Posted in Poetry

Photographs

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Flipping through pictures,
I’ll find your car, the dog, and
sometimes the kids, but
where am I? You photograph
what you are afraid
to lose–our memories are
absent. As absent
as we are from your cellphone.
You make excuses–
“I’m a private person,” and
my memory is
“excellent.” Yet you
never considered what I
might like. For me, I
will need those chubby pictures,
the teenage eye-rolls,
the pictures of when
we loved, and hated each other–
to reassure my
failing memory .
I am not perfect like you
and I do not know it all.
I take pictures of
what I’m afraid of losing.
I smile when I’m sad.
Every picture has
a story to tell.

~~ Photographs

© 2018 LC

Image Credit to Greta Tuckute

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Posted in Writing

Six-Word Story- Year 12

Her sadness became her greatest triumph.

~~ Year 12, Cold War

Posted in Poetry

When I’m Grown-Up…

I want to sit on an old, wood porch swing with you
wrapped up in a coccon of your love listening to your
heart swelling in your chest as you breathe–
feeling the warm, summer breeze on our smiling faces
watching the sun slowly make her way up the horizon
the sky awake with color, the darkest blue clouds
against a wave of pastels- pink, purple, orange, yellow
the clouds fade to light puffy, cotton candy the
bright yellow sun makes her home in the sky
we make eyes at one another like two high school
sweethearts over our coffee as we talk about the
children and listen to the birds perched in the tall, Oak
trees as they sing their sweet songs. I want to grow old with you
in this old country house. You and me. This old, rusty swing.

~~ When I’m Grown-Up LC  ©2018

Posted in Poetry

The House She Lives In.

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The House She Lives In.

His love waned like the moon.
Actions don’t align with your words.
Words spoken can become your house.
Your house is key to happiness.

His love made her feel ugly.
Ugly becomes all she sees until..
Until the soul becomes depressed, weary.
Depressed from withholding love, suppressing love.

No touch. No kiss. Nothing. Loneliness.
Nothing but verbal sparring. False faces.
False words. I’m wrong. You’re wrong.
You don’t come to bed, anymore.

© 2017 LC

I experimented a little with this one. Tried to keep it to six words a sentence and recycled some of the words to the next sentence though not with the first and last sentence.

 

Posted in Poetry

Our First Beach Trip

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Our First Beach Trip.
© LC 2017

Never Shall I Forget my first
family beach trip that June in the
back of Dad’s Red and black Ford. I had
just finished first grade.
Never Shall I forget falling asleep with
grape Hubba-Bubba in my hair. Mom had
to cut the sticky, stringy mess from my head.
Never shall I forget the love I felt radiating
from both of my parents and the immense amount
of excitement and happiness we all felt going on
our first vacation together!
Never shall I forget the damaging winds, the swaying
trees, the flashing lightning, and booming thunder.
My Dad was invincible, as he was my hero, and wasn’t afraid.
Never shall I forget watching in fear the way he ran into KFC to
grab dinner. He did not fear any storm for he was a proud Navy-man.
Never shall I forget sitting there listening to the rhythm of the
windshield wipers thinking he was gone too long. Listening to
the rain fall hard on the glass. The raindrops race to streak down
the windows. In the glass, I saw a blurry form who was my Dad!
Never shall I fear going anywhere with my Dad. He is not afraid
to be in strange places with people he has never met and never afraid
to make a friend or two.
Never will I forget these things as long as I live. (As little did I know this would be our only family vacation.)
Never.

 

This is my first shot at a “Never Shall I Poem.”  Not sure how great I did, but I’ll keep practicing on occasion.