled,
her body the same,
her red hair as long as ever.
she had never loved me.
it only mattered a little to her
that I had gotten away.
she was working on other prey.
she sat there and told me about him.
I listened.
when I left I didn't kiss her goodbye.
I got into my car and drove away.
after driving 4 or 5 blocks
I was no longer
thinking about her.

In restaurant
a professional man
with a laptop,
just moved out
from neighbouring table
leaving water
on the drinking glass.
we saw,
One friend said, "Half full.."
another friend said, "Half empty.."
Listening to our conversation
then the bearer came
and said, " what a way to waste
scarce natural resources.."

Rain colder than the word no
Into wind revealed painful secrets I go
Across sheets of lightning induced anxiety ,
through 'Downdays' filled with rumbling thunder
insecurity and finality* ...

To see another sky, another river, I
wanted to be as free as you always say that I am.
When just yesterday, a
letter stole my speech, a whisp
of the person I was moments before-- one full of
promise and expectation. I was now a
passenger whose flight was delayed. A woman
undesirably caught
between hometown comfort, and hometown purgatory in
which I couldn’t locate Hope, until you, and a
faint voice within, whispered that dreams grow with a gust,
strengthened by adversity. Of
course, the wind
still disheveled my hair, and stripped away at walls that I
built up, tactfully, for rejection. But this too will disappear,
with a greater gust, bellowing high above me, like
A robust cloud of thickening smoke.

Anna Blake




The Golden Shovel Reference

“I Try”
By the Staves


“I am a whisp of a woman, caught in a gust of wind, I disappear like smoke.”

FB doesn't have a grave or a headstone
But its a blessing to have a place to go
And read a heartfelt post
Written like a decorated bouquet
And a well placed rose

I love Lucie
and her amazing ***
Her beautiful backhand
and her movement on grass
She plays for her country
and has drank from the Cup
I love Lucie
So very very much

tearing shreds into my tiny heart like a ravenous wolf, how could you?
you have no love or compassion for the atrocity that you have  endowed onto me
you have no soul, no concern to turn yourself around instead standing there like a smug hoodlum proud of your obscene work
having no care in the world that you have shattered the last ounce of hope and dream that i once had

Summer’s time has come and gone
The walls, floorboards release a yawn
With nine months then to recoup, recover
From being a home, just for the summer.

Eloquent memories freshly remain
Of friends who nestled within her frame
A cabin of bunk beds, cubbies, fresh air
Where girls unwound with little a care.

Her crevice now holds a left-behind letter
Whose parchment hardens with winter’s weather
Yet the season’s sleet knows the warmer reflection
Of late night secrets and encouraged imperfection.

Spring has sprung most slowly for some
The evergreens exclaim a harmonious hum
Her wooden steps defrost, and patiently await
The coming of campers to the cardinal state.

Fall, winter, and spring all pass
Warm rays have woken the mountains at last
Each cabin’s frame stands taller, *****
While girls, all ages, reconnect.

Anna Blake

Reading through my archives
Of life
On little pieces of paper, napkins and fast food wrappings.

I came upon a note to self and proceeded to read it.
It was dated a year ago and the time was "way past closing time"
So I figured it must be good.
It said "dear self your work ***** and is to short lengthen it!"

At first I was taken back at how angry I was at myself, but then remembered how my readership had been slowly decreasing.

I decided to listen to this old drunken "wisdom" of mine and lengthened many of my works.

I actually didn't think they were to bad either, until I posted them and only got few comments with no likes.
The comments read "your poetry is to long and boring" "what happened to your short blunt to the point fluency? "

That's what a get for listening to the drunken me and taking advice from a fool.

Critics are fine, but bad comments can hurt a guy.
Guess I'll go back to my usual writes with my slowly dying off fan base for a few praises to brighten my ego for however long this three line poet has left in this field of potholes and hand grenades.