The cold silence quivers, swollen with memories,
           Until, with a flash of cymbals and the thunder of drums,
           It shatters, spilling angry notes from the past to
           Rain over me. They cut like ice shards as they hit
           And flood my heart with pain.


Written for dVerse Poets Pub where the word of inspiration for a quadrille (a poem of 44 words) is spill.




From the moment he took his seat in the classroom, the geeky guy in the third row gazed at me with rapt attention.  Moon eyes. That's what my mother would have labeled the look he was giving me. To be honest, it made me a little nervous. In my years as a trainer, my poetic words about financial software had never inspired that kind of reaction from a seminar participant. Normally, the challenge was keeping them awake.  At the break, he made his way up to the front of the room. Taking my hand, he introduced himself, and my first thought was, "Oh-oh." Grinning mischievously, he said, “You remind me of my wife.  She’s a teacher too.” Relieved, I smiled in acknowledgment.  And then he went on. “It must be the implied whip.”

 irresisible power,
a whip flick away