I’m really excited to say that I have completed my first illustrated anthology, “Mostly Rhyming”. This is a collection of my poems interspersed with black and white digital sketches like the bunny in the boudoir above 🙂
The e-book is on Amazon in Kindle format – and the Kindle app is free!
Her nails were pine green to match her dress, and she knew that he was looking at them. She didn’t usually paint her fingernails. Even looking away, at this point, could be a provocation.
She looked away anyways. She wished that they were stranded deep in a forest in winter, snow creeping hot then wet then blisteringly cold up from her ankles.
Somehow, for him to actually lift up one of her hands – fingertips under fingertips – was the last thing she expected.
“Did you paint them just for the party?”
It was crowded, the sour haze of alcohol, and they were standing in their own little pocket by the sink. A window flung wide open, a searing January wind. That was what she needed. Her hand shot backward to hide between her skirt and the counter.
She could not do anything about the hand holding her glass, however.
Alone, she would be three lights ahead and going sideways between a lamppost and a garbage bin to get ahead of that slow-moving family.
Instead his arm is a leash and when she tries to hurry at the end of the walk signals his disparagement has her ashamed at scurrying out of consideration for others. Never mind personal safety, or respect for the rules of the road.
She should not be so proactive about trying to move the two of them out of the way of people’s pictures. She should not try to pull him back from a map when others are trying to look too.
This way he sees her half-assed, and cringing against her own instinct for speed, for politeness.
He isn’t there when her quick, slender ankles are flashing, her chin up and eyes scanning. Anticipating when the lights will turn. He doesn’t see her turning adroitly to get through a crowd, or skirting two girls taking pictures on the bridge, without breaking stride. Zipping down the stairs into the park.
He doesn’t know what she is like when she is walking without him.
Mrs. DeWhitt was a bit too unerring in her instincts for her own good. Somehow, whether by the curling of her toes or a pinch in her right shoulder, she knew when Mr. DeWhitt was inappropriately occupied with the nth chamber maid, the girl-who-came-only-on-Wednesdays, the innkeep’s daughter, or any other bit of female miscellany under the age of thirty.
During these times (which constituted most of the time) Mr. DeWhitt would often be puzzled to find his dinner late, cold, or absent; his gloves, or cuff links, or rifle missing; his galoshes continually, inexplicably muddied; and his best scotch disappearing faster than he could rightly account for.
Unfortunately for the marriage, Mrs. DeWhitt exercised her powers in so natural and unconscious a manner, and Mr. DeWhitt was so far from thinking these mishaps anything but coincidence, that the gentleman never realized that he was receiving his just desserts, and the lady was never content.
Poetry: only thrilling to discuss after one too many drinks, always inducing nausea and regret the next morning.
I would cry for the saving
Of that falling old-new city
Watercolours a keen note
And the sky, a walkway singing
You knew me there
And we traced between
Stone bridges, fluted steel
The flowers, the bells still ringing
Rainbowed eyes and sea arising
Where we walked I swim, tiring
So time is passing by
In the watercolour city
Elizabeth Cook, 2016
On March Comes in like a Lion ED
Listless at my habitual 3pm low, and wishing that I could work in a more comfortable position, a change of position, I studied the long space under the underutilized half of my L-shaped desk.
I looked at it, and that was to envision explaining myself, which irritated me. It was a perfectly good bit of carpet, shaded and never walked upon. It would fit me nicely if I laid down there to read instead. So why can’t I actually do this?
Open offices are detestable.