Carpe Diem

photoart - patricia williams

Carpe Diem - Seize the Day

by Patricia Williams

I want to run away and be a Las Vegas showgirl ― the  

glamor, the fun and excitement, that’s an enticement ―

what would my in-laws, the book club, the church-ladies say?

Carpe diem - seize the day 

I’d hire a maid― flee the cleaning, treat my skin with

French-milled soap, no more harsh detergent ― then there’s

the kids ― that’s urgent  ― but I’ll let those matters lay.

Carpe diem - seize the day

There I’d be, wrapped in a white feather boa ― nothing else. 

My husband, stunned, the audience clamoring for more.

I’m a star, have fame galore ― with rich admirers at bay.

Carpe diem - seize the day 

My bubble burst, glimpsed me in the mirror.  All that’s left

of my sweet revere is a white feather floating in the breeze ―

escaped my pillow when I made the bed ― guess a feather’s

as close as I’ll ever be.  Hummm ―maybe I’ll dye my hair red!

Carpe diem - seize the day. 

~ first published in Lake City Lights

GHOSTS OF HAWORTH

photo - patricia williams

GHOSTS OF HAWORTH

by Patricia Williams

 

Vivid autumn courses, bringing unwelcome news

of unknown but compelling forces

shrouded in time and season,

a world where myth and reason collide,

the magnetic pull of frost and fog,

bleak landscapes where gothic heroes speak.

A timeworn house and desolate downs, set amid

the rushing and moaning of the wind, 

hear tortured souls howling from parchment pages.

November bites, draws in the chill of winter,

overnight frost and snow settle and fall,

thoughts and feelings call and clash along the way.

Those most encumbered ones of Haworth,

all slumbered before their thirty-eighth summer,

unconventional, unwell, grave and quiet,

living in a limbo close to hell, clinging to one other,

happiness not brought about by change

on the bleak moors of Yorkshire.

Walk in the wilderness, the featureless and solitary

that haunts with hints of the extraordinary.

Pictures frozen in time, every twist having a turn,

each hillock of heather with scent sublime,

like elusive thoughts during sleep.

Those coldest pine for Haworth’s beloved heath.

~ first published in Middlebrow Magazine