Poem: Songs About Home

Songs about Home

The fireplace is warm

And the cold has lost its charm

As we sit in the grand-slam

Living room chair.

We are full and we are fine

Sipping our half-glass wine

In the easy light

Of the late night

And we reject the telegram

Of outside freezing air.

This chair is old, and cushions deep

Cradle us in their lair

The fire dances and shadows creep

Close to us, if they dare.

And while it is good to wander and roam,

This is why there are so many

Songs about home.

Poem: Memories

Memories

Broken windowpanes on a sun-bright afternoon,

I shouldn’t have come back.

Back to the shattered memories,

Back to the hope childhood;

Overturned chairs on a hardwood floor.

I used to wait here,

When the windowpane was whole

When the chair was upright

When the memories weren’t memories,

They were life.

I used to wait here,

And now it is waiting for me.

Fiction: Season Reason

Dan’s foot slipped as he was putting up the large inflatable Santa. His foot sank several inches into the earth before he pulled it back out.

“Darn hole,” he muttered, “Every year. And of course Marie’s gonna get on me again about filling it in…”

On the porch his wife, Marie, stood with a critical eye next to the inflatable turkey he’d just taken down. Across their small lawn, various-colored Christmas lights, reindeer statues, multiple Santas, and a plastic snowman playing a flute were strewn around.

“Dan,” Marie called, “Do you think we have enough decorations?”

“I dunno, honey,” Dan said. “I can get some more at the store when I go into town.”

"Yeah, you do that,” Marie said. She looked out at the reindeer, the snowman, the Santas, and the lights. She continued, “It just feels like we’re missing something.”

Fiction: Christmas Pageant Chaos

The children’s Christmas pageant rehearsal was going splendidly so far. Mary had punched Joseph in the nose, they were missing both a shepherd and a wise man, and one of the cows wouldn’t stop crying.

“Um,” the girl playing Gabriel said, raising her hand. “Miss Amy? The brooch on my costume broke and my wings fell off.”

Amy muttered, “Jesus help me,” into her hands, then went to fix the costume.

“It didn’t break,” Amy said. “You just didn’t fasten it to begin with.”

“I did so,” the girl pouted.

  
The toddler playing the cow gave a loud, piercing wail.

“Miss Amy,” Joseph said, “She punched me again.”

“Don’t be such a baby,” Mary replied, and hit him with the Jesus baby doll.

“Please don’t hit anybody with Jesus,” Amy said, and closed her eyes to dream of the scotch waiting for her back at home.

Poem: Hubris

Hubris

Carry my body on a throne through the streets,

Through the filthy asphalt streets.

I can save this rotten, stalecandy city with my words,

My mellifluous words.

Give me a paper!

Give me a pen!

Your city will be safe once again with my words,

Till the words will come no more.

Carry my body on your shoulder through the streets,

Through the broken lifebleeding streets.

My words were not enough on their own,

Two-fifths talent to three-fifths weakness.

Use your sword!

Use your arm!

My pen is broken and my paper is torn

And the words will come no more.

Poem: Last Minute

Last Minute

Last minute,

I make my way into the crowded room and watch for you

Because you are so great

And I am late

You are already talking to The Other One

And your eyes are twinkling

I am so late,

Last minute,

That I sit down and try to remember

The reason I came

Ten minutes seem so long ago

Like the Birth is to the far future;

Last minute,

I leave when I can

I shouldn't have come.

Fiction: Sunday Morning in Harville Place

Sunday Morning in Harville Place

The roar of the motorcycle caught the attention of everyone in town. Harville Place was one of those small towns where everyone was known to each other by sight, if not by name. And so, since everyone knew that the only inhabitant of the town who owned a motorcycle was Mr. Frederick, who was in Florida for the month, there was an immediate curiosity about the person on the Harley Davidson.

“I bet he’ll cause trouble,” Mrs. Higley said as the bike screeched past the grocery store.

“You think every stranger will cause trouble,” her daughter said, rolling her eyes. Still, she kept a wary gaze on the back of the leather jacket.

The mayor prayed that the rider would behave, the sheriff prayed that he wouldn’t, and the Women’s Auxiliary Club prayed that he wouldn’t run over any of the decorations for the annual street fair.

Fiction: Propaganda & Horizon

Propaganda

Ezra slammed the article down on her boss’ desk.

“This is wrong,” she hissed, “This whole article is just-“

“Propaganda?” Her boss smirked. “Ezzie, that’s the point. We print what the party tells us to. That’s the way it’s always been, and the way it always will be. Get used to it, or you’ll never get anywhere in this business.”

Ezra blanched. “I could never,” she said, “We’re supposed to tell people the truth, not fill their heads with lies.”

He laughed. “Like they care,” he said, “As long as they’re entertained our readers will read anything we feed them. They’re like pigs, in a way.”

Horizon

The dirt fell onto the coffin. Clump after clump it clattered onto the wooden surface, eventually covering it from view. Elle closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, pulling back the aching sensation in her throat. As she opened her eyes again, she turned and walked away. How could she stay with the reminder that she would never see him again?

She turned and walked to her car. She climbed in and started it, but before she could put it into gear the ache caught up to her and she gasped out a sob. This couldn’t be happening. It didn’t feel real. She couldn’t go on.

A warmth seemed to spread through the car. A golden light started to glow around the car, and Elle looked up to see the sun dip into the most beautiful sunset she’d ever seen. It highlighted a solitary dogwood tree, giving the white flowers a golden, sacred glow. She breathed in deeply. He was still with her. It would be okay.