layer removed

Born into a world without personal computing, I learned to type using correction strips on a manual typewriter.

Five years ago I saw a woman google for information on her phone while in line at a concert. ‘How novel!’ I thought.

Now, in 2017, my phone is always with me, ready with time, weather, news, answers, camera, apps and books. But today, with no internet connection, I have a feeling of loss.  I am not lost though—an old familiar world has returned.

                      No internet 

                      unseen layer removed

                      old world returns

Quicksand

image

As I feel myself consumed
by insanity
I grasp repeatedly
 for 
impossible reality.
I sink in quicksand,
a hungry suction
drags me down.
I flail,
helpless in never-ending
delusion.

There is no danger
no quicksand
yet
this mindset
consumes me,
its energy,
intoxicating,
exhausting 
hypnosis.

Twisted nostalgia skips
across scratched memory
seen, felt, heard,
and as a puppet
I re-enact it all
over and over
until spring
thaw when
lucidity awakes
 and speaks:
"stand step back
stand step back
look listen hold on."

                                                       ©2017 Ontheland

 

Winds of change

image

Sudden blizzard

unleashes ghostly breath

misting in deathly white

hurling frozen fistfuls

to angry winds

until new day dawns

a fresh crystal blanket

christening

each tree, each post

wedding white

burying all remains—

not lost, just waiting

to be uncovered

by wind and sun.

image

©2017 Ontheland

Photo credits:  The first photo is from Pixabay (public domain) and the second, I took in January last year.

Kim is the host today at dVerse Poets Pub for Quadrille Monday: ‘Ghost’.

Late December

When winter nights grow long,

smoke curls into burdened skies,

sun flashes grey with purple and rose,

and joyful songs sparkle

celebrating light’s return.

Was it the fanfare

and proclamations of cheer

or the bone-chilling nights

that carved a new path to my heart?

©2017 Ontheland

∼My first 2017 Quadrille for dVerse Poets Pub—my little pup is curled in my lap as I prepare to click ‘Publish’.∼

As ink dries

My first pen

held

 a disposable

plastic cartridge

filled with ink.

An abandoned

inkwell hole

gaped at the

right front corner

of each school desk.

My father’s

special

dip pen

languished

in a drawer.

I wonder 

if children

of the future

will have

pencils.

©2016, Ontheland