Unrepeated History

Denise’s Six Sentence Story prompt – Petrichor

Petrichor, fresh cut grass, lavenders in summer evenings, are fond memories of her childhood.

The wooden spoon landing on her shins, her mother’s sobbing, bottles being emptied into the trash bin, is the history she is determined not to repeat.

She sits in the garden with her children to feel the winter sun and smell the crisp air, plays silly little games with them, teaches them about plants and the earth, sharing precious moments with them, before they grow up too soon.

She is content with having very little, scraping by each week, because she knows spending time with her children is more valuable than more wealth but poorer with time.

She never looks back at the house she once lived in, filled with expensive art works and furniture, and malnutrition of love.

When she heard her neighbours gossiping about her living on welfare, or her children turning up at school with summer uniforms in the middle of the winter, she smiles and reminds herself that she has given all she has to her children, including time and love which she has never received.

Sweetheart

Denise’s Six Sentence Story prompt – Box

My nose is blocked, and I keep sneezing.

My 4 year old son is running towards me with his arms throwing in the air. I quickly grab a box of tissues and wedge it between he and I, ‘Sweetheart, don’t come near me, I got a cold.”

He squashes the tissue box, wraps his arms around my neck and kisses my nose, “Mummy, you’re worth catching a cold for.”

My heart melts into a goo. My eyes are red and moist with a mix of a cold and an overwhelming feeling of love.

Dream

Last night
I dreamed of sex

It had
An aftertaste of ocean and watermelon
A smell of ambergris and bookshelves
A sound of crashing waves and paging books
Heat and moisture stayed on my skin

I think
I must have made love to poetry

***This poem is inspired by Bree’s poetry book “All Our Secrets”.

More Reviews Are In

A couple more reviews are in for my 1st book ‘The Scars We Don’t See”.

Please check out my Author Page: Cassa Bassa on Amazon

We Are Back at Where We Were

Clifton Garden, Mosman, Sydney, Australia

Memory of you running in full force all the way to the end of the jetty, leaped in the air holding your knees, gravity sank you in the reflection of the cloudless sky, stayed with me.

You packed up and left for the concrete jungle city life. Many nights, I listened to your voicemail messages, with deafening clubbing music, slurry speech, and lots ‘I love you, Silly’.

You missed my wedding, my 30th birthday party, my brother’s funeral and my divorce party. I didn’t know how to stay friends with you. You’d never there for me like you used to when you were here.

Every time I sat here, I looked at the jetty, remembering all the laughter,all the time we spent together, wondering what had gone wrong.

Now I am sitting here, with you by my side. I still haven’t had an answer. In my frail voice, I ask, “Why did you leave me and never came back all these years till now?” You wrap me tighter in the shaw and hold me closer, “Because I love you, Silly.” I still don’t quite understand, but I am glad you are back here with me in my last days. My heart is full again.

Ringers

Denise’s Six Sentence Story prompt – Yellowbelly

He was adopted into this town of ringers to work hard in the cattle trade.

Either died in the heat with thirst, or sold himself to the tavern as a slave and prostitute, the choice was obvious.

The Darwin scorching sun fried him into a freckle mess; callouses and blisters kept him in agony; the worse of all, he was belittled by the macho men who called him a Yellowbelly.

He didn’t want to fight back because he was a lot weaker than them, and his God condoned violence.

He prayed to his God like Daniel, three times a day, “Lord, when I am weak, your strength is magnified. Keep me from the temptation to murder them in their sleep, and deliver me from their evil acts. Amen.”

Surely, his God answered his earnest prayer, when the town election came, he was elected to be the local member because he was the only man could read and write.

Pluviophile

Living Poetry word prompt – Park

The silver curtain oscillates
with the rhythm of the autumn wind
drenching every surface
of the park
outside my kitchen window

Vaugely the bird songs come through
in the gaps of house chores
until coffee is ready
and a book is chosen

The inviting moist timber chair
and the wet wrought iron table
in the patio
soaking in the rain
My face meets the ash sky in delight

The coffee cup will soon be overflowing
with laughter
The poetry in the book starts shedding
tears of joy

He Is Who He Is

A writer writes
without ceasing
even his heart runs dry
soul cries in pain

He was made a writer
a blessing and a curse
all in his nib
Words fall from his flesh and bones
hanging onto life

Walk Through Life

This is the last colours of autumn
brittle to my eyes

Bitter cold will line the graveyard with grey snow
Dirty ground in dark days

The same pair of boots though
walk on grass, leaves, snow
into the far away spring dew

Role Reverse

I knew
we ended
from the hug
we had
at the same cafe
our smiles met
and our legs
flirted

I realised
what we had
was pure lust
and transactions

I touched up
my lipstick
and went out
to hunt again

But this time
he’ll be the one
that’s taking care of
the bills