What time is it?

Threads are scattered
across my lap. How long 
have I lain cross this table?
Tic Tic the Clock
in the back of my head -
and the table rocks.

Threads. Thread...
bare in my hands.
The original tie -in.
Like a macramé hanging -
in its unformed state
yet frayed from sliding fingers.

And the time.
Ceasing. Unceasing. I relent.
the hands, the pen, the plug.
Toc Toc the Clock.
Stand - and the threads scatter 
Across the floor.





Shelley Rae Bell




Song, Sorrow and a Flower

I have a song of sorrow in my heart.

you only know.

The first born light today

shines on me.

while I suffer notes of weariness

shadows play in minor key.

I lay down in cool downy greens

and I see

notes in blues and reddish hues.

Up and down the scale it goes

a song begging to be free.

shelley rae bell

My Hand is on the Lock

 

Do I keep things out? Or in?

I cannot tell. I would not say.

Forged bars are where doors

would compose an opening.

 

I held the blacksmith’s hammer.

And tongs when I breathed fire.

Placed each bar in tedious fashion.

A wartime plan.

 

Do I lock the door against? Without?

I select. I would indulge.

A secret keepers combination.

A brave companion.

 

 

shelley rae bell

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