Skip to main content

Poem: Calling


I keep sifting sand
through my fingers,
not feeling the grit
of you in my palms.

Did you skip out
to sea like a stone,
each kiss of the water
a nix pulling you under,

or are you always
stretching out beside
me, your shadow
lapping against mine?

The tide nestles
up close to the shore,
its corners tucked
and turned under,

in the shush and pulse
of the waves,
your voice is calling,
me   to   you.
__________________


We took our first trip of the Spring to Carkeek Park yesterday.  Even though it was cloudy, it was still overwhelmingly pretty.



One of my favorite poets always starts each of his books with a poem written to the reader.  I guess that's my hope, too.  That you (yes, YOU) will feel that I've been reading your diary and wrote this poem to spill your secrets.  Or maybe you really are the "you" in my poem.

Meanwhile, in prose land, I have just posted the next chapter of The Culling, and it involves . . . an octopus:
 “An octopus?” Charlotte gawked at the creature.  It rose to the surface, Orville clinging to one of its tentacles.  He struggled to sit up, coughing up water.  Knowing she might as well finish it, Charlotte drew mana into her hands and released it into the water.  The octopus burst as the electric current hit it, ooze showering down on top of Charlotte’s head.  Disgusted, she dropped her hands, allowing the water to retreat back into the earth.
Showers of ooze . . . doesn't that make you want to follow the link?

Labels:

Popular posts from this blog

Short Story: Distraction

It was an office, not unlike any of the other offices around the city. There were windows, visible to the lucky few cubes on the ends of the rows. Then there was Vera's cube, situated next to the row of manager's offices. Today she was lucky, someone had left their door open and precious slant of sunlight escaped, warming her back and washing out half of her computer screen. "I never realized your hair was red," Tracy dumped a large stack of paper on her desk, "The florescent lights make everything look so soupy." "What is that?" she pointed at the stack of paper. Tracy only offered compliments when he wanted a favor. "I need this entered," he smiled, a dimple appearing in his cheek. "You have a secretary," Vera waved a freckled hand to her left, "Ask him." "He's sick," Tracy gave her puppy-dog eyes, batting his long dark eyelashes. Vera sighed and fought back a smile. Tracy was such a s...
Read more

Poetry and Stuff

Grief:Peripheral The flicker of bluish light filters out what is missing; there is only one set of boots by the door, an apple sits on the counter uneaten, and even if you don’t make a sound, the notch in your heart is nothing personal. ____________________________ Yeah, I know I said no poetry, but I lied. From The Culling, because what girl doesn't dream of  owning a library with a ladder?  I just posted the last chapter of The Bond, which I'm not 100% satisfied with.  It is the end of this novella, but the story continues in the next book of the series.  One of my biggest problems is I don't have a title for the next novella.  The working title was "The Break," which doesn't really work.  If you have an idea or two, throw 'em in the comments.  
Read more

The things people say

1. "I don't know. I don't know what you do." (In response to me asking, "Why would I have a blowup doll?") 2. "What are you saying? I can mouse with my right hand." (From a lefty after he was accused of moving the mouse to the left side of the computer.) 3. "I (hic) gave this girl my (hic) my phone number (hic) and she (hic) she never called (hic) called me." 4. "You're hurting me!" "I'm stabbing your coat." "With a knife!" "So?" "Knives hurt people!" 
Read more