Discovery

In the world of writing, there are two basic classes of people:  those who write, and those who say yes or no.  Society needs its organization for everything, and writers are no exception.  If it were not so, all would be chaos.  So if you choose the world of writing, you must also choose which is worse to you:  the possibility of being said no to, or the certainty of eventually saying no to many.  Or which is more gratifying:  giving the yes or receiving the yes?  To you, how many no's is a single yes worth?

Noticed

I showed her my painting the other day
The one with the purples that blend with the grays
And the boy in the corner that was writing a book
And the kites in the sky
And the bikes going by
And the pond with a bench
And the boys and the men
And the girls on the grass
And the horses gone past

But in spite of all this
The part I liked most
Was the tiniest stroke
A small silver curve
By the girls on the lawn
On the bench of the pond
By the boy with his book
A small fishless hook

I've shown it to many
And allowed them to look
And they liked the sky
And the boy with the book
And the girls on the lawn
And the bench by the pond
And the bikes racing past
And horses and grass

But not once did they spot
As long as they looked
Beside the small boy
The unbaited hook

But once I showed her
She gave it a look
Past purples and grays
And boy and his book
Her eye didn't waver
Her finger she took
Right to the spot
To my silver small hook

Your Silence Stings Deeper Than Daggers

Your silence stings deeper than daggers
Your look colder than dry stones


There's a storm in my mind
I send lightning from my hands
But all of Jupiter's fiercest arrows
Could not make move these dry stones

Your silence is cutting like daggers
Its slashes grow deep without cutting the surface
Leaving the inside mangled
Without a single drop of blood
Or a wince to show for the pain

My anger is growing like bruises
It wants to come out but stays in
Ignites a cursed fuse
That grows longer, not shorter
And woodpeckers hide my chagrin


Your absence is like a dried flower
Its frozen and won't grow or die
And though my soul listens
For a sigh or a whisper
My eyes long to weep
For my face is too dry


Give me a reassuring whisper
Give me a satisfying sigh
Make me to weep
I, too, wish to sleep
My face is too dry
Its too dry
Its too dry