Going through your
leftovers on a daily basis. Some
worshipped junk like tees,
                                     
       , cups.
Tandoori seasoning.

                                 HALLS, CHERRY
flavor. Magazines.
I grab your trainers again to throw
them out of the window and



                        , and then I put them
back.
Things. Worse, spots where we

first
this  and  that.

They track tram lines like battered
beads. The necklace
too tight.
I pass them by every single day,
always get the window.
I want to, hate to watch them smirking
in yellow leaves, I want to mark them on
the map, then cut them out and stuff
the holes. But with what? Dig away,
forbid, forgive,
blow out, blow up and then,

frame them.

Then break the glass.

And take it to the glazier's.

Outdated ice monuments, melting
with some ashy passion left. Or boiling
separation. Just me who stumbles over
them, these places: sharp rocks in shoes
I had on when we first danced, blisters
on my feet, plodding up and down
the street called
Dead end,

lolling about. Is it. Dead. And?
I am still
counting sand grains I squeezed
from your towel, you know,
the shore, the lake, the very
last time.

Dear Katarina

Interesting & pressing imagery
that in a very nice way
brings up some memories
of Anna Akamothova.

a warm smile
silent lotus

Dear SL, thank you. Oops, who is she, my google failed to find her, not a single o....or?
K

take a look here

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anna_Akhmatova

http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/1


The Guest

Everything is as it used to be: there is fine sharp snow
Hitting at the windows of the dining room,
And I myself haven’t become new,
But a man came to me.

I asked: " What do you want?"
He said, "To be with you in hell."
I laughed: " You’ll predict us both, possibly, bad luck."

But having raised his withered hand,
He lightly touched the flowers.
"Tell me how they kiss you,
Tell me how you kiss."

And the eyes watching blankly,
Didn’t move from my ring.
Not a muscle moved
In his serenely angry face.

Oh, I know his joy--
To know hard and passionately,
That he doesn’t need anything from me,
That I have nothing that I can refuse him.


by Anna Akhmatova
1 January 1914

So not Akamothova as you first typed, but Akhmatova, her surname has especially naughty letters, hasn't it.
Well, her bangs looked just like mine...and what a nice read, I'll get back to her, thank you - but now I have burnt onion and overcooked pasta, your fault... :)

..and then spinach was gone, too...Lucky you, me, unmarried, just cannot blame you for a divorce.

.

How old are you?

Great start to your journal K. Sue

.

Sue, did you mean the spoilt lunch or the marriage? not sure..

Well, If burned pasta meant you had to eat cake...but a marriage where you get to smash a house to bits...


The poem is full of energy...and obstacles...a great read.

Happy house clearing or bashing whatever you decide...
 :-\

Thanks, Sue.

If I have a choice, I prefer smashing to bashing. Taking wine bottles to the glass bin is always a treat.

Death, caffeine and

I got off the chair and leant to smell potted Shasta daisies in my
window cause I love, love that fresh&spicy scent of what a smart
death could once smell like, and then, dizzy, seating back
I spilled
hot
black, delicious Costa Rican coffee right into my
lap
               
             
and


I was reminded at least
of
watering the flowers.

you're a gem, K

 :)


T

feel more like a paving stone today.

 :)




K

.

.

REW

At bus stop
a safe grid of
comings and
leavings.



In the empty room,
the porcelain keeps
swinging
forth and
             back.


I              go.
I           smack white angel’s face and before,
I         get dressed,
I       stand up,
I   move,

I  breath.
I lie
down on the
floor trying to
smell the stain
precisely.

A dog’s barking
blurs into the
morning fog as
if flashbacking
wine – soaked
Persian carpet.

just read.
feels so empty and so full

maybe full of emptiness?

.