reaction

A child’s body

wrapped tight in

anxiety and insecurity

vibrates with the effort

of holding the world

intact.

circles

stitched circles on my quilt
spin off edges

unfurling thread teases

cat paws reach
furthering destruction
begun when all was new

The Plant in My Window

The dipladenia idles on

the window ledge

in my office.

Viny branches reach,

curling among the window blinds

and each other

intertwined like unsure hands.

This is its

third winter indoors.

The once lush plant now

drops leaves

turned yellow and spotty.

My husband thinks it is ill

due to a white spider

infestation.

I believe it is homesick

for its tropical environment where

warm temps and lavish water

nourish it daily.

I believe it is dying to be

outside beneath the sun and stars,

visited by mystic hummingbirds who

carry pollen on their

frenetic flights.

I believe it is ill with

impatience to resume the

life it knows.

It is like me.

What I saw when I was sleeping…

Blind women painting

creating

beauty they couldn’t see

only sense

Deaf men watching

reading the world the way I

read books

voracious and at times

uncomprehending

Children teaching

kindness and cruelty each

in turn

measured and balanced

mostly

Stars spinning and planets

teasing

cold and distant

aloof and lifeless

Northern lights play across

my sleeping vision and

birds ride the waves

of solar atmospheric

splendor

Secret

This news

Fidgets in my belly

Spinning and swirling

In a series of anticipatory

Elipses

Swimming to my vocal chords

Tempting my tongue to talk

But the time’s not right

So I smile, Mona Lisa style

And seal my lips

For now.

Smoke Dance

Marry copper tubing

With fire

And see flames of smoky blue

Rise and writhe

Dance in filtered light

Shadows cast

Across the grass

And sparks spin

To the sky.

Happy

Ray “Happy” Leonard was a fixture at the Daily Bugle office. No one could remember a time when he hadn’t been there, pencil propped in the corner of his smiling mouth. In fact, it had been 34 years, seven months and two days since the Happy had first walked in, confidently stating that they needed to hire him as a proof reader.

The editor had been, unknown to Happy, in dire need of a proof reader. The prior proofer, Harriet, had just quit over a thorny grammar dispute with a staff writer about a dangling modifier. Her chair was still warm when Happy sat down and slid it up to his new desk.

Happy was just 18 when he started working at the Bugle, and was predictably optimistic about his life, and his potential impact on grammar. In reality, what he faced was an uphill battle with grizzled reporters who regularly employed colloquialisms and held little respect for the rigors of the formal English language. Yet, Happy smiled and went about his work, his red pencil flashing across the pages set before him.

As Happy advanced in years, he grew accustomed to the relaxed grammatical attitude of the paper. His hair gradually abandoned him and the rhythm of his days lulled him. Where had his dreams of being a writer gone? So much time had passed, and the reporters he proofed for in his youth were long gone. He could remember proofing some of their obituaries.

Happy pushed back his chair and stood up. He twisted from left to right and heard his back snap and pop with the unaccustomed movement. He wrapped his scarf around his neck, shoved his arms into his warm coat, set his hat upon his head and nodded. He would spend no more than 34 years, seven months and two days at the Daily Bugle. They may have had his youth, but they didn’t have his soul. 

He had a novel to write. A novel about a fictional newspaper and the intrepid proofreader who kept the place running.

He strode out the door, holding it, politely, for a young woman carrying a red pencil and a look of determination. Happy’s smile grew as the door closed on the wood paneled office steeped in the click of computer keys and interviews in progress, and joined the flow of humanity filled with possibility on this cold, bright January day.