When the Door Closes

My secret life as a poet, writer, photographer…



My mirror lies constantly;
who’s that lady reflected?
That’s not me!
With the gray strands
and the oval face
more my mom’s than mine.
Yes, my mirror lies
for in amber light,
I see the me I remember.

Posted for and very loosely inspired by the Daily Prompt: The Clothes (May) Make the (Wo)man
©2015 V. del Casal All Rights Reserved

Mr. Lee

Mr. Lee danced everyday
in the public room
of the senior home,
close changing and chasseing
with a partner light as a dream.
For an hour in the morning
and another before bed,
he never failed to box step
to the music in his head,
the sweet sweet tunes
that resurrect joyous images
entombed six feet in lead.


Written in response to the Daily Prompt: Pick Me Up
© 2014 All Rights Reserved

H - Hands

My grandmother’s hands
are wrinkled now,
mapping her life in creases and lines,
the skin of caramel brown
fading and dotted with spots.
They still dance, though,
over the cutting board
and pan of frying fish,
but the tempo is slower,
motion less refined.
Soon she hands me the spider
to plate the fish when once
she would have resisted
my attempts to help.
My grandmother’s hands
are wrinkled now,
and I only just noticed.

Written for the A to Z Challenge and NaPoWriMo
© 2014 All Rights Reserved



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