She made a silent vow
just beneath the lips
to write
just one thing
every day.
Yesterday,
her lips fell forgetful
brushing against the warmth
of another
as he painted her belly.
Today,
sitting ,writing, practicing
this literary promise,
she tried, but
still cried
as he walked
away.
*My latest submission in Celebration of One Shot Wednesday ’s birthday!
* for my father
Cradle Song
The spider weaves a silent night
glitter thread through the eye of a needle
As a father whispers secret songs
the little girl sleeps, finally softened.
by Brett Flashnick
Something about bones
spreading like hard spider webs
across my chest
speak of a dark time
in a solitary cell.
He visits me there
my bones will ache cold
as I lay silent, contorted
on my sleepless bed.
Listen to him
drunk, stumbling at the door
my body recollects
the times blazing with poison
becoming too much.
I skitter away
only to return; naked
trusting cocaine tears.
Conceded to all
and my anger is rising
to boil off his skin.
Never said no -
but there’s something about bones
spreading thin with him.
check out free verse poetry and discussion at One Stop Poetry !
The Long Walk*
A young woman walks
feels herself fading, watching
as her daughter spins away.
The little girl twirls,
stopping only to wonder
about footsteps in the sand
*I wrote this poem in response to a photo prompt for One Shoot Sunday. As a little girl my family was blessed to have the opportunity to go on regular vacations to the beach. I used to take long walks with my mom. Years later she would share more of her inner world with me; including the despair she sometimes felt. She also shared that taking walks on the beach was the way she found her own space, for silence, for safety…and she took me with her; cartwheels and shell collection included!
Thank you, Mom.
Portrait Of A Lady*
She sits silent
and she sits deep.
Shifting on the surface
of a space so great,
her breath becomes the drop
that meets the ocean.
She sits still,
her lips upon the ivory hand
of her own darkness
with hair that moves like fingers
through fields of seaweed.
She sits within the emptiness
The Perfect Portrait of a Lady.
*I wrote this poem for my mother. I consider this to be my first published poem as well. I wrote a second version of this piece in short form that was published in the on-line literary magazine Four and Twenty. Check out that piece here:
Four and Twenty: November 2010~Volume 3~ Issue 11
Thank you,Mom.
Gratitude*
“ You are just like your mother.”
He hissed, language laced with poison
meant to paralyze, kill, or worse.
The sound of her voice,
low and scratchy, as she
answers another of my
late night phone calls.
The soft, slow trace of
fingertips on my back
next to me, right now;
silently reminding me
that this too will pass.
“Thank you,” I respond
as I turn and walk away.
*I wrote this poem when I was 20 years old (2000) following a particularly rough interaction with my Father.
Thank you, Mom. You are Loved.
Falling, holding her tight,
“Please don’t let me sleep too long”,
simply to steal one more moment
together in a strange hotel
before he whispers;
before she whispers
“don’t go.”
His midnight voice wanes
to a low inhaled rhythm
as she promises him 8 AM.
Lanky spiders creep
across low ceilings as
old mascara starts to seal
burnt and tangled eye lashes.
Submitted to One Shot Wednesday !
