Quickwords Vol. 11 – Have a drink

Welcome to the eleventh volume of Quickwords, my poetry series. If you haven’t today, pour yourself a glass of water and enjoy a healthy drink while you read. I’ll be sending out my cheers.

An out-of-sight man pours golden alcohol from a pitcher into an ice-filled glass that lays alone on an empty counter.
Photo by Cottonbro

| Take a seat, |

Never before have I heard those floorboards creak
Not a whisper
They, like everyone else here, concede to being walked all over
Voiceless to indifferent character
But, for once, a cry

The planks’ whine cuts the rowdy air into trembling sheaths of silence
that fall like dead leaves
Flipped coins and stirred spirits settle
Chords and cords pause, hums dimmed to quiet
All attention turns to you

To extend invitation to one who seems want the unwelcome . . .
What ground have you picked yourself off of
to have on your tattered clothes that dirt and grime so unique?
Take a seat, have a drink
Long have I been here to share this liquid courage —
a commodity I doubt you require
— but never before have I heard those floorboards creak

| Home |

Fairy string lights on gentle brick walls
Glows whispering on the edges of photos and paintings
Of friends, by friends
Bordered in a golden shine, brightened against the early morning dim

Blankets everywhere–
the sky, a billowing veil of clouds soars
the land, powdery snow in solemn hugs
you, the softest sheets curled upon

In the space not wide but not too small
Belongings rest close, friendly to another
The smallest gaps teeming with love
And your home is a bubble
Filled with delicate air

Wisps of steam rise from freshly brewed tea
A toasty mug wrapped in serene embrace of your hands
Snowflakes fall in the faraway outdoors
Patient sips bring warmth through your resting figure
And the world waits for you
Please, my friend,
Take all the time you need

| Old Poison |

This spirit longs for the embrace of kin
Terrible it is that old poison dares share the name.
Parted too long, the unfelt chill of glass leaves frost on the lips
Now, with refusal to echo the cacophony of the past
What music is left to fill this void?

Trembling fingers pluck taut strings and press dusty keys
with hope that rhythm will for once find its way between the solitary notes
A performance failed, dropped to the knees
Staring at quivering hands through freezing tears

Let cry curses to the plague of old poison, and gaze deep into the quiet dark
Ancient demons feed upon human sound, drain the life of symphony
Now, with refusal to echo the cacophony that played to keep them sated
What remains is a battle best not ending in silence

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