Ticking.
Always ticking. I mark the days
with some errant idea of purpose. Black
little hashes of pure intent. Laissez-faire
holds no lure but it's not for the faint
of heart either. I count the days backward.
Dog ear each page. Undo it (then)
with hope of breaking the cycle.
I wait for the anger to root but it denies
the assigned season. Weights me
to all other stages. There's no calendar for this.
No timeline. She says. To give it breadth. Peace
will come in its own time. Ticking.
Always ticking. I mark the days. Blacken
every hollow. Breathe deeply & curl to sleep
in the curve of your quiet.
About the Creator
Haze Medley
Haze Medley is an artist/illustrator/designer-poet from Nashville, Tennessee, where she lives with her husband, Mark, and her penguin, Laramae.
Keep reading
More stories from Haze Medley and writers in Poets and other communities.
sayonara heart strings
I could feel the end of it before I could taste our first kiss. I heard it, as familiar as the latch of the screen door. Knew it as surely as I know the sound of a pump action .22. I could almost run my fingers through it just as soon as it was too late to return. I think you knew it too. But you were so earnest in your want. So dedicated to your need.
By Haze Medley5 years ago in Poets
Smart phones, Humans and Aliens.
WARNING. I will be tapping into one of your favorite creative tensions: The absurdity of humans worshipping their glowing rectangles as if they were tiny oracles. There’s something deliciously poetic about that contradiction, and it lends itself beautifully to an instructive proviso.
By Novel Allen4 days ago in Poets
When Big Bands Played on every station 📻
When big bands ruled the world, with live broadcast each night. A slow world. A sentimental world. A world that believed in God. In LOVE. A world after the war that appreciated the small things, the community and most importantly family above all else. What a beautiful world that was of values. If we could only add progression to old school morality then maybe one would have less suffering. A book I read often from the 1950 states “if suffering made the world wise, a wise world it would be” after the world wars what a wise world we were becoming. If progression could meet slowness, like the Italian say “the art of doing nothing” what a peaceful world we would have. Big Bands brought in peace in a time the world didn’t know the end, each night the news goes off, did a love one die? Is your family now just a Jayne or Joe doe somewhere out there? Well forget your troubles we are all in this together- here is Glenn Miller and his Big Bands singing it’s a blue world, the moonlight serenade begins for a hour where you forget your troubles and melt in with the big band. Once the war was over those late night broadcasts became coming home dances. For a moment to me that was a beautiful world. Radio Days. Glenn miller and his orchestra playing live lifting spirits. A beautiful world that must had been for that moment. To be alive and to be appreciative of every second God Has given you.
By La Regina💗Kallie Venturini❤️3 days ago in Poets
Miss Persephone's Manual to a Seemingly Ordinary Life
Miss Persephone was found at the dining table, her blue eyes swollen, her tears arriving and retreating like the tides of the ocean. Earlier that day, her family had visited her in the retirement home where she had lived for eight years. It was her eightieth birthday.
By Imola Tóth5 days ago in Fiction
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.