Plant a story.
The tiny voice from the kitchen called me, increasingly
insistent. I tried to block it out and continue with my work. Now, where was I…
This website was a mess and would require all my concentration to trouble shoot
and fix it. Move this here. Shorten that bit of copy. Replace this photo. Add
this alt tag. Much better.
I sat back in my chair to survey my work, satisfaction
blossoming at the improvements made already and shining back at my from my
computer screen. I stretched and smiled. Time for a break.
I carried my glass to the sink to get a drink of water, and
there it was again. A lilliputian siren song coming from the end of the
counter. Without thinking I moved toward it, first one step, then another, and
soon I was overcome, resistance erased.
As I dipped my hand into the jar and peeled the wrapper
back, revealing the enticing chocolate, I reminded myself that I would eat
better tomorrow.
The beastly feast was
filled with frights,
fangs and claws and flickering
lights.
Table manners went
unobserved;
grunts, farts and loud
burps were heard.
Food was gobbled,
slurped and chawed.
Drinks were spilled.
Bones were gnawed.
The room was left in
quite a state
when we realized the
time was late.
We sliced the cake and
passed it 'round
then at the door, a
pound, pound, pound!
I hurried to the
entryway
thrilled this was the
end of day.
Our guests flowed in my
wake
their hunger and thirst
now fully slaked.
I sent them home with
daddies and mammas
and put my little beast
in his pajamas.
Another birthday.
Another year.
My baby's growing up, I
fear.
Next year we'll do
something less frightening,
like riding tigers or
bull fighting.
The storm brings an early close to the day. Vendors at the Weston farmers market pack up their wares in haste, wind chuffing the tops of the sun canopies and tugging at the poles and tethers.
I pull into my long gravel drive just as the skies burst and
fat drops of rain hit my windshield. I park my truck into the garage, apples
bumping about in the back as our forward momentum stops. I take a deep breath
before tugging my keys from the ignition with a shaky hand.
Rain pummels the earth in sheets creating rivers in the dirt
between the garage and the house. I run full tilt, drenched through before I
reach the kitchen door.
Inside, I shrug off my coat and jeans, leaving them in a
puddle by the door and pad to my bedroom. The sheets and blanket lay crumpled
at the foot of the narrow bed. Pulling on warm sweats and a dry shirt I ponder
how it was that after all these years I still hate storms.
I was eight when the stream swept me away, lightning split
the sky and my dad screamed for me as he ran along the bank. Tree branches and
pieces of lumber raced me to the bridge where I was finally washed ashore. If
my dad hadn’t been there and pushed the water from my lungs, replacing it with
the gift of his breath I would not have lived.
Tears run down my face, mimicking the cascade of rain on the
windows.
Thunder rumbles, rattling the glass in its pane. I shudder,
wondering how I’ll weather the night.
Kara was tired. Of everything. Last week she quit her job. The week before, she kicked Romeo to the curb. Not literally. Just figuratively. Though literally kicking his lazy, lying ass would certainly have been satisfying.
Each day she carted more stuff from the house to the garage
until there was no room for even the smallest spider to weave its way through.
She’d have to rent a truck and haul it to the Goodwill soon.
She stepped back into the house and surveyed the sparse
furnishings. It was junk. Every last bit of it. Crap. Garbage. Worthless.
Kara pulled the broom from the closet and began to sweep.
Dust bunnies scurried for cover and expansive clouds of dust bloomed before
her. Soon her eyes teared and her nose began to run. She sneezed and swept even
harder.
She remembered being called worthless. By her mother. Her
pop. Her teachers. She used to believe them. But that was behind her. Once she
decided to regain control and direct her own life there was no stopping her.
She was invincible. Stronger than Wonder Woman, though dressed in much more
modest attire.
Cleaning this hovel was a lost cause. So why was she
bothering? With her newfound confidence she could go anywhere and be anything.
Kara plucked her purse off the table and strode out the
door. After a few steps she paused to look back. This isn’t right, she decided.
She marched forward, picked up a corner of the house and hurled
it away. It landed in a heap, now just a shamble of weathered boards, useless
furniture and twisted metal. A single flower poked up from what had been her
bedroom window.
