Time

Once, long ago
time grew in my garden
nestled among wee peas
baby carrots and budding wisdom
spreading tendrils
to all corners,
eventually pushing boundaries and
spilling over.
Autumn's hungry dusk crept in
and come morning
time was gone.

OVERFLOW

Thoughts spill from the pitcher

in your hands.

They slop over and land everywhere,
drops of ideas pooling on
the flowers
the table
the floor,
all with equal chance to
nourish,
damage or

evaporate
and make no difference
at all.

A Brief Cycle

You’re gone, and I’m left behind, abandoned among the empty boxes, wadded paper, and discarded needles, no longer wanted or needed. I bear your marks heavily on my scarred and broken legs. My arms hang, futile, at odd angles by my sides. I can no longer withstand the slightest pressure - hold no one and no body. My purpose was once clear.

I’ve seen so much, felt the touch of many, and been used steadily. I remember the parties, where booze and drugs flowed freely, often coating me from top to bottom. Junkie after junkie came to me, seeking sweet repose. You didn’t care. I was there, after all, to be used.

And I remember vividly the violence... the rages that sent me skidding across the room, solidly meeting the innocent wall. The time you threw me out the window, the canopy below breaking my fall.

I had thought that would be it. But you found me when you got out of jail and brought me back. You even cleaned me up in one of your lucid moments, looking at me as though you’d never really seen me before. I could sense your good intentions. You had put your old life behind you and begun again, walking straight, working honestly… living a right life.

You held out for a few days. Do you remember? When you came back you straightened the rods and re-hung the curtains, leaving them open to the world and the light. No more hiding, you said. No more darkness, you said. What went wrong?

I know. I saw. I watched the cravings creep within the shadows. I heard them whisper to you softly, seductively. They wafted memories of that first high, the best high, the high to beat all highs, and promised that you’d feel that way again.  When they stroked your skin, raising goose bumps and your desire, I knew they had you, and I knew it was the end.

I watched as you prepared your needle and slid its tip into your neck. You smiled at first, but that quickly changed. The convulsions danced you across the room, destroying me as I watched.

You’re quiet now, and I’ll wait for the quiet to reach me too.

NOTE: I first wrote this several years ago. A friend challenged me to write a story from the point of view of a piece of furniture. Can you guess what my inspiration was?

NONSENSE

I slipped and fell into

a dream.

It caught me

up and carried me

away to a land where nothing

was what it seemed.

A train chugged along whistling a

lonely plaintive song, then

chirped a cheerful melody

and puffed tea from its spout

as it wound its way out of

sight and the night came rushing

in on wings of feather and fin

and carried me to the

Electric neon stars and when

I touched one it opened in on itself

revealing a million more

all in a line

going back to

the beginning of time

where a goat danced on

a twirling top.

The top became the bottom and I was

back on the ground. No one was around

so I began to walk and walk

and walked to a long chalk hopscotch

and when I

hopped

the scotch popped

and I woke

To a sleeping me

hunting through my inner

spaces for familiar faces and

themes.

 

 (This poem originally appeared in the 2012 edition of MUSH literary magazine.)

The top became the bottom and I was

back on the ground. No one was around

so I began to walk and walk

and walked to a long chalk hopscotch

and when I

hopped

the scotch popped

and I woke

To a sleeping me

hunting through my inner

spaces for familiar faces and

themes.

Center of Attention

Center of Attention

Arnold, the guest of honor, arrived late. His uniformed attendant, soft-soled shoes squeaking against the spotless floor, guided him down the dimly-lit, anonymous hallway. A whiff of floor polish and antiseptic greeted them as they rounded the corner to their destination.

The door before them opened automatically with an efficient mechanical whisper revealing a large room that was, quite simply, dazzling. The white walls and spartan furnishings gleamed; it was certainly cleaner – and neater - than anywhere he’d ever been invited before, and blessedly cool on this mid July day. Blessedly because Arnold had developed a rather unpleasant odor of late. But it wasn’t his fault. Just one of those things that happens as a body ages.

The two proceeded into the room, and there they were, his audience, all formally dressed for the occasion, even sporting gloves and white jackets.

Arnold was not the least bit self-conscious about what he wore, which was nothing.

Two men rushed forward to usher him further into the room. Bright lights suddenly flooded his eyes. This was by far the most attention Arnold had gotten in his whole life.

The crowd paused expectantly.

“Is everyone ready?” asked the master of ceremony.

 Instruments were raised.

“Today’s lesson is autopsy. Let’s begin.”