When we talk about the future
We speak in serious tones pierced by lilting laughter
Frequent pauses
In which we stop
To enjoy the view
Speculation and dream weaving are fine arts
Requiring patience and on occasion
Held breath and hushed voices
As we place the flowers
In the garden we will grow
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Upon Finding You Away
If the moments of my life
Are the poems you've been waiting for
I will bundle them up in a bow and
Leave them
Unedited
On your doorstep for your perusal
Don't think of them as a sacrifice but
As a meager donation
To your grandiose cause
Your big picture scene
Larger and liver than its bare bits
And if you find my pieces to be passable
Fit to find themselves on your hallowed shelves
They will be the proud testaments
To my humble blind faith
That you will get this message at all
Are the poems you've been waiting for
I will bundle them up in a bow and
Leave them
Unedited
On your doorstep for your perusal
Don't think of them as a sacrifice but
As a meager donation
To your grandiose cause
Your big picture scene
Larger and liver than its bare bits
And if you find my pieces to be passable
Fit to find themselves on your hallowed shelves
They will be the proud testaments
To my humble blind faith
That you will get this message at all
Posting Problems
Okay....so sorry for the various delays. As I commented, I haven't been able to convert to the NEW Blogger and can't log into my old account, and was/am trapped in limbo. I've gotten in by going to RECOVER PASSWORD and getting in through my email. If you're having this problem, I suggest you do the same. =)
I'm may still be in the aforementioned limbo, but it's post-erific baby!!!
(Thanx for noticing my absence...I feel the love!)
I'm may still be in the aforementioned limbo, but it's post-erific baby!!!
(Thanx for noticing my absence...I feel the love!)
Friday, January 05, 2007
55 Word Stories
1.
“But I saw it!” Jimmy protested.
“No you didn’t. Fairies are only in stories.”
“What about the Tooth Fairy?”
“My brother says your mom does that.”
Jimmy wondered how his mom knew when every kid in the world lost a tooth.
“But it was glowing and had wings,” Jimmy pressed.
“It must’ve been an angel.”
2.
It was funny to see him lying there. Not funny ha-ha, but funny weird. There were butterflies loose in her stomach; she was glad she’d skipped breakfast.
He looked smaller than she remembered, like a doll in a box, and no doubt just as light, un-tethered by the weight of his life or his innards.
3.
“Hurry up, I hear someone.”
“You’re paranoid,” Jessi sneered.
Heather stood in the empty corridor chewing her fingernails to blood, eyes bouncing from door to door. The home-ec class had burned their assignment; she could smell it.
“Okay, let’s go,” Jessi called, and they ran, leaving their handiwork behind, SLUT scrawled across the grey locker.
4.
To her, poems were drugs, absorbed to alter the mind. She had to have them, and wanted them to be a part of her somehow.
She was on the verge of eating them, she explained.
“Why don’t you bathe in them?” he laughed.
She shrugged, tearing the pages from their binding as the tub filled.
“But I saw it!” Jimmy protested.
“No you didn’t. Fairies are only in stories.”
“What about the Tooth Fairy?”
“My brother says your mom does that.”
Jimmy wondered how his mom knew when every kid in the world lost a tooth.
“But it was glowing and had wings,” Jimmy pressed.
“It must’ve been an angel.”
2.
It was funny to see him lying there. Not funny ha-ha, but funny weird. There were butterflies loose in her stomach; she was glad she’d skipped breakfast.
He looked smaller than she remembered, like a doll in a box, and no doubt just as light, un-tethered by the weight of his life or his innards.
3.
“Hurry up, I hear someone.”
“You’re paranoid,” Jessi sneered.
Heather stood in the empty corridor chewing her fingernails to blood, eyes bouncing from door to door. The home-ec class had burned their assignment; she could smell it.
“Okay, let’s go,” Jessi called, and they ran, leaving their handiwork behind, SLUT scrawled across the grey locker.
4.
To her, poems were drugs, absorbed to alter the mind. She had to have them, and wanted them to be a part of her somehow.
She was on the verge of eating them, she explained.
“Why don’t you bathe in them?” he laughed.
She shrugged, tearing the pages from their binding as the tub filled.
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