Within the silvered glass I spy

the mask I wear, my perfect lie.

This happy face, it is not me;

I show them what they want to see

while deep inside I slowly die.

I cannot let them see me cry,

so I just smile and wave goodbye

then check for signs of pain, set free

within the silvered glass.

With broken wings I’ll never fly;

I turn away and softly sigh.

My world consists of tragedy -

a scream that echoes silently.

The fools can’t see, it is not I,

within the silvered glass.

(c) 2016 - dustygrein

** The rondeau is often able to convey a depth that somehow transcends it's mere fifteen lines. This one was written for my daughter. Since the loss of my grandson to SIDS  in 2011, she has worn her mask almost all the time - and only those of us who know the pain can see behind the smiles.

“Oh my! This will just never do.”

Mrs. Goulding, who had been riding side-saddle since they left the dock, slid to the ground and pulled off her white riding gloves. She reached down, and grasping the hem of her riding dress, she ripped the fabric, right to the waist. Reaching up, she grasped the saddlehorn, and with a motion that displayed her frilly white bloomers to the rest of the party, she swung her leg up and over the saddle.

Her look of smug satisfaction as the her mount got to it’s feet was only matched by the gasps of horror and indignation which were heard from the other wives. This expedition had been paid for by their husbands, and while these women were at home at their fancy tea parties, out here they were as lost and foolish as children.

{Silly old prudes}, thought Mrs. Goulding. {They should have just stayed back at the ship}.

“Shall we ride, then?” Her smile now was genuine, and with a gentle tug of the reins she turned the big T-Rex. His enormous jaws may have been muzzled tight, but his large eyes danced with excitement as he waved his little forearms in the air.

Mrs. Goulding didn’t wait for a reply. One swift kick to the monster’s ribcage, and they were off.

(c) 2017 - dustygrein

Roses are red,

The voices in my head

Violets are blue,

Do you hear them too?

Roses are red,

I wish I were dead,

Violets are blue,

The voices aren't true.

Roses are red,

The voices in my head,

Violets are blue,

It's because I miss you.

Everything pours out of me,

sand in an arthritic hand -

but nothing is poured in you see,

'cept weed and wine and vanity.

little more...

Just one more sip -

I'm almost done, don't give me lip.

"Just bitch and whine!"

"I told you, I'm fine."

I do not seek adjustment - I can only hope to wait out his whiskey. My husband is more malevolent these days.

"I'm fine." He used to say, before I stopped believing him.

He seemed fine, fit and functional - who am I to question method? I am no virgin to dysfunction.

My mother said the same. Father too, fine as well, broken glass - drunk as hell.

Wives are different than daughters, they're drowned by husbands in darker waters.