"wobbles" poems
three sets of withered, wrinkly hands
with chipped
tired
pale-pink nailpolish
flutter in the air,
describing.
three froofy perms
one browny-gray
one white
one salt and pepper
bob
jutting forward,
one
wobbles a little.
Grandma wears
a green-foam party hat
with a thin, white elastic band
that runs under her wrinkled chin
it sits atop her fuzzy perm
comically...
she smiles
at me.
"Ah! my cappuccino! you remembered i like it, didn't you?"
she chucks her great-granddaughter
under the chin,
grins
"oohh! look at these gardening gloves! Cidi! look at these gloves! i like the green ones."
she hands them to her white-haired sister
aunt cidi told me
this year she is
ninety-one
oh, and the gloves were really
blue.
aunt cidi
misses uncle harland
he was buried three or four years ago
in his uniform
i remember sitting next to him
at awkward family reunions
eating hotdogs
i never saw so much mustard
in my life
he could never hear me
when i tried to talk to him
but he smiled
anyway.
the talk turns serious
suddenly
over our black coffee
crossed legs
sweaters
and chocolate cake
grandma turns grim
in her lime-green party hat
"did you end up killing that trumpet vine in your yard, Jeanie?"
aunt jeanie's head wobbles a bit
she squints
wrinkles her nose
"i TRIED to!"
she scowls.
schemes of ******
plotted by three chunky-earringed
sweet
old ladies
who are a little late
for the 1940's
but never too late
for a handsome
soldier
"we're older..."
says aunt jeanie
"but not THAT old!"
they all
giggle.
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 7:42 PM UTC
Every year it was brought down from the garage rafters. Green metal frame and
springs, green canvas with white fringe and a little green pillow. It was laid out, hosed
off and erected. Grandpa couldn't have done it without us grand kids. He said so. It
was placed in a spot of honor. Just a couple of feet from the picnic table and in a spot
that was always in the afternoon shade. A folding T.V. tray was placed next to it to
hold cold drinks and snacks. Within a few days, the grass under the frame would be
brown and dead. The grass at the sides of the hammock would just be plain gone.
Scuffed away by feet, as we kids sat on the edge and swayed side to side.
After mowing the lawn, washing the car, or doing any other chores needed, Grandpa
would go inside and put on his "Hammock clothes". This consisted of a pair of Bermuda
shorts and a ribbed tank style Tee. White socks and brown sandals completed the
outfit. Once dressed appropriately, he would head for the hammock. The first "sit" of
the summer season was always a bit touchy. One had to get use to the hang of it.
There he would stand, next to the hammock. Cold drink in his one hand, the T.V. tray
forgotten. His slightly bald head and stick thin legs already slightly sun burned. Slowly,
he would start to lower himself. Reaching back with his free hand to grab the edge of
the hammock.
Note** of course us kids, grandma and mom would all be spying out of the corner of
our eyes to watch this ritual.
Then came the "Grandpa Sit". Grandpa would rock slightly forward and back on his
feet. 1-2-3 and ....SIT! A few wobbles. A couple sloshes of his lemonade. All of us
yelling "Whooooaaaaaa". He would sit there on the edge of the hammock, holding
himself steady with one hand on the edge. His feet firmly planted on the grass and his
other hand holding his cold drink high aloft.
Now, the sandals needed to be taken off. One of us grand kids would run over and
help take them off. Tickling his feet as we did so.
So far, no damage to life or limb.
Ah, but he was not yet fully on the hammock yet.
Now came the "Swing and lie down" move.
Slowly, grandpa would reach behind himself and grasp the far edge of the canvas.
drink in his other hand still held aloft. O.K.....1-2-3...SWING the legs up and quickly lie
back. Let the hammock come to a stop.
Where's Grandpa?
On the ground on the other side of the hammock soaked in lemonade.
Summer was officially started!
Jun 27, 2010
Jun 27, 2010 at 11:02 AM UTC
Krypton didn’t fit with anyone,
as it was the unfriendly one,
it never went beyond it’s limits
even if others did loose their limits.
It was from a forlorn world,
nobody cared to say a word,
to this enigma of another world;
no one wanted to share a word.
The nobles were always preoccupied
with their occupied shells,
they never hung out with the occupied,
nor the unoccupied.
Krypton was mistaken for kryptonite.
It wondered every night,
Why they accused it for the assassination?
it didn’t have the power of absorption.
Krypton had very few of it’s kind,
it didn’t know where they were aligned.
