20 Lines A Day

A Community of Writers and Photographers


in the wings


they seemed to meet quite by accident
but something in their eyes told them otherwise
this wouldn’t be their first conversation
but it always felt like it could be the last

like a patient who knows their time is near
with so many faces yet to see
and confessions to make
and sunsets to end

their now daily talks lasted for hours
even after they left that little cafe
feverishly texting on the bus back home
sometimes through the hush of their night

they would talk of paintings, songs and poetry
any silly thing as long as there was a reply
the hold on each other so tenuous
an undertow the pull of fear as real

he not so accidently brushed her hand on the table
she instinctively recoiled placing it on her lap
she apologized quickly she was sorry
but regretted showing him so much

his practiced stoic reaction said little
this time his heart tried valiantly to follow
‘but isn’t that how it always goes?’
setting a few more bricks in the wall

he was a little braver than she was
or maybe his clock was just ticking faster than hers
he said the words that they both feared
and knew it was wrong the moment he spoke

two hearts waiting in the wings
for love to speak and heal their pain
all the words they shared between them
could not help them say goodbye

a great big hug to my daughter for sharing this song yesterday,
please feel free to listen to it as a soundtrack as i did writing.

sad way


often in

or any






igniting its
p a i n f u l


i hold so near
the echo of
e a c h





…and regrets
and my searing
m e l a n c h o l y

if this
is the

of the


why such
a sad way to
…finally reach





y o u ?

We only hurt the ones we love
Why we don’t need a reason
Gonna get all that you deserve
And all that you believe in

Beth Orton


digital misivs

 photo 20130423_122711.jpg

jacked on Marlboro’s and mocha java
she lives safely in her word cloud,
laying belly down with candy wrappers
littering the unkempt futon bed.

smartphone, notebook glowing
in that messy shades drawn room
and sometimes pink hair spilling
out a Neff cap covered eyes.

Skye, exists as ‘anonymous’
tattood and thin, small framed
her cool demeanor her paler skin
nothing touched her since he left.

and crossing paths in the gangway
with the new boy down the hall,
his immediate smile spoke volumes
he brushed against her as they talked.

but that spark its cruel reminder
of hurt she really can’t forget
her promise to call forgotten,
the spark was just suppressed.

Skye spent that night as every night
a private etherland of love
texting poems of lust her loneliness,
drift…digital misivs through the dark.


that day

    She arrives


    through the door

    light on her toes

    despite our

    few days of


    for years the

    weekly ritual.

    Our eyes meet
    grey to grey and
    her skin color mine,
    though reaching down
    to kiss her forehead
    seemed easier that day.

    Hands could always effortlessly wrap around
    my fingertips meeting at her sometimes ponytail,
    or mingling among those tangled golden curls.

    And when did her head snug in at my chest when we hugged?
    Like the kitchen door frame penciled ever higher in our old house,
    maybe our bodies will mark those imperceptable passages now?
    Time it seems to move so slowly until that day, when it doesn’t.

    my first poem
    written April 2012,
    revised April 2013

1 Comment

Edgar and Vincent

The melancholy of sweet depression

like Poe and Vincent Van Gogh

those who were fraught with despair

have created haute cuisines

of flesh, of reds, of spleen

they’ve picked up their brushes, their pen and ink

their palettes exploded, fit to repair

splayed open wide

their vision, their loneliness and

the haunting beauty that possessed their minds

their art, wild and wanton

masterpieces of expression

born out of tongues that spoke with hysteria

and sights of historical blessings

that spoke about The Starry Night

of Annabel and The Raven’s delight

that spoke of shimmer, shiver and fright

of howling, wailing wicked light!

Vincent Van Gogh and

Edgar Allan Poe.

(I wrote this poetry as a tribute to both of these amazing artist’s. The above painting I did is of Michael Wolgemut, Vincent Van Gogh’s mentor and teacher; I painted him because I love Vincent Van Gogh and his work and was instantly attracted to his eyes, “the eyes are the window to the soul” as they say)

© [Jeanette Shihadeh] and [thepainterspalate.wordpress.com], [2012]. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material, artwork, or photo’s without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to [Jeanette Shihadeh] and [thepainterspalate.wordpress.com] with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.


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