by Suzan Abrams

Too Late

We search the elusive when a gem already glints. We abandon the shine. One day, startled by a bladed memory, we turn to glimpse the faded sparkle. A calendar date now dead, still grasps the key. It’s too late of course. The oyster has long buried its pearl. – suzan abrams –

The Sunset

The sunset was bloodied today. It stood watching closely, waiting behind the trees. No birdling heartbeat nor veined branch could hoard its finery. Its solitary breast lay decked in gold even as it beckoned me to it, the steely matriarch with her restless fiery heart. I stood chilled and unable to part, fearing an embrace that would crumple the ashes of my skin. The bloodied sunset smiled slowly as it finally fled, watching me quietly and watching me still. – suzan abrams –

Teacup
I woke up late at eight, from bed, and fell with a yell into the well of my teacup. I thought of a hiccup or a rescue plan at ten, but soaked up sleep after a clean icing sweep from a consoling cake tin which promised not to tell. – suzan abrams –
The Man in the Box
He was dangerous. I became scared and locked him in a box. He escaped as I lay in bed, high on cake and wine. In his hand was the box, where he said the ocean pleaded my soggy end. I died while still afloat and partying on my bed. – suzan abrams –
The Sand
I wanted to go to the sea one morning when the rain spread a carpet of water on the coast. I thought I would swim in the sand. – suzan abrams –
Love in a Bottle
A bottle bellydanced the ocean seeking my hand on land. But a seasick tipple and a love letter toppled and a whale failed its serenade for me. – suzan abrams –


Doors Open

Doors open and shut and bang in the wind and hinges fall and doors open and shut and bang about all silly in the wind and the attic of the mind nets it all in for before the next door bolts…fishing memories for the ocean of a heart that can never hold too much like a bustling mother with dinner for her brood..love is never enough and so the heartstring crew shout the memories in, wrestling against the washed-up gales of change, weighing them heavy and tugging…before the next door slams…yarns are roped in as fertile as a North Sea catch. – suzan abrams –