We Believe in Charity

We Believe in Charity

June 12, 2123: 10:33 AM

Our unit staggered through the ruins of London, covered in dirt and bloody bandages. The latest skirmish with the Earth-Isolationists had been brutal. A precision blast from a fission gun had destroyed my uniform and two good officers, and the only indication that I was the woman in charge was the unit still following me. I owed it to them to not let my injuries show or let them know that with no supplies and only a few fission weapons of our own we were open targets. We turned south out of Piccadilly Circus, taking cover behind one of the meter-high cracks caused by the bombs in the early decades of the war.

Poem: The Roar of the Greasepaint

The Roar of the Greasepaint

I love seeing people missing a true actor,

Not these Broadway Hollywood phonies

In fancy dress

And spatula makeup.

No, the true actor dances in small town streets

Along crowded boulevards,

In our own family rooms

Looking back at us from the mirror.

Take a bow, friends,

The one who wins the Tony

Is the saddest-

A round of applause!

Take a bow,

The curtain closes

And no one ever saw our face.

Poem: Church

</Church>

Long blog posts will be prayer in school,

And Facebook posts our holy communion;

Come worship at the altar of the screen

And you will receive bandwidth

And eternal battery life.

Amen.

Poem: The Tourist

The Tourist

I saw her sitting in the Empire Square,

Head down, legs crossed,

My book in her manicured hand.

She seems infinitely mysterious

And infinitely there,

A Vermeer smile crossing her lips.

Do I approach her?

Do I say-

I am the creator of the world you are in right now

I am its God

I control the seasons, the rise and fall,

The intricate necessities of life.

Do I say-

And what are you?

Who are you these children I’ve born

To these cities I’ve built,

Are you a tourist?

A resident?

Do you love them as I love them,

Do you know what they mean,

Do you expect more from me?

I say none of these things

And watch her until she gets up and walks away,

Still smiling.

So now I just know that she’s a world

And endlessly fascinated by my work.

Poem: Once

Once

Once I was kind and wise and true-

At least, so in my mind.

But I was far much younger then

And youth is often blind.

Far in the scattered sights I saw,

So deep within my mind

That I could ne’er notice when

My heart was left behind.

So now when old I sit and wait

Upon my awful throne

And I am forced to linger here

Till I am set to stone.

I look back on my once youth days

To when my light had shone

But I am dark and bitter here

My heart is left alone.

Poem: The Mayday Parade

The Mayday Parade

We carve our obsessions

On the backs of living room walls

Then send out our smiles

In the mayday parade.

Carefree and wild,

            The children run and play

On the green

At the scene

            Of the mayday parade.

Don’t you dare tremble,

            Don’t shed a tear

We wave with clenched fists

Grit our teeth in rictus

As dusk settles down on

            The mayday parade.

Poems: Bookstore and Reset

Bookstore

I step into

The                  Of the

Boundaries      Bookstore

And I am in pain

Because of all the stories

I cannot have

            here

Reset

With my computer’s dying breath

It says it’s shutting down;

I feel the same.

Poem: Teddy Bear

Teddy Bear

You ask me, when we were little-

“What makes you feel better

When you feel bad?”

I said my teddy bear,

Ragged and torn as it was.

I asked about yours in return

And you said, “It’s you.”

Now I have to decide

Whether I am more or less ragged

Than my teddy bear.

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.