Desperate Times
It seemed like the end of the world,
As flags of each nation unfurled;
The boots hit the ground,
With a heavy sound;
Hearts did pound,
Blood curdled.
It's hard to imagine such fate,
In the midst of bloodshed you wait;
With their heavy loads,
In the soldiers strode;
The abode,
They ablate.
Will we ever find such a peace,
That grants on our lives a new lease?
The body count soars,
Our souls do implore;
Where's the door?
No, new grief.
(c) 2017 Miriam Ruff
Another clogyrnach, this time type 1. Feedback please?
The Music That Shaped You
Love is that album you saved up for in high school. It's the music you just had to have. When you finally had it in your hands, you were over the moon. You lay, eyes shut, heart and body churning, letting the sweet strains wash over you and not understanding why the whole world didn't agree that this was the best album of all time, and always would be.
You still have that old album, tucked away somewhere. The passage of decades has dulled its power. You still listen occasionally, but you no longer believe it was the best. You mostly remember how it made you feel, back in those heady days of breathless youth. It still has the power to move you occasionally, and it's something you'll continue to cherish. But you also mourn, knowing it will never be as overwhelmingly powerful as it was when you first possessed it.
Scotch Tape
And one day your standing on a street corner and without having to listen you hear each individual string rip, come undone, plucked apart except these are not your guitar strings and you cannot replace them. The scotch tape that binds her limbs can be pressed down many times but the truth is it has lost its adhesiveness. Now you are wondering if it was the strings you were hearing or just the noise that seems to derive from her throat- it is so alien. Have you ever heard her make that sound? Have you ever heard this noise before? Have you ever heard anything before now? It isn’t until a tear smashes the weight of its catalyst onto the pavement that you realize she is crying. Has she ever cried before? Have you ever heard it? Have you ever heard anything before now?
Frisbee.
I fumbled with it the first time I held it between my fingers. I had seen my parents float the frisbee to each other with effortless flicks; they harmonized. From my mother's hands the disc would hover in the air only to fall into my father's to be spun back to her. And in this gentle way they kept their love afloat.
As I said, my first time, I fumbled. I tossed the frisbee slowly, tentatively out to him, this boy I met by chance on the campus quad. Shaky with reservation, the disc tottled far away. He ran after it and missed. His toss, in turn, spiralled to the ground. Later, he confided that he didn't like tossing the frisbee, and again the disc slipped between my fingers. It might take awhile to find someone who would toss with me steady frisbees: in sync, and straight into my arms.