Author's Note: What a gift: opposition for a theme. Call it a prompt, the turn. These poems of mine, as well as countless others, would qualify.
Black windows at this hour, this time of year, breed silence of a kind that pulls the world in tight around me; a candle and one bulb throw just the light to see my face outside. The cares of this long day, if there at all, melt into a velvet void contained like inky water by reflecting glass. A face, my own, moves with me as I pass.
The Responsibility for Something Said
The responsibility for something said weighs on his after-mind like liquid lead, the witty, unintended quip he made too quickly, and its dark stains will not fade. The look his friend—his former friend?—returns. He waits for retribution that he’s earned.
Between the Lines
The meaning always lurks between the lines waiting there, to be heard and understood as something you intended anyway. “I wrote it and it must be what I meant,” you say, taking credit for accident. Unless, of course, a friend turns what you’ve said into a line you’d disapprove for others, which turns your voice and mind a little colder. “Intent,” you tell yourself, “like taste and beauty, is always in the eye of the beholder.”
©2023 Donald Wheelock
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