He held the hope of being able to be lined,
with the rest of it’s kind.
Poor Krypton, he was on the farthest
arena of the periodic table
it wished if it could turn the table,
so that it can at least act a bit feeble.
Experience taught this novice,
it calculated the calculations,
to traverse the long distance,
fear hindered the transmissions.
Krypton used to think without links
he was one of the stable nobles,
he wasn’t the one that wobbles
and, one of the table’s baubles.
Dec 17, 2016
Dec 17, 2016 at 4:36 AM UTC
They were all looking at the bubbles then it popped.
“Argh! My eyes! Ma!”
“I told you, you’re not supposed to stare at the bubbles when it floats right on your eyes”
“But it’s beautiful and I see the mini-rainbows while it wobbles in the sky.”
The mother and the child went staring at the bubbles floating as they fly above the orange skies.
He blew another, carefully - eyes shining with excitement.
“Look, Mom! This one is bigger! I blew it slower than the other, this one will not pop.”
The cold wind blew with the ruffling of the grass as if clapping.
The bubble wobbled and wobbled on the orange sky
Passed by the resting sun, magnifying its beauty, it glittered.
The boy’s eyes shimmered in excitement.
Pop!
“Not again!” the boy sighed in exasperation.”
He asked, “Where do bubbles go when they pop?”
She looked at him intently.
She smiled, “they become the clouds, like tiny bubbles watching over us.”
“Why would they watch over us?”
“For in time, they will know that the sun will burn our skin, then they will come as rain.”
“Well, let me make more bubbles, so we can play with You in the rain.”
Don’t Forget the Bubbles
Dec 4, 2019
Dec 4, 2019 at 3:38 AM UTC
There it is, I can see it, my birthday present
I'm so excited it's a bicycle
It's what I've always wanted
I cant wait to ride it and be on my bicycle
It's not fair! I have to have extra wheels on it.
What are you doing to my bicycle
I dont like it anymore with those horrible wheels
My mum says have patience and you will learn to ride
I'm riding my bike with the extra wheels!
This is so much fun and not hard at all
Why is my bike not so big anymore
It's the same bicycle but somehow it seems smaller
Oh no! The extra wheels are being taken away
I don't like this bicycle anymore as it wobbles about!
It feels unsafe and as though I might fall off it
Again I'm told to have patience and practice
I get on the bicycle every day and soon I'm balancing
With patience I am now able to ride my
May 3, 2020
May 3, 2020 at 6:30 AM UTC
There's a calmness to the air of the trailer park
As the dumpster in the back slides to the right
Underneath is where our Super Hero has his lair
And where adventure starts out every night
For years now it's been the same old routine
Belches as he wobbles to his feet
Throws the remote down on the beer stained couch
Scratches his rear at the same time picking his teeth
Yes, the night belongs to Beer Belly Batman
Who spends his time fighting petty crime
From spitting on the sidewalkers to mouth full of food talkers
Putting them back in their place and back in line
Sure he used to be a top notch crime fighter
Evil forces he always did foil
But after years and years of beating crime up
The beating on him has taken its toll
If the neighbors music is to loud feel free to call him
Nothing he likes better than knocking heads of unruly kids
Hey Punk! Pull Your Pants Up! Is his favorite motto...
Giving Super Hero Wedges like nobody's biz
I don't know about you but this much is true
I always feel a little more safe and sound
And sleep that much better at night
Knowing there's a White Trash Super Hero around
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 8:04 AM UTC
Slipping in my ear-buds,
To get my daily dose
Feeling so close to the sound that doesn't affect me
Flying over clouds only my mind can see
Bass wobbles, no duds
I'm addicted to the ripples,
My head lulls with a vengeance
"don't bother him man, hes gone"
Passers-by call to me
So drunk on sound...
My cranium has better acoustics then the great theater
Rhythm's projected with shock waves and powered by hand grenades
I am a supernova charged by AUX
Watch anxiety writhe and burn in my wake
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 6:13 PM UTC
A baby from Burundi sits next to me today.
He coos and drinks and swallows his mother’s milk.
His father speaks Swahili. Smiles, tells me that his last son
Is going to grow old in Rochester, NY,
Where I sit in a white-walled waiting room, watching
Mothers drag their babies by the armpits to be weighed.
A boy with braided beads holds up four fingers and tells me he is five.
He is too skinny. His pants are sagging and his iron is low.
