Warm blood spills on the chilled concrete floor
forming images discernible only to those who
need to see them at the precise moment they are
most desperate to be saved from insanity.
Ironic that such a horrific thing would bring
peace of mind, but it does in a world where people
feed on twenty-four hour newscasts
and water-cooler gossip.
I saw the Virgin Mary
in crimson on steel-gray
today, and knew that
everything would be alright.
Sleepless nights ‘cuz the boogeyman’s gonna get you.
Rapid breathing, nausea, chills down the spine.
Children taken while walking home from bus stops.
Strangers offering candy to preschoolers
out playing in the yard alone.
Where have all the adults gone?
I am here. Is it enough to keep her safe from predator-hands –
picking them like flowers from garden beds as they bathe in the sun
oblivious to weeds wrapping around their fragile stems?
Dooms day is coming, and ready are the evil ones
driving around in red trucks and blue sedans;
wearing baseball caps and long gray hair, at least in my neighborhood
where invisible bars have appeared on our windows
and her bike now sits in the garage gathering dust.
photo by Eric Alder
In mediocrity, there’s complacency,
an uneasy sense of non-urgency.
Thick as molasses, dragging my ass off;
a self-made Hades, I can’t seem to cast off.
Chills up my spine creep into my mind,
freezing thoughts in space and time.
I wish they ran smooth, warm and collected
like shells on a beach that’s connected
to the birth of a race, our humble beginnings.
I think I’ll return, start planning my trip and
when I arrive, dive deep in the waters;
find calm and peace in something that matters.
For right now, purpose all but eludes me.
Long winter nights hardly amuse me.
Mundane tasks bear down like a mass.
Three more months? Don’t think I can last.
Characters in line, yet s c A t t e R e d,
donning new costumes and knocking on doors
while I stand at the curb,
peeking between fingers and trembling;
watching them reach for treats, not knowing
if the front porch light is on or off.
“I didn’t make it,” she cried. My breath lodged
in my throat, knowing that this is real life (BOO!)
and she must feel it for all it is
because the alternative is worse –
high or low, smoked or sniffed,
emotional shut-down; silent behind
thick circles of black eyeliner.
They tell me not to quit five minutes before
the miracle happens and so, I tell her,
and she doesn’t.
And neither does he, as we see him
every night now, and at weekend games.
The trick: God’s perfect timing.
So grateful for blessings received this week. My daughter made a select volleyball team and hubby got a new position at work that cuts out his night and weekend hours. Thanks to Eric for the photo prompt.
The River Muse poetry journal has gone to print here! We are also available in Kindle format here. Grab your copy today.
Two little dogs
who thought they were frogs
leaped around the yard.
Up in the air
with nary a care
they leaped and they leaped so hard.
The neighborhood cat
she smirked as she sat
watching such a sight.
Then they spotted her
but she merely purred
“No, no. Frogs do not bite.”
Writing children’s verse for dverse poets.
photo by sethsnap. used with permission.
She sits on “their rock.”
The lake and her flowing chestnut hair
- childhood backdrops
and those of the proposal, here,
six months ago.
Elbows rest on knees; right palm
cradles chin. The other, bare,
drapes casually across her lap
- maturity’s model.
Shadows veil delicate features,
rendering eyes unreadable.
The midday sun catches a spark
in the abyss
like the diamond ring slowly sinking
to the lake’s bottom.