Archive for the 'daggers' Category


boiler room

Boiler Room_DirSharp_20150412_161826

My soul made a sound

yesterday or the day before

The morning the wind stopped me cold

in the boiler room

by the window

hanging up clothes to dry

Immobilized, spooked, fearful, hopeful

I watched the leaves running

and the trees bending

Two birches and a Tamarack died

I wonder how long it will be

before they break

and who will deal with them

She is old and I am weak

in the head

in the heart

in all the places vital to

keeping a soul alive

and interested

in more than just living

I am tired

of interruptions

of urgencies

of jerks to my chains and knees

The rain is not good

for watering hopes

and floating dreams

nor does the blue sky make sense

The trash cans are perpetually full

the toilets and clothes and floors

are ever dirty

He is shiny and I am soiled

dim and numb

to the words

to break the spell

to stop the leak I sprang

while the Sorcerer was away

My soul hasn’t made a sound in years

or if it has, I can’t recall when

but I heard it then

in the boiler room


I would have thought it the wind

but for the feeling:

something like painful

more like haunting


The Widow

The Rainy Funeral from the movie “Sucker Punch” 2011, director Zach Snyder


Years of decline

Months of care-giving

Weeks of hospice nurses coming and going

Days of waiting, listening to breathing

And when at last he leaves, she is shocked

Where is his body, how is it being kept, what are they doing to it, when can I see it?

She is wasted and white, won’t eat, subsists on the proteins in her tears

She venerates him, grasps at photos, keepsakes, correspondence, anything he’s written, anything that’s been written about him

She reaches out arms like a miser for gold, scoops mountains of memorabilia back to her breast, stacks it like bricks between the mortar of condolences, a despairing attempt at building him back alive again

She seethes and snaps, wounded and angry, clings and kisses, guilt-ridden and grateful

Loved ones mince their words into euphemisms and slither between suggestion and coercion

While high on a hill, between Life and Death, she stands cloudy and windblown, teetering between both doors, a feeble knuckle raised to knock, as her family waits below

Is love worth the risk of loss to Death?

Ask her at the alter and she would say “Of course,” because she couldn’t possibly know

Ask her as the widow poised between the doors, and her answer would be “Yes,” whichever door she chose


Click here for more on prompt #343 – Risk from other Sunday Scribblings participants.