See

I turn on the lights
to scare away all the ghosts
of my troubled past.

More or less.
The lights are already on, but I can feel my old fears and insecurities hiding in the shadows and under the couch.

Even though I can’t see down there, the dog senses them too, and he gives a low growl as a warning not to come out.

As we grow closer, and our defenses drop, then the risks of getting hurt grow bigger and more numerous.

I cannot completely forget the failings and pain of the past, nor can I just cross the street to avoid confronting them.

Each step forward is also a step higher; and a farther potential fall.

Is there broken-heart insurance?

Missed Connections are filled with good, bad, and ‘fraid-of-the-dark-haiku. Did you write one? Did you find one? Before you check under the bed, email the link to Lovelorn Poets! We’ll preserve those shadow-side-syllables for all eternity.

piece

Birthday cake breakfasts
everyday of the week
until the last piece.

Can we talk?
There are few gifts nicer than a whole, rich, thick, gooey and sweet “decadent fudge cake with bourbon-apricot filling.”

I have been so happy this week lining up my cake, coffee, and some extra milk for the morning meal. It takes away most of the pain of getting up, knowing that shiny, sticky ganache, and firm chocolate texture are waiting for me.

If you were here to enjoy it with me, I’d light the candles again.

The recipe was invented by a local too. Nice. (Google this, you’ll find it.)
decadent-fudge-cake-with-bourbon-apricot-filling-and-chocolate-ganache

Missed Connections are filled with good, bad, and birthday-cake-haiku. Did you write one? Did you find one? Before you eat it all, be sure to email the link to Lovelorn Poets! We’ll preserve those decadent-fudge-cake-with-bourbon-apricot-filling-and-chocolate-ganache-syllables for all eternity (forks required).

war

The war on laundry
fought with soap and dryer sheets,
is an endless war.

The unfolded clean pile refuses to budge. (Like the out-of-power political party waiting to regain the House or Senate.)

The wet clothes remain hunkered down in the washer. (Like the Taliban planning next Spring’s offensive after the snow melts.)

How does it happen? When did my clothes stop marching independently through the cycle of ‘wear-wash-dry-fold-wear’?

When did ALL of my shorts, and pants, and shirts organize this “sit in” that occupies my bedroom floor, and stops me from crossing to pull closed the blinds?

And for that matter, where did the time go, and what did I do while I wore all those clothes, some laying there crumpled, wrinkled, or perspired, some food and wine stained, and others apparently dropped in haste or fatigue?

And now, the relentless bake of Summer’s heat waits for me each day; firing the sun’s late-day rays through that un-shaded western window.

(I think actually it was a bottom-up, grassroots rebellion, and so I mostly blame my socks.)

Missed Connections are filled with good, bad, and laundry-day-haiku. Did you write one? Did you find one? Before you hit the spin cycle, be sure to email the link to Lovelorn Poets! We’ll preserve those wash-n-wear-syllables for all eternity (no ironing required).