Tag Archives: divorce

Frosted Out- A poem

 Frosted Out

My window is frosted in winter’s lace.

Keeping sun’s warmth right off my face,

(Your silence is worse than this frosty place)

To move is my only remedy.

I warm my hands at the fireplace

In hope to thaw out love’s entropy.

 

You ghosted me, you gave me space;

Most likely filled my empty place.

(Who fits the things in your drawer, the lace?)

O! These are not words of jealousy.

The attachment ripped where there is no trace

Since I always knew your inconsistency.

 

All friends show they are of two-face,

The one for me and the one that is base.

You keep my army in a black case

(and convicted to your own fallacy)

Deny you ever gave me chase.

I release our supposed synchronicity.

By A.E. Wallace

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The Daze of Days Boxed Up

Do not fit me in your box;

That box of how life is supposed to be —

That box is not for me.
Many a box up in the loft–

Dusty pages, faded photos, old coats,

Boxes filled with forgotten notes.
Your space is full of box.

A box fortress life.

Yet your head is full of strife.
Only this box full of my things,

One I brought over the sea

I will carry out and be free.

–by A. E. Wallace 


On The Brink– Poem

 Under Pressure

Under Pressure

Two stars

in binary dance

competing for centre–

cancelling life around us–

isolating

ourselves

to our own

fiery company,

A.E.W


The Challenge– A Sonnet

The Challenge

Little girls in summer white dresses–

Fairies at play in bright light of noon—

Soapy bubbles float to pop on sunglasses,

as I sit in the garden where turtle doves croon.

Too many years wasted cutting back weeds–

Investing my time tilling good soil into poor dirt–

bearing insult as birds pecked new seeds–

avoiding wasp sting through my thin shirt.

Peace now though the dog still barks in his kennel;

but he is nothing to think about now.

I am safe amid chrysanthemum and fennel;

He is old and leaving me, anyhow.

Soon, I will be like my fairies that play

with no other thought than to blow my bubbles far away.

By A.E. Wallace

Old Ollerton, Nottinghamshire at the teashouse

Old Ollerton, Nottinghamshire at the teahouse


Kerouac Rules for Spontaneous Prose #15

wpid-2013-12-03-11-44-55_deco.jpg

Telling the true story of the world in interior monolog

Here I am in Mansfield town centre on Monday and I wish it was Friday. Like everyone always seems to say, post, tweet, pin-up etcetera. Like the song says; it’s Friday, I’m in love. But I am on a mission–On a job—on a plan—meeting with the lawyers Some Young Guy LLP—steeling myself for the onslaught of emotional battle. I am weak, afraid, wounded but I need to be a shark. Sharks don’t get caught up in the current of pedestrian traffic—they make the current. But I don’t because I mingle in with these people who seem to always be going, wandering and flowing in and out of days with no real direction. I need focus but I am caught up in so much haze—like a dirty fish bowl. Moving in general fed-up-ness darting more than a scuttle—hustle more than a bustle– within the crowd of slow moving old-aged-pensioners and goldfish-bowl-mums who vacantly push strollers in long rolling steps. I dart around some men who meander within and without of the crowd. They remind me of seahorses with their heads fixed forward but going nowhere. They just go around and around all docile and drowsy—dopey drones of dopamine days.

Am I as goldfish as the goldfish girls or does my scuttle make me more like a neon tetra. I look at my watch more than these people. I am Big-City-Busy but without the Big-City-Shoes and looking Big-City-Bored as I try to think of somewhere to go whilst I kill time before my appointment with Finality. Instead, I float about.


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