The Garden Over The Hill

Ragtag Daily Prompt Thursday – A Flower Cried

Over the hill

from where I live

is a garden

where nothing grows, except regret.

In the garden

over the hill

from where I live

nothing grows


there are no more second chances

there are no more disappointing kisses ,

no more hellos,

no tortured goodbyes

no one here will ever  miss bus, or train or  lose money or catch a cold.

In the garden

over the hill from where I live

the stone angels look like they’re crying ,

but they have never shed a tear

the flowers, cut down in their prime, when they are at their brightest

 weep and fade when it’s their time to go

like all of us do

on the other side of the hill

from the garden

where nothing grows.

Photo A.M Moscoso

Photo A.M. Moscoso

Photo A.M. Moscoso

The Empty Corpse

On the Givers and Takers and doormats of the world:

 Lost in thought

buried in thought

so many idea and words and pictures

an endless chain of might have beens

tied around my neck

a noose

dropped over my head

by hands who were glad I was there

and thankful that  I was such

an understanding friend

right up to the end.

Two Hundred and Six Bones

Tongues in torment

brain cells starving in darkness

vacant eyes

and necks bent in permanent  subjugation  to  the  Gods who dwell  in the hills of Bellevue and are housed in finery by Lake Union.


The human body

a vessel for technology to travel by

an over designed mode of transportation for a bit of light and sound trapped in plastic.


206 bones, six liters of blood, six million years of evolution

all promised to next years model

a phone in a case bedazzled and cared for

slimmer, faster and more desirable

then we will ever be

to each other.


This Is The Way It Works

When I ride the bus

or I am out walking my dog

when I’m on the train

and going no where

in particular at all

I like to watch people

I like to take their faces into my head

inch by inch

in small

and delicate



I can take my time

because they are on their phones

trapped in a screen

unable to look up and away

I can steal their expressions, collect their hands, shoulders, their eyes

put them in my memory to be devoured

at a later time


a story or a poem .

When I am out

loose and invisible in a sleeping world

I feel like a gargoyle

on a wall.




Here I am.


Shall we begin….


Once upon a time.

Oh. No.

Photo by Pixabay on


but not for the first time


it happens more often then you would think

someone committed suicide

in the cemetery where I worked.


I think that when that happens

it is so  loud

it wakes the dead


and when the dead open their eyes and  realize what has happened

I think

it makes them sad.