His mother takes his vegetable checks, stuffs them into the back pocket of her jeans.
What the little **** needs is two percent milk, she says,
Her gold hoops fluttering.
Her son struggles with the small wooden chair he is carrying.
It drags along the carpet, hitting the high spots, and his tiny biceps flinch.
He sits, facing me, while a name is called. And another.
Another woman’s son hands me a book and waits.
He is watching my face and I watch his mother kiss her boyfriend in the first row seats.
He tucks his chin to his chest when I ask his name. Whispers, tells me Jayden.
First page. What color is Elmo, Jayden?
Shoulders shrugging. His lower lip, puckered out and innocent.
What color is he, Jayden?
The color of Jayden’s skin slaps me across the heart when he says he doesn’t know.
He was born in Rochester, NY,
With trash bags and Burger King wrappers wrapped around the fence
That separates his house from the street on which he will grow old
Too soon.
He starts kindergarten in the fall and I tell him Elmo is red, like his t-shirt.
Like his mother’s fingernails.
Like the tomatoes and bell peppers and beets he has never seen.
A girl who went to my High School carries in her youngest child
Who is old enough to walk, but wobbles.
She calls her daughter “thunder-thighs” instead of Jazmyne
And strips off her shoes. Her belt. Her gold bracelets.
The scale says Jazmyne is too heavy for food assistance.
The state says her mother isn’t poor enough for welfare.
The girl I used to know leaves without her daughter’s shoes or the food checks she came for.
In conversations of pretension
We talk about first and third world.
Pretend that America is the land of second chances
Where a baby from Burundi can grow old in cashmere sweaters,
Even when his parents couldn’t pay.
The father who speaks Swahili looks at his shiny watch and his family’s vegetable checks.
Smiles. Tells me his last son is going to grow old and full
In Rochester, NY.
Jun 10, 2010
Jun 10, 2010 at 12:51 PM UTC
rattling thunder
pummels the tinny tin can roof
under which you drive
through the swelling swamp-roads.
you say this is england.
i say this is climate change.
snakes emerge from murky water,
the same green as your eyes.
a hiss wobbles through your tar-bones
and your flesh boils to scales.
a fat, emerald python.
eating me whole and clean.
your bleach-bowels sear me.
a hapless, cocooned boy for a devil.
the teenage smile is what beguiled me,
tricked me into your drunken youth.
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 8:51 AM UTC
Here's the truth:
Love can't be recognized in a time span of two, to five minutes.
It's not as easy as you may or may not think.
Love has to be felt by one.
All parts of the body are significant to feeling love, it's not just the heart.
You may think the heart reacts most to love;
But it's mostly the body.
It's always the body, showing you signs.
Your fingers that make you instantly reply a text message.
Your stomach that makes it seem like you run a butterfly field in there.
Your knees that wobbles at the sight of the other walking toward you.
Your eyes & head that ache after a night of silent cries under the sheets.
Other than that..
The sparks you feel at each contact.
Fireworks everywhere during each kiss!
The sharp knives that penetrate into your whole ******* soul when the other actually says it the end,
that's where you gotta stand and say;
"I ******* love you, you have to stay."
Man, that's love. And how you feel it.
y.m
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 9:21 AM UTC
i.
he tosses you a chip,
its worth, its worth
it moons over your greedy soul
and you mask them all
with your chained lies,
to your silenced smokes
that wobbles up to your
sunken, tired eyes
ii.
you've been awake and to
the miles along the rims of earth,
your little brother's math assignment
scored over twenty out of fifty
and he told himself to make mama proud,
he, then, scribbled cartoons and addition signs
iii.
you've been awake and to
the valley gaps of the sunshine drizzles
your little sister's finding it hard to
participate in the maze of real life
unkempt to her own voices and she told herself,
"maybe I was just meant to be kept in streets-capes"
iv.
and your home rested on the mountains
of well-lived dreams gauged into your veins
you've tasted perfectly soggy cornflakes
in the morning and in evening, you
could taste the shrill of cicadas, blooming
into the stars-tied rose crescent
and it shut down, I've read novels like these
and heard Kurt Cobain sang to these
it was wonderful, but I'd liked it better
when the sunflower hopes rested into your veins
v.
the eleventh time he tosses you a chip,
it lays perfectly still in your palm
the twelfth time, it took over your greedy soul
with your tear-stained hazels, it whispered
rambling, gambling Willie,
do not let it consume you, as it did Willie
but it still echoed when you knocked on the door
rambling, gambling Willie,
"I'm home," you've been awake
but then, you've found none anymore
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 10:34 AM UTC
“Is this what we’ll be like in twenty years?”
