Copyright © 2019 · here for wonder by Gail Walter -- All Rights Reserved

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November 13, 2019

Waiting,
We are waiting.
For death.

Comfortable, draped, drooping.
Dancing invisible.
A static swirl
Of silent questions.

Why will death
Not come?
Why hover
A resentful cloud
Refusing to rain?

How long will it take?

Are we not there yet?

Mr Degas!
Where are you going?
Home. I am going home.
This is your home, Mr Degas.

How dare you?
How dare you
Call this my home.

The lady opposite
Gathers spilt pepper
On a torn-out page.
A medit...

October 31, 2019

It is dreary to write about self-loathing but it is what presently consumes me. If I write about anything else, I am once removed, to put it kindly, and lying, to tell you the truth.

Saying or bringing up the subject of self-loathing is a bit like soiling yourself in public. There is so much shame. As I write I am thinking, 'please, can we not?'. 

I am convinced there must be a less unattractive spin. There must be a way for...

October 31, 2019

I am apparently a witch.

Voodoo mom, my children call me.

Balance me, my skeptical son who pleads, by text

by phone or email.

I can’t feel my feet on the ground,

I can’t breath

I can’t see 

I can’t stand.

And in the silence in another town,

across the country

across the world.

I hold up

the faceted weight

the mysterious stone;

my amethyst,

or paperclip

on a string

and watch

for a moment 

the stealthy circle rise.

And ask the questions I have...

October 30, 2019

We must stop 

all this clamor, 

this clutter 

of virtual advice. 

1,2,3,4, 

This is how you do it…

bullet points. 

We may die from it.

Who are we, 

I mean really? 

So many experts? 

Pardon me 

if I pause here, 

skeptical.

Writers, good ones, 

have voices. 

Should they use these 

hallowed things 

always to advise? 

To opine, 

yes. Please. 

We cannot help ourselves, 

but this frantic race 

to tell each other how. 

Please, please, 

let it stop. 

For t...

September 20, 2019

It’s so tempting to think of a body as an adversary, it ages, sags, eats too much, exercises too little, and wants what it shouldn’t have. At best its a neutral something you get to ignore until it falls sick and possibly even dies. That’s when the illusion is over.

This morning I dragged my adversarial jailer to the mat. Yoga is another one of those things I highly recommend to anyone other than myself. My body is this awk...

September 18, 2019

It is possible

To lie beneath

The bed

Of your beloved

Amid the mites

And dust and dark

Straining to watch

The stillness

Of the bedsprings

Chewing thoughtfully 

On biltong*

Dried and Salted

Drenched in coriander

As settlers did in wagon

Circles curved

Against the 

African night

It is possible to wait

Interminably

For sounds

Beyond cicadas

Of bare feet 

On bare wood

For this face you love

With such a

Desperate first love

To appear as planned 

And yet...

August 28, 2019

It will not budge

It’s dead in the water

Silvery bloated

On the surface

Floating Lifeless

…But I love it

I love it with my eyes

And what’s behind them

The neural web of me

Slime and sublime

Inside my skin

Behind my eyes

I love it with my heart

All of its butchered 

bright redness

It’s rhythm, arrhythm, 

It’s beaten immediacy

I love it with an incapacity

To ignore

An intuition of attention

A horrible compulsion

A twisted addiction

I love it with...

August 22, 2019

The restaurant is small, easy to miss, tucked down a side street in the Latin Quarter. It has been decades since we were last in the city of lovers and Paris wears the silk sheen of spring rain. It is our last night and we’ve had more than enough time to fall in love with this place again. We are no longer 23 and we certainly aren’t backpacking this time. We have a room with slim French doors opening on a partial view of t...

August 21, 2019

Is there time for this

she asks

hands pressed together

like the wing of a prayer

really, is there time --

for this?

And you can’t see her eyes 

behind lids and lashes.

Does she really want to

communicate?

If so, why the hair curl

where the shoulders

curve upwards

like a smile or a shrug.

Not to care

says her

posture.

Not really, you see.

You can’t reach me

because

quite frankly

I’m not in here.

More fool you--

for thinking that I was.

Art: Mario...

August 14, 2019

I will not worship language

Although I love it

It only points

It hints

Swipes at

Something it

Cannot

Describe

For that I will

Be thankful

Respect

But bow before?

For then

I would miss

The real show

So don’t tell me

To revere

I will not

For then

I should mistake

What I have

Come here

For.

Art: Maze | James Jean

August 8, 2019

It is simple.
you say many
I say one
I want to save silence
from indulgent forays
by unhumbled minds
believing
cacophony
to be a sound
one stops and
listens for
attentively as if
big words made
more sense
because they thunder
in so many syllables
are thunderous
resonate shamelessly
making it well nigh
impossible
to hear
the beauty
singular
and pure
that lies
beneath
waiting
for you
to listen.

Art: Untitled (Baby) | Zena Hol...

July 8, 2019

How dare you ask me

To feel sorry

For you

Who are

too beautiful

too thin

And so young

How dare you require my

Understanding

When you have 

everything

Big and shiny

What would I 

not do 

If I had 

All that

How dare you expect

Sympathy

You who are 

too clever by half

And pleased 

with it too

Overweening

Demanding attention 

And getting it

Then feigning

modesty

It is impossible for me

To feel you

Through the layers

Of an I

who have nothing

I who have 

No-one

...

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ECSTACY

You do not need to leave your room. Remain sitting at your table and listen. Do not even listen, simply wait, be quiet, still and solitary. The world will freely offer itself to you to be unmasked, it has no choice, it will roll in ecstasy at your feet."
Franz Kafka

WONDER

If we had a keen vision and feeling of all ordinary human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow and the squirrel's heart beat, and we should die of that roar which lies on the other side of silence. 

George Eliot

November 13, 2019

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October 31, 2019

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September 20, 2019

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August 21, 2019

August 14, 2019

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