Complacent

Oh, hey there, jet stream

Looks like you got left

Behind with me.

And we’re just fixed

Here unintentionally

like predetermined

objects pasted on

with miles of smiles.

And don’t you know

That we can go.

Anywhere.

Anytime.

But let’s just stay awhile

And we’ll make the most

of a blue sky.

Friendly Fire

She wraps her dreams in cellophane,

Sending them off like toy soldiers

camouflaged in brown paper bags.

But every war is started by someone

older; the young are lost on foreign

soil, grasping for meaning (or maybe

not) that is thrust upon their backs;

the dead weight of yesterday

is screaming for the light.

Mom

           Welcome Weekend Writing Warriors!    

Weekend writing Warriors is a weekly bloghop. Each week, participants sign up HERE at wewriwa.com, then post 8 sentences of their work, published ot unpublished, to go live between noon, Saturday and 9:00 AM Sunday EST Then we visit each other and read, comment, critique, encourage--all those things that do a solitary writer's heart good. 



My mind cannot separate

her from the brown earth

that raised up

her flowers

and me.

She said, “Reach.”

Oh, I did and she

did not insist

on superfluous things

like saying, “this is how.”

Her eyes would just

Smile as I found

my way,

like her flowers,

to the light.

One Thing You Missed

           
Welcome Weekend Writing Warriors!    

Weekend writing Warriors is a weekly bloghop. Each week, participants sign up HERE at wewriwa.com, then post 8 sentences of their work, published ot unpublished, to go live between noon, Saturday and 9:00 AM Sunday EST Then we visit each other and read, comment, critique, encourage--all those things that do a solitary writer's heart good.
 

Here is your little girl’s

first loose tooth, six

years of pearly growth

down the drain.

No, literally, it went

down the drain.

Your son, though

younger, her champion,

composed of freckles and

energy, shovels every

ditch, certain he will

recover her lost treasure.

You see, they know loss

And they seek what is lost.

Megan Cypher copyright 2013 All Rights Reserved

Thanks for visiting!

We Were Young

August dust settles upon

overgrown fields of grass.

Under a dark canopy

of late summer green,

six skinny legs, bitten and brown,

splash heedlessly 

among smooth rocks.   

Skippers dance over the

surface, innately aware that

summer won’t last.