Change

Change comes quietly
Unannounced
Invisible
Until the moment
You look around and ask yourself
“How did I get here?
And how can I go back?”
The future begins
With the realization
There is no going back
There is no direction
But forward

 

For Claudia’s “Change” prompt on dVerse this week.

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Gifts

Humans have a gift
For being incredibly
Blind to their own gifts

 

I scribbled this down a few nights ago.  It was just a random insight that happened to come out in Haiku form. I’m posting it for the prompt about presents/presence/gifts from Manicddaily on dVerse, even though it’s not really the same meaning of the word “gifts” that they’re talking about over there.

 

 

Continuance of the World

The continuance of the world
Continuity
Cycle
Beginning and end are the same
The world begins and ends every day
Not one day
Cyclic
Constantly apocalyptic
An endless ending
And a fathomless beginning
Each day
New
Season into season
Blending
Bleeding
Colors running together
So that who can say
Where one ends
And another begins
In the continuance of the world

 

In the words of REM, it’s the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine.

Forgotten Treasure

The scent of aging books

And hundred year old wooden shelves

Is like a breath of fresh air

Full of possibilities

Is there any louder silence

Than being the only patron walking the aisles

Of a library at night?

 

I shuffle through the silence

Browsing

Perusing

Seeking

Hunting for treasure

The ones no one seeks anymore

The lost and forgotten

Aged spines stiff and dry

Pages grown yellow and fragile

Ancient volumes

Of Byron and Henley, Dickens and Thomas Grey,

History books that have become history themselves

Carefully I pull them from their shelves

The crack and creak as their cloth bound covers

Open for the first time in decades

Like a long held sigh of relief

 

Inside the back covers

Crumbling cards in little pockets

Look fossilized with disuse

Stamped with dusty dates in black and red ink

Dates no more recent

Than the Great Depression

Or the Roaring Twenties

Alone and untouched

Purposeless they’ve sat on these shelves

Dolefully watching a century go by

Come with me, my ink and paper friends,

I think as I carry these lost gems

Forgotten treasures

To the Librarian, smiling and surprised

To see someone so young with books so old

Come with me, I think as I walk home

Books under my arm

Let me give you purpose

Once again

 

For Open Link Night #74 on dVerse.

Decorated

It was my own tradition

Briefly

Those few torturous years

Between a young man

Or an old child

I walked my hometown streets

Booted feet squeak-crunching on snow

Wrapped up in plaid scarf

And an old olive army coat

I walked in cold night air

Breath a sparkling mist before my face

Headphones feeding

Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker to my imagination

Street after small town street

Across Maple Avenue, up to Queen Anne’s Place

Alone I walked

The warm glow of Christmas lights

Like a shattered electric rainbow

Sprinkled against the pristine whiteness

Of lake-effect snow

And the soundless depths of evergreen

I walked for that moment

Stillness

Snowflakes embracing me

The night softly humming “Silent Night” to itself

Witnessing the beauty

Of a small town Christmas

In which I and all the world around me

Were decorations

 

As a teenager I loved walking around my hometown on a December evening to look at all the Christmas lights and decorations.  It was always so peaceful and the lights were very pretty.  This is for the prompt on dVerse about first person perspective in poetry.