A hint of sarcastic laughter sneaks through
your voice as you mock our Saturday night
of quiet conversation
over brimming cups of tea.
The secondhand table wobbles a little,
and the spots that last year’s tenants left
on the carpet match the breakfast
still stuck to the tablecloth
(at least there’s now a tablecloth).
The dishwasher hums between discussions
of the fall of man and the filioque,
a feather of steam curling up around
your face, like sweet sticky incense prayed up to heaven
on the tail of a tenor’s vibrato.
“I hope so.”
Jan 17, 2012
Jan 17, 2012 at 6:07 PM UTC
ON Forty First Street
near Eighth Avenue
a frame house wobbles.
If houses went on crutches
this house would be
one of the cripples.
A sign on the house:
Church of the Living God
And Rescue Home for Orphan Children.
From a Greek coffee house
Across the street
A cabalistic jargon
Jabbers back.
And men at tables
Spill Peloponnesian syllables
And speak of shovels for street work.
And the new embankments of the Erie Railroad
At Painted Post, Horse's Head, Salamanca.
1.9k
Cycling past buisness girls on his way through Camden town
between towering grey buildings and tourists that frown
The lights turns to red and like a one legged man at the curb
he drifts off to a land that to some, seems absurb
Where honey-eyed tales of piglet and Pooh
are driven by toads tooting, **** **** poo
Peddling along the reeling, rolling,rambeling road some drunkard guy made
on famiular BBC air waves his voice often played
Through rich green ridings, wild moor and dales
2-50 stands the church clock that so sweetly never fails
Hatless on Ilkley, bathed and bathed in York
tea-time fancies at Harrogate, whilst watching like some Kes pearched hawk
Nodding and humming to sounds of the Brighouse and Rastric bands
and still finding time to paddle a little,
on sun drenched Gigglewick sands
Red turns to green as he wobbles and peddles away down Boris's yellow brick road
To Settel, for supper with
Raty
Mole
Badger
and Toad
Feb 25, 2011
Feb 25, 2011 at 8:59 AM UTC
Jelly is the perfect example
Of how I wish to live my life
because IT wobbles and wibbles almost teetering
UnStable about to fall but then it's a trick
AS it falls back to PLACE
REVERBERATING
WITH
SILENT
LAUGHTER
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 10:08 AM UTC
She’s got a cheap cigarette
she uses to bury us all in smoke.
It hangs off her lips
and wobbles when she talks.
She’s cracked open a new book,
another ****** romance.
It’s always romance,
she says, taking a drag from her cigarette.
*It’s in everything, in every **** book.*
Each word she speaks is followed by a puff of smoke,
small clouds that form as she talks
and roll off of the curve of her lips,
the very same lips
that told me romance
is for suckers, told me talks
of love are talks of nothing rolled into a cigarette
she’d never smoke.
She buries her nose in her book
once more, leaving me to stare at the book
cover and nervously gnaw at my lips.
The empty space between us is full of tension and smoke
and somehow, a stubborn romance
that hangs in the air like a half hit cigarette
hangs on the edge of an ashtray. She talks
to me, around me, and about me, but our talks
never include that tension, though I could write a book
full of the way she glances past her cigarette
at me, how her inviting lips
beg me to foolishly romance
her by hurling apprehensive smiles through her wall of smoke.
The tiny wisps of smoke
that swirl around her dance as she talks
about this dime-store romance
novel she happened to pick up, a devastating book
about a man who spent his life with his lips
sewed shut. She finally puts out her cigarette.
The smoke from her cigarette peters out and silence settles over the two of us.
I move my lips and no sound comes out. When she finally talks
again, I cross my fingers in hopes of being the next romance book she wants to discuss.
