Dear Papa

Dear Papa,

In the letter you’ll never write
I wish you could tell me where you’ve been.
But I know. I always know.
In all those years gone by, someday
we’ll talk about what you’ve missed
and your forgotten voice.
We’ll laugh about the sun-brewed tea
and the waves of fog that kissed the sandy shores.

(Hour 4, Epistolary)

The Anticipation of a Tennis Ball

Sitting on the couch I wonder to myself
as the dog wonders out loud with her whines
and staring eyes, when will I throw the ball?
This is a problem of course because
we both know that I’ll fake the ball throw
the first and second times, but maybe I’ll throw it the third.

Every moment is the anticipation of a possible ball throw.

This is a dance we do every day, for the last 5 years
She doesn’t notice I have a second ball in my
hand. The second ball always gets thrown first
and she’s too busy noticing the second ball bouncing
down the hallway to see the first ball.
This is the one she really wants. It smells like dirt
and grime and all the good dog smells.
She trots back over triumphant wondering if

every moment is the anticipation of a possible ball throw.

Thinking in the presence of her stinky ball,
not her strong suit. She drops the one in her mouth
in favor of the one in my hand.
Up and down in my hand it goes, the anticipation
builds and builds till she can’t take it anymore. I throw it and
she catches it, looks at me and leaves the room happy that

every moment is the anticipation of a possible ball throw.

(Hour 3, Bop)

Recipe For Self Care

  1. Cup of Anxiety
  2. 1 tablespoon of overwhelming sadness
  3. Dash of Epsom
  4. Pinch of lavender
  5. Music to taste

In a large mixing bowl with hot water, add the anxiety and overwhelming sadness and let it rise and bubble to the surface. Once that has settled, you can add the dash of Epsom and pinch of lavender and stir into the soup. Let it set for 20 minutes. The final thing that is added is music, and you can really play with this ingredient to get the exact taste you desire.

Best with a hot cup of tea (or wine if you’re feeling adventurous), and a small plate of chocolate.

(Hour 2)

Barb in 3 Lines

Behind her pulpit
Words of love, hope, offering
From God’s heart words flow.

(Hour 1/Haiku)

Night Road

in taking the road at night
journeyed along the starlit trail
a hill against the southern stars
he plodded along, in the
darkness and solitudes
the world belonged to him
the moon and stars
had wrought
a coat
there were great distances the highways promising
incense to his gods.
he knew no reason
his vague imaginings
he saw
the night
off the
night advanced.
so frequently

© Nicole Harlow (grenbisous)

Dear Me

dear me, the 7th grade loser–

you, with the short hair,
tomboy embodied

you, with the lazy eye,
the knock-kneed girl

you, with the bullied
quiet demeanor

you, with the anxiety,
the unpopular everything

you, who sits by herself,

you, whose moments
will shape her life

you, whose memories are lost
on long-forgotten dusty shelves

you, when home have moved
and life unbalanced

you, when the waters have calmed
from the turbulent storms

you, when her life has meaning,
can look back with
a sigh
a smile

© Nicole Harlow (grenbisous)

Morning Coffee

“Damn,” she muttered,
pushing through the fog uncluttered.
holding her canteen full of coffee,
her bag loaded with toffee;
down the misty dock she went.
fast upon the hill she made her ascent,
up the path made of concrete,
what a momentous feat!
she arrived with a hush,
she wasn’t in a rush,
she paused–unlocked the door,
oh, her mornings, what a chore!
she looked to her right and on the fir shelf
sat a little toy elf.
a smile upon her face,
the day she’ll well embrace;
her first customer walks through,
that one last sip of her brew
she sets it down,
and sells a toy crown

© Nicole Harlow (grenbisous)

Hill House

these dark halls
deep secrets and meandering spirits
years of misanthropic ghostly misfits
the house in restless humor recalls
frightful weather falls in rainfalls
the solemn spirits befits
the walls close up; this house commits
the broken down spirits, trapped and held, there is sits

© Nicole Harlow (grenbisous)


Danny, by himself
in these winter months,
long carpeted hallways-
cycling past doors

Danny was not alone,
the woman in 217,
his mother, the twins
Hallorann’s shine reached out

… and they stayed with him forever

© Nicole Harlow (grenbisous)


that deep sadness stays
those long nights we laid awake
our hearts, they feel the ache
that loss decays
our long lost moments, the faraway gaze
we hadn’t know what was at stake
one last long night before we wake
one last long night before our never-ending days

© Nicole Harlow (grenbisous)