I am writing new works everyday in the Writer’s Digest.com/Poetic Asides November PAD Chapbook initiative. They can be found on the tab linked here.
The opinions you serve up
miss the net and fall short of love.
Each volley you strike
puts me out. You have set me up
to play your game, even though
you hit me with your backhand smash.
You have the advantage
and think you hold all the aces.
It’s not my fault that you let
me hang, that baseline was too far.
I was all in for mixed doubles,
but apparently that just wasn’t your racquet.
So, be assured. I will rally, and find your
sweetspot (I believe I have the balls to pull it off!)
This is set point, and the match is at stake.
It was an honest mistake. Give me a rematch,
or I’ll get all McEnroe on your ass.
OUT? ARE YOU KIDDING ME?…
Silence surrounds; the sounds of night pervade,
Shadows crawling, calling in the vacuous void.
You avoid the spot in the corner where darkness
is all consuming. You are assuming that all that lays
at rest is best left alone. The breathing you hear
is clear across the room; not your own.
A moan, a creak sneaks to slip beside you.
Disembodied shivers sends a quiver down
your spine. The whine in your ears disappears
as your thoughts perceive what you disbelieve.
Your recorder catches something that concerns you,
but you can’t discern what it could be.
A whisper? A cry? A scream nearby? You spy that shadow
again rising like an orb left to fend for itself.
The playback confirms these ghosts do not feed the worms.
They’ve come out to play, or so that’s what they say.