Would the stories in pictures on the wall touch upon the black secrets of Harroway Hall? I think not. But I’m sure random flies and their narrow view at small parties would probably elicit very hushed yet profound tales of those gathered. I would throw money down that I was correct. But first, fresh country air was calling.
“Hold my jacket, James,” realizing it would be getting warmer. “Hopefully, she is better at following my lead this morning afteryesterday’s disastrous ride.“
“Yes, sir. The wire you made me tape onto the whip should provide you the results you want.
“A three-week trip to India was a real shock to me. This country left a double impression in my soul. On the one hand, this is a magical fairy tale, motley and bright, and on the other, beggarly neighborhoods, areas and entire cities, on the streets of which hundreds of thousands of homeless people live. Looking at the faces of these people, I decided to make a series of portraits in order to shed true light on how the majority of the population of India lives. Most of the people I shot never saw a camera in their life, and what was their surprise when they saw their portrait on the displays. Such sincere delight, I have not met for a long time … Their faces are illuminated by a smile, eyes glowing with happiness, all this and much more should serve as an example for modern society. After all, no matter what, people living in poverty are still able to enjoy the little things … “– tells traveler photographer Roberto Pazzi (Roberto Pazzi).
she lived a hard life weathered and yet beautiful soul etched in her skin
Author note:These are six short poems compiled into two linked threads of three poems each, in free verse.
thin as light
holding her thin as light as she looks the other way
there is nothing to do as the world spins and we lie there in the softness of a rug
until the final shade had sipped the moments of light into a soft-touch fade within the arms of night
midnight gardens
in the world beneath the moon where secrets shall never leave the doors we close
we follow the path where the spirits play until we see neither wrong nor right
unable to leave until the morning lines have drawn the world once more in the mist of breaking light
~~~
Frank Watson was born in Venice, California and now lives in New York. He enjoys literature, art, landscaping, jazz, and international travel. Publications include The Dollhouse Mirror, Seas to Mulberries, and One Hundred Leaves. In the Dark, Soft Earth was just published in April. His work has appeared in various literary journals and anthologies. Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, and TikTok: @FrankWatsonPoet
I awoke in dimmed light — the spirit of forging on slightly dampened. But a new day had begun anew. I owed it to nature to oblige with movement.
Slow slaps of arthritic pain on the laminated floor bore witness to that effort. The smell of coffee circulating in my nostrils urged me on.
Looking out the kitchen window previewed a gloomy day. Bare brown limbs prominently on display with the sun hidden behind the white backdrop.
I watched as flat and fluffy white flakes mingled with the ice-encased scenery. The hard-crystalized nature would eventually shatter, litter on the ground indiscriminately.
Steam from my coffee curled up into view like a typical fog. This scene of dreariness further clouding my demeanor.
The TV spouted the daily “Breaking News,” breaking me down even more. “Does anything good happen anymore?” I wondered.
The responsibility of my existence sits on my desk chipping away at my bank account and self-esteem. Once again, screaming, “I can’t give what I don’t have.”
My ringing cell phone urged a distraction from this misery. Tears began to flow as another nail hammered in, another in my generation gone.
With trembling hands, I ended the call and stared out the kitchen window. And with a heaving chest, a wet face, and blurry vision, I broke.
I should have predicted the inevitability of heading back under the covers. The older I get, the heavier the weight of what life has to offer, the more defeated I am.
