RDP Saturday: COBWEBS
Unknown
Do you know how strong cobwebs are?
How resilient
they are to the wind, to the cold to the heat and rain and frost?
Do you know it takes tremondous force and power time and effort
to knock them down, strip them away and try to dispose of them?
If I had to chose something to protect my memories, the times and moments that
mean the most to me.
I’d chose to dust them with cobwebs and maybe a scary looking
spider or two.
Just to be on the safeside.
RDP Monday: GLUM
It is an empty house
on a dead end road
the empty house is
overgrown with weeds and sticker bushes and infested with bugs
that could give you a nasty bite and oozing rashes for weeks maybe months at a time.
It is an empty house
on a dead end road where
nobody ever heard wicked sly voices chanting and singing to them in the dark
of a sleepless night.
Nobody who lived or died in this empty house
ever swung an ax a their confused and bedeviled spouses
or had children with horns and too many fingers and tails.
Beautiful trees were
brutally chopped down
so that this empty house
where nothing exciting ever happened
could be called a home.
The empty house
on the Dead End Road
is now quietly falling to bits,
with no stories hidden inside of it’s walls
buried in it’s basement,
discarded down the well in it’s back yard.
It’s just an empty an lifeless house
at the end of a dead end road infested with bugs and thorns.
RDP Friday: NOTEBOOK
The thought of spending the day with me
actually made someone sick
and by that I mean
they had to go to the Doctor
sick.
I’m not sure if I should laugh or cry or care at all.
It’s just a curious footnote in my journal, a notebook covered with cookie crumb stains
that nobody will ever read.
My cat likes to sleep on it, sometimes.
RDP Wednesday: MIST
“Misty Forest” by Maciej Zamojski
Do you know that
when the fog
crawls across the rocks, through the woods, across the lake
to my front door
I can hear it breathing?
That’s how I know it’s alive.
Do you know that when it reaches the edge of my yard-
the very edge of my yard where my porch light ends and the darkness begins
a thin dark line smudged at the edges
it sighs a little and stops where the light is
and I can hear the grass and flowers and the dry dead leaves on the ground popping like
corn in a cast iron pot, a treat from a long time ago?
Sometimes I forget to turn the porch light on
I forget to snap on the lamp in my living room window
and the mist crosses my yard to my house
and when it arrives it gently touches each panes of glass
it caresses each crack, each loose board
it takes it’s time before it creeps in and settles down with me
for the night
and it tells it’s stories to my shivering bones.
Andrew Wyeth Incoming Fog