The smile started slow, a mere twitch of the lips, then grew
to light her eyes and tickle her stomach. She flipped her hair and turned
toward the road, eager to see who she would become.
In spring, her bare branches bud fresh leaves.
Mourning doves line them like singers in the choir loft
Days lengthen. Nests shelter the newly hatched
and later, provide a launch point for fledglings.
Summer storms set limbs swinging.
Wind whips and boughs bend scattering twigs across the grass.
Autumn approaches and tired yellow leaves
spin and twirl before other trees begin to color.
Woodpeckers harvest invaders who leave white bark
pockmarked and peeling. Daylight diminishes.
Snow falls, blending with her naked trunk.
Mourning doves line her branches.
The contents of the great sky cauldron
spin and swirl.
Inky tendrils draw together,
enmeshed by invisible forces
to create walls permeable only
by angry gods.
Rain bullets from the heavens
pummeling all below into
submission.
The seed splits and spits a
newborn plant into
the loamy world
where it guzzles
good stuff from grit
along with water and time.
Eventually it pokes it’s tender
head above the bed
growing stronger in the sun,
sending leaves and vines sprawling
across the lawn,
maturing beneath a canopy of
moon and stars and daylight.
Green orbs hide beneath sheltering
foliage, growing and growing until,
as winds shiver and leaves wither,
the fruit ripens, ready to be picked.
A woman holds a streaked green melon against
the worn wooden cutting board and
slides the knife through crisp rind to
reveal tender pink innards which
she passes to an impatient child who
bites and chews and slobbers,
finally spitting the seed to the ground
where it dives into the dirt
and waits.
Vehicles rumble down the road
outside my window
destined for mysterious locales
or maybe banal borders
in hidden states.
Mind trips in contemplation.
the pug pants as we walk the trail
short legs refuse to keep up
and energy fades
she chooses not to move so
must be carried
Meanwhile her beagle sister
tugs the leash to greet
all we pass and smell
each inch of ground,
energy unflagging.
Mourning doves congregate below my deck
heads bowed.
A single bird stands forward
from the huddled mass
and watches me through the window
beady eyes filled with distrust.
At some invisible signal,
all raise their heads.
They croon a hymn and process forward
jostling for a front position
before exiting in waves
and soaring into a shaft of morning light.
Tulips rise
Brave in cold spring weather
Pink and yellow blooms
Push skyward
Deer snack on ice-kissed buds
Waves of snow
thrash sand and
rock and shells.
Steam rises over open water
or is it spirit
lifting off?
Either way, we shiver
anticipating the frigid embrace
ahead.
I leave my bed unmade
my dreams unfinished
and my door open
in hopes that peace will wander in.
Faces on the TV telegraph tension.
Furrowed brows and pain-filled eyes,
these are the lucky ones. Some
already lie still and cold and sightless
amid shattered buildings.
Ukriane’s brave build defense
one bottled wick at a time
and, tongue in cheek,
offer to return starved behemoths
to their origins.
The bear roars and rears while
the weary rest in subway warrens
and pray that peace will
find them.
I lose my mind among stacks of books and
find it amid words.
Ideas circle like cartoon stars
that follow a blow to the head.
But the impact is internal and words
swim before my eyes,
enough minnows to feed a pod of whales
or flocks, and flocks of hungry herons.
Words dart here and there.
Some form patterns.
Others go about their unfathomable ways.
So many books.
Delicious slippery covers beneath my palms.
Paper, some rough and some smooth, meets my fingertips as I
turn pages and corners in my mind.
Black on white, meaningless to some but
sacred to me,
text flows from left to right,
top to bottom.
All pages devoured, I sigh,
sated, and pause before…
seeking more.
Following the steps of Scandinavian foremothers
I scatter seed outside my door at Yuletide
enticing birds and good fortune for
the new year.
They deliver stray feathers among their blessings,
beauty, grace and energy.
When only split shells remain,
songs come drifting from the
oak, maple and birch,
birthing a sense
of peace and well-being
carrying me
‘til spring.
