A Slow Boat to China

The seagulls called the ship out to sea. The S.S. Majesty answered with three blasts of its horn. It was the ship‘s final call, urging the passengers to board before she packed up.

From the ship’s, Alice searched the crowd for John. “He will not come. I knew it.”
As she was about to give up and leave the cruise, she spotted John getting out of a cab. He paid the cab driver and grabbed his luggage.

She ran down the gangplank and called out to him, “I’m over here.”

He saw her and lugged his suitcases toward the ship.

“Hurry,” she said.

She wrapped her arms around and gave him one of her best kisses. “I didn’t think you’d be able to get away. But you did.”

“There was no way I was about to miss going away with you.”

She laughed, her anxiety slipping away. She glanced at his luggage. “You have everything?”

“I don’t need much.”

“You got your passport?”

“Passport?”

“Yes,” she said.

“I don’t have a passport.”

“You don’t have a passport? Get out of here. You have a passport.”

“I don’t.”

Alice looked at John with amazement. Alice pushed him away from her. “I’m leaving. I thought you were coming with me.”

“I am.”

“But you don’t have a passport.”

“We can go to Canada.”

“You need a passport to get into Canada.”

“Mexico?”
“Got to have a passport.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

She shook her head. “I’m leaving.”

Alice turned and boarded the ship. On the deck, she watched John slip away into the crowd.

A tall handsome man with the deep blue eyes sidled up to her. “I have a passport.”
She looked up at him. For approximately ten seconds, she was ready to swoon, then she came back to reality and stiffened her back. “You’re not my type.”
“What do you mean I’m not your type? Just what type do you think I am?”
“A man.”

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Late night meditation

It’s eleven p.m. The street is quiet.
Neighbors’ lights go out one by one
and soon the midnight hour
when only street lights shine.
In the kitchen, dishes in the sink,
an uncorked Cabernet
and a slice of wedding cake in the fridge.
Cat sprawls out on the couch.
On a chair, an open book,
a story half-unfinished,
with maps to the moon
and colored photographs.
Down the hall, the bed waits,
pillows propped two high
and clean sheets.

micropoem of the day: insomnia

Boy, last night was wicked. Not matter how hard I tried I couldn’t sleep. I tried counting sheep. I tried counting cats. You name it. I counted anything I could think of. I got up and exercised for twenty minutes. I did need that, but it didn’t help. My mind was in a whirl and it wasn’t going to un-whirl no matter the effort. Maybe it was the Muse keeping me up. She does that, you know. Finally, this little gem came to me. 

waiting for a dream
I toss, I turn, I raise
my shirt like a sail

haiku for the day: sparrowhawk

I often use photographs for my morning prompts. The first thing I do is get a cup of coffee and sit down and open up a blog called Monochromia. Monochromia is a group of photographers who post black and white photographs. In all this world of color, you’d think black and white photography was a dying art. But it isn’t. It’s alive and well. And Monochromia is proof of that. The photograph that inspired this haiku was not from Monochromia but from my wallpaper. Each day a program down loads a new photograph to my desktop. 

ready to rise and hunt
on a branch a sparrowhawk
with wings like a fan

The Woman in the Window

From her second story window, the old lady peered out onto the street below. Daily this woman in black watched the world of the street below. The cars. The walkers. The neighbors. Some said she was taking names and getting numbers. Mostly she just kept watching. And watching. Some didn’t like being spied upon. Others didn’t care. “She’s not any harm to anybody,” they said. No one inquired about her. They all speculated but they didn’t knock on her door and wish a friendly good morning. Only a local delivery boy did that as he brought the latest round of groceries. People just weren’t all that curious. After all, it was an old woman. No one to be concerned about. In her room, she stared down on the world below, craving something other than curiosity. But what? If someone had asked, she might have blurted out, “Charlie. He’s my son. He’ll be home from the war. Soon.”