Jul 10, 2018
Jul 10, 2018 at 3:00 PM UTC
Bus full of people breathing inside a small space
Face to face, eyes cast down and explore
A small girl that hides behind bangs
Long thin legs
Tightly fit close
That are shear and expose
Insecurities
And people whisper
People point
But I remember what Teresa told me
A small man gets fired up
But can’t fight, he wobbles drunk
He wants to prove he is big and bad
That the girl who left him
Didn’t have his heart in hand
That he doesn’t bleed
He doesn’t hurt
He punches the next guy he sees
He makes him blue
Makes him bleed
And I remember what Teresa said
Two lovers hold each other tight
Teary eyes on a star lit night
Warm bodies fight the chill
Each wondering if they will
Be able to hold hands like this
Forever or if
Fingers fold into fists
As bitterness steals a kiss
Because the two girls don’t know why
People say they should die
They have always only loved each other
And I remember what Teresa told me
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 1:43 AM UTC
i have found myself while dancing,
grinding against walls scribbled with
martinis and broken ideas.
i have seen myself through others,
the girl who wobbles through neon colors,
the girl who shakes until sweat paints a fresh new coat.
i have heard my gospel,
through the thunderous speakers,
the screams of people who want a warm bed.
i have lost myself while dancing,
falling to absent galaxies,
trying to find a light to guide me home.
relying on the touch of unknown men,
to **** this star wallowing deep inside of me.
i do not know who i am
when i am dancing.
i want to think i am the milky way,
or a black hole,
gasping everything entirely.
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 10:24 PM UTC
The planet it wobbles a lonely path
On the background of distant stars
So constant and locked into their relative places-
They did seem so very happy.
It leaves its solemn red footprint
On the pitch black night
The astronomer's eye is caught by a passer-by.
Embarrassed at his distraction he turns back to his telescope
And cannot see the faded mark it left behind
Only the endless void
And he raps his knuckles on the railing wondering what he had been looking for.
And there is a glint of gold in the evening sky and blue smoke from a chimney-top
And the sharp-dressed men and women in their black jackets
Are too focused on the sidewalk
Cracked, Beige-gray,
It was recently cleaned for their viewing pleasure
And it leads them to their cubicles and coffee-shops.
And then their houses where they burn away the night in small silent hearths
And awake again the next morning with each minute planned ahead
Only to find out the schedule they had followed-
and adhered to the entire day-
Was not written for them
or for anyone
but just as another man's joke meant for nobody else to see
The toil she felt in the armchair constructed,
such a constant lock in place
that she collapsed
and they looked admiringly as she had worn herself out working hard at her job all day-
And I looked at the map scrawled at my feet in a different man's handwriting
"I'm lost," I said after a pause.
"I do feel rather lost"
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 12:51 AM UTC
For the first time I actually feel
Unworthy
To be someone else’s.
I feel As if
I dont deserve you.
I'm struggling with an image
that I’ve created
and allowed myself
to become.
I feel as though
if you would choose me,
you would be settling.
Somehow.
I now understand the phrase
“out of my league”.
Because,
When im honest,
I have a tendency
to think that
about you.
The truth is,
I’ve put you on this pedestal,
the pedestal of perfection.
Even in my mind
the pedestal wobbles
and tilts.
I know youre not perfect-
no one is-
yet I’ve built
this pedestal for you.
In my mind,
and for now,
you
are
flawless and beautiful.
Soon enough, though,
the pedestal will fall
and you’ll come crashing down.
Hopefully,
Maybe,
You’ll decide
I’m not out of your league.
Maybe you’ll decide I’m worth it,
despite my insecurities
Despite my Flaws.
If I’m lucky,
Or if it’s His plan
When the pedestal falls,
Maybe you’ll land in my arms,
And I in yours,
As we allow our own imperfections
To make us perfect
Together.
Aug 31, 2012
Aug 31, 2012 at 9:16 PM UTC
She's on my shoulders, her chin snug
on my crown; her hands;
little-strong, clasp
my neck.
My man's fingers & thumbs circle
the glass bones of her ankles.
I am her daddy. Hers.
I imagine the feel of me through
her feelings. She chuckles
at the roughness of my whiskers. I'm the stuff,
in this moment, of her childhood
memories to come: The faint
crispness in the beginning-distance
of her life. These are the days
before her brother will be born.
He is due in August.
These are my last days of this particular
closeness with her. Quickly a glisten
in the corner of my eye builds
to clear silvery wobbles, suddenly pigeons
clap up from the corn, the smooth
heavy-blue sky sheets
electric-flash, her hands cling
a little harder as the dark
clouds rumble.
My cheeks itch with trickles.
As the storm hovers above her she says
with her small-voice clarity -
'Daddy, I won’t cry.'
