She couldn’t remember what, but she’d never forget how it made her feel—a want that became a need, forever unquenched. For the way he penned his love, breathing life into the letters. For the way he carved his craving, unreachable yet contagious. Each line, it seemed, was meant to reach out of the page and mess with her essence. Even his pauses were rich, silence dripping, softly stirring something deep within, no matter how fleeting. Into the night they danced, his song diving right into her core, evoking emotions she never knew existed.

She’d never forget how he made her feel, but she couldn’t remember what made her fall—the fire in his heart or the poetry in his soul.



For #WhisperingNeds 112, ’visceral’.

© annie scribes 2017
all rights reserved


on the choo-choo

she’d never seen trees run so fast
even her heartbeat could not compete
in her seat she sat, eyes set on the landscape
that looked different from a distance

around the hills they wrapped
long luscious string of cars admiring the valleys
raindrops knocking on her window
as if wanting to sing with the train,
“choo-choo, choo-choo”

soon the mountains would disappear
as concrete forest grew near
skyscrapers in place of the pines

the dream she’d been searching, maybe
it lived here

For #WhisperingNeds 111, ‘trains, railway, the railroad’.

© annie scribes 2017
all rights reserved

a spotted wren

A spotted wren
pitter-pattering on a skinny branch swaying, swinging
its beak pointed to the sky knowing the mist is nigh

soon the moon claims the night as white as snow
that may or may not fall.

Creatures rustling up for hibernation
move away from noise with poise
never fearing frost, spent months waiting
retreating for they know

when to let nature
take over.



For #WhisperingNeds 109, ‘mist, bands, monsters, heroes, hoarfrost’.

© annie scribes 2017
all rights reserved

silent symphony

I pull letters from the darkness
watch words born. Verses formed.

Coming into contact with light, some would melt,
trickle down the bones, puddles pooling at my feet.

they scramble to shady corners
waiting for the winds to come whistling
showing them how to pluck the melody
from the ether.

For #WhisperingNeds 108, ‘song without music’.

© annie scribes 2017
all rights reserved

D. O. A.

sharper than a double edged sword
honey smeared on verses
seemingly gorgeous though filled with deceit
aimed at unsuspecting hearts
that died
on arrival


For #WhisperingNeds 107, ‘proven to kill’.

© annie scribes 2017
all rights reserved

rushing ripple

the leaves told the wildflowers a story
about a ripple from the hills
springing from autumn’s core
drawn to the sea

the wind’s whispers in its wake
as the ripple danced in the creek
twirling before the stones
crashing, tumbling, twisting
around dying logs drowning
running, dancing, rushing as it
got closer to the estuary
where the ocean’s open arms
awaited with an embrace


For #WhisperingNeds 106, ‘estuary’.

Listen here.

© annie scribes 2017
all rights reserved

twilight at the door

the wind arrives with twilight, letting themselves in through the door left ajar
long shadows trailing in their wake, tiptoeing to see if the dark corners have space left for them to hide
a figure in bed, sleeping, or pretending to sleep, while wiping away tears and fears and gathering willpower to fight demons inside
just before then the sun whispers to the moon it’s her time to keep watch
and disappears into the horizon


For #WhisperingNeds 105, ‘bedroom door’.

Listen here

© annie scribes 2017
all rights reserved

the sun smiles at glass windows

the sun tiptoes and twirls in front of glass windows
of the city’s skyscrapers
songbirds waking but no longer singing
sounds of traffic rush in their place

long faces in the train
long faces, longer than last night’s
hand of the clock ticking tick tock tick tock
sleepless, dreamless
tired eyes glued to little screens
weary bodies hosting souls without smiles,
missing out on yellow hues peeking at the horizon

time crawls, one, two, three
eight, ten hours pass them by
passionless souls locked away in boxes
finally on their way to places they call home
gazing down at the floor of the train the bus the car
awake but not aware
there but not there
once again missing out on tangerine shades in the sky

tomorrow the sun
will dance and grin at the glass windows
and souls will continue to miss out
on the day’s beauty


written for #WhisperingNeds 104, ‘people cities revolution’.

© annie scribes 2017
all rights reserved