Hôtel de la Gare


Jane Dougherty Writes

For the dverse prompt

I had walked this street so often

yet never noticed the façade,

the way it shunned the pavement like a criminal,

windows dingy, half-shuttered,

paintwork the yellowing shade of cheap paperbacks,

the name, camouflaged by time and rain

barely distinguishable and incongruous—

Hôtel de la Gare.

We ended up on this street

one night of pivotal tension

that started beneath the stars

and ended

behind the dingy half-shuttered windows

of a hotel far from any station.

No trains woke us, no cock crowing,

the curtain veiled the half-shuttered sun,

and the silence was like suffocation.

Years afterwards I still walk that street,

and the criminal shiftiness of the façade

glares at me, hands in pockets

and a fag in the corner of its mouth.

Just keep moving.

I keep moving,

wondering why those dingy half-shuttered windows

refuse to sink back into unseen shadows,

why that incongruous…

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Attraction is a mystery

the eternal mystery

A Faded Romantic's Notebook

Attraction is a mystery

What is it that captures, captivates and compels?

What is it that draws us, like iron to magnet, bee to honey, moth to light? What is it that makes us warm to another, need to make contact, need to be in their presence, or simply make us catch our breath when they come close?

Is it in their eyes, or their mouth? Is it the arc of their smile? Is it in their height, their weight, their curves and lines? Is it in the colour of their skin or their hair? Is it in their laughter, or their voice, or their words, or the intelligent mind within?

Is it in their honesty, their truth, their empathy, their kindness, their compassion, their hope?

Is it in their movement, their balance, the way their body moves when they walk? Is it in the clothes they wear?

Is it…

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Dear Heart …

When will you learn, dear heart?

The world around you
is not what it pretends to be.

Reality is uncovered for you, one day at a time
utterly indifferent to what you have in mind.

Blessed are those with certainty about outcomes
You are cursed with doubts for all aphorisms

Why, oh why, dear heart
do you elongate the past?

Can you not just forget
that you stumbled into the present?

Every station in life has a future.
Look far enough and nothing else will matter.

Will you ever learn, dear Heart?

Written by my friend and fellow poet and remarkable author of fine books, Rashid Osmani

Find his Publications at Amazon:

“In the Footsteps of Rumi” ISBN 978145258232
“Word Posse” ISBN 9781477661963
“Are Muslims Savages?” ISBN 9781481853347


Rethinking Life

Winter Landscape, Trees, Snow, NatureI’ve heard it said
that memories
and photographs
can bring comfort
to those who have
lost their loves
but those are lies
death makes sure of that
you can’t touch memories
and the person in a photograph
doesn’t age
or laugh
or hold you
nothing is left behind
nothing that can put you back together
and all the silly things people say
are like icicles
falling to the ground
and shattering
for when your love is gone
it’s always winter

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Battle Prayer…

My Sword and Shield....

Hear me now
oh ye angels of war
bend down from
the high places
of the world and
lay thine lips upon
my blade
bury my anger
and my rage
and so
blind my senses
that I may strike true
without judgment or mercy

For I seek not to maim or wound
nor do I wish to be cruel
grant me the fortitude
to pursue my torments
and vanquish that which
wishes me ill

Be thou my remembrancer
When the battle rages
whisper unto my exhausted ears
the names of those
for whom
I have taken up my sword
Let me not forget their sanguine dreams
nor tarry in the mire of the swamps of doubt
let indecision be driven from my heart
and place within my tattered soul
A spark of your gentle mercy
That I might find honor in victory or grace in defeat
and hold mine enemies…

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I Do Not Say

something beautiful.

John Biscello

I do not say I love you,
but I notice how your fingers
twine and wrap around empty,
tracing broken circles in the air
when you are nervous.
I do not say I love you,
but there is a spot on the nape of your neck,
which radiates blush with the slightest tease
or provocation, and I do not tell you
how I belong to it,
its small history, and wisps of symmetry
soldering pink to gasp.
I do not say I love you,
Silence, you see, my longstanding master,
having taught me the gauzy reckon
of slow holy burn,
and ice floes, papered with daisies,
adrift in motherless golden haze,
perpetrating nature as silent cinema
with lines and actors to spare.
I do not say I love you,
but I know all of your hiding places,
and have left bread-crumbs there to commemorate
your movements between revelation and secrecy.

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I don’t have the words for this…it’s very special.  Comments closed, please see the original.

My Screaming Twenties

She visited me tonight,

pressed her hand

against my heart,

caught my breath

in her palm

and asked me if I felt,

her anger, her apathy

and dismay.

She visited me tonight,

pulled apart

each knuckle

and asked me how,

many times

I’d held your hand,

then threatened

to pin loss

in my sides,

to lock her heartache

into my ribcage.

She visited me tonight,

promised I’d keep you

only as a whisper,

as a love letter

written and stowed,

as a postcard

never sent,

told me I’d lose

you, to the aether

she’d enchanted

with lies.

© Kristiana Reed 2018

Image credit. 

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