Feb 8, 2012
Feb 8, 2012 at 7:18 AM UTC
I awoke
from sleep
nightmares, enforced by you
sweat,
cold,
I turn over and try to fall
fall back
asleep
an impossibility, a futile attempt
there's a full dining room's worth
plates,
spinning plates, in my head
they never stop, always spinning
till one wobbles, balance falters,
and just as you'd expect they fall
one
after another
crashing
another
but there's always one
one left,
still spinning, shakily
waiting for the mess to be cleaned up
where'd that little fairy go?
the one who used to follow you around..
who is gonna clean up this mess
NO!
No, I cleaned up after you long enough!
even a maid receives a paycheck, compensation
I was just a slave
a slave to you, a slave to my mind
the trickery and contortion, you'd think I was a gymnast,
of Olympic Gold proportions!
I was a lap dog, following you around,
eating what ever you gave me,
begging for more
please sir, more?
more abuse,
more deception,
more than just friends
more than just a use,
for a good time
for who?
I worked so hard at trying
trying to make you love me
trying to make you see
obvious oblivion,
I get it!
You're blind!
hopefully
you must be,
Have you even seen some of these women?
those one night roll arounds
you're just so polite
waiting till the morning to push them out
out the door,
and you will, oh how they know you will,
but still you'll call them
those disposable women
you'll call because you know it's free
because you know they want you to
if only you were good enough to have one for every day
of the week -
you know, those ones
the ones you equated me too!
But,
a friend of mine you'll always be
so long as it pays off for you
a few amazing hours
naked
together, alone
a drinking buddy when the regulars are out of town
a gram here, a joint there
an easement of your guilt
for allowing yourself to lie
right through your teeth
to the face of an adoring fan
to use, abuse and get what you can
from your supposed life long friend!
you should have been more careful though
for you smell nothing like a rose
you wreak
your stench so vile
you slop your sludge of a personality
right across my face
before twisting the knife in my back
then pretend like none of it exists
extinct
though that would imply that it once existed
which you've stated
for certain
it does
not.
Nov 20, 2010
Nov 20, 2010 at 9:46 PM UTC
╰⊰✿´ℒ♡ⓥℯ'✿⊱╮
Silken buttermilk pudding
kissed by vanilla
With gelatin, it stands firm
and gently wobbles
Adorn berry sauce
Gems of fruit
Slick!
╰⊰✿⊱╮
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 5:09 PM UTC
in the next ten seconds,
he opens his mouth to speak to an acquaintance in a room full of acquaintances
an ugly metal faucet that has been dripping for fifteen days drips again in an upstairs sink
he tucks a strand of hair behind her ear as she bites at her fingernails and
looks at the magazines lined up in the supermarket
before she opens the postbox, she inhales
she throws her head back before laughing at his anecdote, her knees feeling the ache
of being crossed for too long
with slightly tremulous fingers, she touches she sleeve of her coat without reason, feeling
like everyone on the underground train may be looking at her
he takes a sip of water and screws the lid back on, checking his watch
a hiccup is heard from the back of a classrm
he kisses her for the first time on the mouth
he notices his hair has fallen out and sits in the shower drain
their elbows graze against one another's in the lecture hall but neither of them
catch the other's eye, both staring straight ahead
she blots her lips over a folded tissue to remove pink residue and looks herself in the eye
in the mirror
her father lets go f her shoulders as she wobbles on the bicycle without its stabilisers
for a second attempt today
he notices a stain of yogurt on his tie and curses quietly
she burns her fingers whilst making toast
she argues with the cashier about the fact that selected juices were marked as being on offer
the rain rattles against the window and he is uneasy with the lack of rhythm in its sound
they put on her favourite song and remember her as she was when she was still alive
someone wipes salt from her cheeks with a tissue
he realises that the tooth fairy doesn't exist and doesn't mind because it means he's grown up
she asks her father if she is pretty and he say anything
she slips a packet of biscuits into the supermarket trolley, her mother sees
and doesn't say anything
an elderly woman cradles his arm as they slowly cross the street
they look at one another and both know
he says I'm so sorry
she says I'm so sorry
he says I love you
she says you know I do.
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 9:29 AM UTC
Wee wobbly Willie
Walks wearily
Westward
While whistling
Woefully
Wondering
Why
Willie wistfully
Wanders
Wizened
Wisely
Working
Wild water
With wine
Wanting wool
Windy winds whipping
Wasting
When words
Will
Work well when worlds
Whisper
Wee wobbly Willie
Wobbles
While winking
Winking
Wobbling
Wee wobbly Willie.
Jan 7, 2011
Jan 7, 2011 at 9:41 AM UTC