What happens in the middle of the night on a Thursday when there is no rain

 

 

Darkness descends

 Thoughts flood

 The house creaks

Memories arise

Windows rattle

Voices whisper

Wind chimes peal

Fleeting hope surfaces

Shame and guilt

Crowd the mind

Like the streetlight

Illumines the room

Feelings flow

Like an avalanche

Of mud and muck

Blue pills of sleep

Take over soon

Dreams of  

Evil and beauty

Mingle together

To wake still tired

 Face it all again

And seek healing

For the many ills

That conquer and divide.

flying

Like a clown being shot out of the cannon at the circus

Fighting the accelerating trajectory was worthless

She could only hope it would all end with a soft easy landing

mixed with a large measure of compassion and understanding

And the clicking of the knitting needles echoed in her ear

 The ticking of the clock made her know the time was near

And the snowman in her window rocked back and forth

In the warm sunlight while a storm brewed in the North

The ringmaster signaled with a nod for the drum roll to start

The crowd grew perfectly quiet, she felt their silence in her heart

 fireworks exploded with a loud blast and she rose towards the sky

Then as she soared above the tent, she knew at last what it was to fly

Landing in a broken jumble, totally missing the net meant to catch her

Trying to move brought pain and agony as her vision began to blur

Clutching the grass, feeling the earth spin as light and sound became one

Hearing screams that might be hers, just a fallen hero lying in the sun

She heard footsteps running toward her and voices calling her name

Unable to answer, unable to move she felt only peace, no guilt, no shame

The last thing she remembered was being lifted and carried away

And again, she felt as if she was flying, this time though a gentle sway

Now she never escapes, walking slowly, carefully one step at a time

Hoping to find another way to fly, searching for the perfect rhyme

That will match the beat of her heart and the rise and fall of her breath

And guide her footsteps to follow the way to find the perfect path.

And the clicking of the knitting needles echoed in her ear

 The ticking of the clock made her know the time was near

And the snowman in her window rocked back and forth

In the warm sunlight while a storm brewed in the North

wasps

The wasps have found a way

inside the little yellow house.

I watch from the

safe haven of my blue chair,

as they flit and skim

to and fro

across the wide expanse

of the ceiling.

Their droning buzz

filling the room as

they search…

Sometimes there is only

one lonely wasp, sometimes

four or five.

I don’t know how they get in.

I don't think they know either.

Did you know the pitch

of their buzzing noise

is based on the number of

wing beats per second?

Smaller wasps have more

wing beats so are high-pitched.

Larger wasps have less

and, therefore, are low-pitched.

I often wonder what

they are searching for

as they travel back and forth.

Is it food, a mate, or escape?

They often pause in their journey

Across the ceiling onto

one of the window panes.

I imagine them looking outside

wondering why they can’t reach it 

and how did they end up in this trap

on the wrong side of the glass.

Strange thing is (or maybe not strange)

they eventually start moving

slower and slower

making more stops 

as they travel

until they drop

and fall dead without

ever finding the desire

of their pursuit.