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.

Poetry: The Sundial

The Sundial

Here in the garden is a sundial,

Stone and cold,

It hasn't moved for fifty years.

I see the old men inside.

They stand on chairs

And raise their glasses high

And yell out,

“Here’s to the good old days!

They won’t come back again.”

Here in the garden is a sundial,

The shadow moves around the sun

But always returns to the same place.

I see their children,

Almost grown,

Outside. And they exclaim,

“The problems my father caused

Are in the past.

We can change and rebuild,

Build a better world than

There was before.”

But here in the garden is a sundial

And when the night comes

It loses its purpose

And falls asleep

To wait another day.

I see the turn of history

On my eyelid backs,

All gears and hearts.

The beginning,

The middle,

The eventual end.

Millions of old men standing on chairs

Millions of children, almost grown, exclaiming,

“We are different from all of time.”

But many gears, hearts, voices later,

Here in the garden is a sundial.

The direction of its shadow has changed,

But it has not and will not

For it is only a sundial

And cannot turn on its own.

Poem: Fall

A Shakespearean Sonnet: Fall

The leaves in my backyard are turning brown

And all the birds are starting to fly south

Less leaves are on the trees than on the ground

There is a certain dryness in my mouth.

The air is cooling down or cooling off

The wind has just begun to get a chill

And more and more I start to get a cough

I think I’m on the verge of falling ill.

I always get this way when winter comes,

A melancholy hue to my new tone

What happiness I hold must turn to crumbs

And there’s a great old sadness I have known.

But spring will come, just like it always does

And happiness, like flowers, always grows.

Fiction: Appalachian English

Appalachian English
            Y’all better lissen up ‘cause I gotta  few werds to say on the subject of mountain livin’. Yep, there are a few things you gotta know if you want to live here in Frawgtown, Virginya. First awf, the people round here are real friendly. They ain’t like them city folk, all talkin’ to themselves and drinkin’ Starbucks. Starbucks. That ain’t even real cawffee. Real cawffee’s blacker’n coal’n picks up your day.

            Anyway, like I was sayin’, round here people treat ya like a best friend, even if they ain’t never seen you before in their lives. If you go on an’ drive down the road, people in the cars you meet’ll wave at ya, nice as can be. Now, there’s three diff’rent kinds of waves, ya lissenin’? First, them there’s the index finger. Jest lift up one index finger awf the wheel, and give a little nod. Next one’s the four-finger wave. This one here’s the most popular. All you do is left up four fingers of one hand awf the wheel, keepin’ your thumb hitched on there. Last one’s the full hand wave, which is stupid-lookin’ and dangerous on these here curvy mountain roads. There’s deer everywhere here, and if you hit the varmints they hurt your vehicle more than you hurt them more often than not.

Fiction: Space Out Homeland

Space Out: Homeland

            “What,” Captain Gabi said, “is that.”

            She was looking out the viewport of the front of the ship, where a large purple swirling mass was hovering ominously.

            “It’s an anomaly,” Skreet Akar said helpfully.

            Gabi huffed. “Well, I know that,” she said, “What kind of anomaly is it?”

            Skreet fiddled with some dials at his workstation, looked at a readout, then said, “An anomalous one.”

            “An anomalous anomaly,” Gabi repeated, “Thank you so much. I’m so glad I picked you to be my helmsman.”

            Skreet gave her a lazy salute and spun around in his chair.

Poem: Care

Care

I do not deserve your kind of care

The thought stays deep within my mind

I fear I can’t respond in kind

To rosy cheeks and downy hair

Yours is a special kind of love

Which when the one you love you meet

Treat them as if they were a treat

That you and they go hand in glove.

I cannot make an even trade

For I can’t follow your love in fashion

I cannot imagine a stormy glade

Or stars that bedeck the night in passion

I fear I can’t return your stare

I do not deserve your kind of care.

Poetry: Short Poems

Winter

Colder winds blow there

Swaying trees on a hillside

A small flower grows

Voicemail

“I’m sorry, hang up,”

That high voice on the machine

Can make me angry

The Dog

As the

            Dog

  Sits

On the grass

            I wonder

Why

        I worry

    So

Much

Pretzels

Pretzels are good

Pretzels are yummy

As I’m writing this poem

I feel really hungry

Poetry: Help! I'm Trapped in a Poem and I Can't Get Out!

Help! I’m Trapped in a Poem and I Can’t Get Out!

Who am I? Where am I?

Why am I- oh

Was that a line break?

I think it was

And here’s another

Wow, that’s interesting

            And here’s an indent!

                        Abstract

                                    Fancy

I like it!

Too bad there’s no rhyme scheme

            Or meter

            Or cohesion

            I mean,

                        It’s hardly Shakespeare

But it’s okay, I guess

            Maybe

Oh, hello! Who are you?

Why do you have an eraser?

Ouch! That tic

(This poem has been discontinued.)

Poetry: January 1st, 2014

January 1st, 2014
Let's talk about beginnings
Beginnings are scary, dangerous things
Full of unknown properties
Unsolved equations
Unfinished poems
And ambiguity
Beginnings are the standing at the edge of the cliff
Wearing a blindfold
They are the wooded path at nightfall
Which is uncertain, but the only way through.
Let's talk about beginnings
Beginnings are exciting, wonderful things
Full of promise and hope
Release from the past
A way forward
Beginnings are the hushed moment of expectation
Before the guest of honor walks into the room
They are the unexpected freefall down the hill
Grass flying
Laughing wildly
They are the wrapped presents under the Christmas tree
The smile on a stranger's face
The seed of a great tree
Let's talk about beginnings
This is one
Use it well