Loneliness Salivating (part 4)
the boy hides in the basement,
wondering how many cracks
the walls can hold before the sky falls
and his lungs fill with splinters,
he smokes a stolen cigarette,
it tastes like the bitter betrayal of peace,
he sits, in the corner on the floor,
blows smoke through cobwebs
and pretends that divinity is based
on perspective, maybe the footsteps
coming down the stairs are judgement
chasing down the smell of his sin,
maybe his actions are feeding Devils
and the strays are coming in
for a free meal. he chuckles because he knows.
there is only one outcome.
he takes a deep breath and waits,
hoping the spider will bite him
and misfortune will give birth
to mercy.
A Villanelle for My Mother
Ordinarily, I don't write poems. I write fiction, which, when I can get it published, has received wonderful reviews. Sales remain minimal. But that's what I do.
This year, I wrote sonnet for my father, who was turning 85. I couldn't think what else to give him. I started writing it in January. His birthday was March 29.
On March 15, he fell and suffered a concussion with "a slow brain bleed." By my birthday, April 5, he could no longer swallow. I flew to Idaho and helped my mother follow his directive for no intervention. We sat with him while he died, free of any fluids, nutrients, or antibiotics. To say it was harrowing is not an exaggeration. He died April 13. My mother married him when she was 17. She's baffled and distracted now and I'm going to spend the next 6 weeks with her. For her birthday, I attempted a villanelle. I hadn't planned on it, but two lines between my own daughter and me when she received her masters in statistics last summer kept running through my head. The first two lines of the villanelle are what we said to each other. I wrote it in two days, crying most of the time. While composing it, another element arose. Nearly 30 years ago, my youngest sister, who was eight, was killed by a drunk driver.
When I said Life is long, my daughter said,
That she had heard it's short, so which is it?
In truth, I said, our Life has hard, fast limits.
This puzzle will prevail in heads
And hearts until the day it's finished.
When I said Life is long, my daughter said,
Perhaps lifespan relieves annoying dread,
Unlike the instant end--torture, isn't it?
In truth, I said, our Life has hard, fast limits.
But if you suffer shocking loss within it,
Oh yes, it tears, it rips, and never quits.
When I said Life is long, my daughter said,
Who measures Life in any given minute--
No one. All time enforces awful exits.
In truth, I said, our Life has hard, fast limits.
Enjoy the moment! Love exists ahead:
Surprise! A birthday party, candles lit!
Hurray for you--and Dad--beyond all limit!
Harbor the Halcyon
I lie ladened with lethargy, lamenting and longing for more.
Strenuously seeking some solution to silence my sorrowful outpour.
My own thoughts transforming into a tongue-lashing tryant on a timeless tirade.
Metacognition being its source of ammunition.
Bang, bang, bang. Reload.
Quick! Before I finally quit.
Quicker! Please just stop this quiver.
Quandary coming from every corner conquering and killing others' quests.
Happiness suffocating from the horrid hands of haggardness.
Enough with hands, I prefer wings!
Hands eradicate, but wings emancipate.
Wings like the Halcyon hovering over high seas to calm the calamity of the clashing waves.
Shhh...
Another night filled with fearful visions from sleep, awoken by the same horrifying hands.
I peer towards my window, and what waits there?
Chirp.