Note: This poem is written in a form known as the OTTAVA RIMA, or Rhyme of Eight. Each verse is 8 lines long, and each line has 8 syllables.

The rhyme scheme is [a b a b a b c c].

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After a bleak and rainy night,

the dawn has birthed another day.

I sense the morning’s growing light,

then grabbing air… up, up, away…

it’s time to spread my wings in flight!

The world awaits, I will not stay;

all caution to the wind I’ve thrown.

I soar the heights, free and alone.

Nothing has ever felt so right!

Upon the breeze I dip and play.

Above the clouds, the sky is bright

while far below, still somewhat gray,

the rainfall stops. Now comes the sight

of sunshine breaking nighttime’s sway.

As thunder mumbles one last groan,

the land once more by daytime owned.

Flapping my wings with all my might,

the fields and streams below me lay.

I drift and float, a stringless kite

to ride the currents come what may.

Freedom hard won, I hold it tight

and wait out nighttime storms. You say

for doubt and fear I must atone?

Ha! With the dawn, you’ll find I’ve flown.

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©2023 - dustygrein

[See The Letter: https://theprose.com/post/737746/the-letter]

My dearest sweet Lady H,

I write to thee with trembling hands, as I know I may have but this one chance to answer, and I must spill out the truth my heart cannot hide, before my courage slips away like dew upon the morning grass.

Thou are correct, fair maid, I did espy thee sitting among the guests across the banquet hall, like a rose blooming amidst a field of daisies. I tried not to stare with awkward abandon, but found my eyes drawn to thine grace, as a sword is drawn to a lodestone.

The desire I had... nay, the desire I STILL have... cannot be contained. I dreamed last eve of thee, sitting high and gorgeous upon a white steed, shining thy beauty and love down upon my humble self as the sun radiates the earth with warmth and light, providing it with the very essence of life itself.

I simply must see thee again.

My father would never approve of this. He is concerned only with the farm lands that separate our houses, and the border disputes with thy father. He is an old and doddering fool! I would care not if we gave the lands all to thine family, if only I could kiss thy soft and glorious lips a single time.

If thine heart swells in thy breast as mine does, please meet me at the large oak tree that sits where the High Road crosses the Avenue of Leaves, an hour after sunset. We mustn't be caught, but I cannot contain myself any longer.

Use caution, but wear my love for thee as a shield, and know that I will attend thee upon thy arrival, and forever there after.

I remain thy faithful servant,

B

Dear God, what have I done?

This question, above all others, is the one echoing inside my heart, or soul, or whatever this is. I can see myself lying in the road, but worse, I can see Janice. She is half on the sidewalk, half in the roadway, and her neck is bent at an impossibly strange angle. I can only pray that she dies soon. I thought maybe she was dead already, until I saw a tear fall from her eye, and watch her drag in a strangled and tortured breath.

Sweet Jesus.

I follow her gaze, and realize she is staring at my body. I have no doubt I am dead, since the blood and brains that are leaking around my crushed skull are spreading out into the rain-wet street as the first sirens cry in the distance.

I'm suddenly transported backward through time to earlier this evening, like some twisted and cruel version of that Christmas story with the ghosts. I can't remember the fucking name now, but I remember every detail of the scene I am being forced to witness.

Worse than knowing what is going to happen at the end of the night, is my utter impotency to prevent any of it.

The office Christmas party was supposed to be a fun evening, to let our proverbial hair down. I see Janice, looking gorgeous in her red gown, and I watch myself pour a third vodka tonic. This was all my fault. I watch as I toss the drink back, without even batting an eye. I was always so proud of my ability to handle my liquor.

I watch as I weave slightly on my trip to the bathroom. Asshole!

In the bathroom, I take a piss, then turn and look at myself in the mirror. I pull out the small vial, and use the little spoon on my key ring to snort just enough coke to straighten my gait and put me back in control. I even winked at myself. I so wish I could stop what happens next, but I am stuck as an observer.

I leave the bathroom, and head back to the open bar. Janice scowls at me. No, I thought so then, but now I can see the look of concern in her eyes. That look is followed by pity, and then reluctant acceptance. At the bar, I was just pissed that she didn't trust me to know my own limit, so I poured a fourth drink, and when I catch her eye, I even take a swig from the bottle, before replacing the stopper.

The events after that are a little blurry, until we are getting ready to leave the party. I take a last trip to the bathroom, and finish off the stash in the vial. My eyes are a little red in my reflection, but I am once more in control, and the edges come back into focus. I grin at myself, never realizing the next time I would see my own face, it would be oddly squished from being run over by a car.

I must have pulled off the sober routine well, because no one tried to make sure she drove us home. How I wish someone had.

In the car, we started arguing. I was trying to convince her I was fine to drive, and she kept messing with her purse, and whining at me that she needed to talk to me. I yelled at her to shut up, that we would talk at home. I didn't notice the tears I am watching course down her cheeks, or see what she had taken out of her purse.

Oh God, no!

She is holding a pregnancy test stick, and I can see two pink lines.

I feel sick to my stomach, but I don't have an actual body, so I can only suffer through more pain and regret than humans were designed to endure.

I watch the bridge come into view, and Janice turns her face away from mine. I see myself looking at her, and I remember I was pissed that she was crying, and ruining my Christmas Eve. We start across the bridge doing 52. The limit is 55, so I am good in the old speed department.

I scream silently at myself not to look away from the road, but instead I see myself look over at Janice one last time. A small hiccup and a muscle spasm at just the wrong time, and the wheel jumps in my hand.

Time slows to a crawl, and I watch in slow motion as we careen headfirst into a semi coming the other way. I see us both fly through the windshield, which shatters into thousands of small fragments. I watch as Janice flips end over end, and hear the snap as she lands on the edge of the sidewalk, and I watch her head assume that strange, almost alien angle, bending in a place that was never meant to bend. I see myself land in the road, just as the car that was following the truck swerves around it, both of its passenger side tires lifting and bouncing as they run over my head. The popping noise sounds like a champagne bottle releasing its cork, and I suddenly find myself back above the scene watching it all.

The emergency vehicles are pulling up and blocking the road as the rain begins to fall in earnest.

Dear God, what have I done?

This question, above all others, is the one echoing inside my heart, or soul, or whatever this is. I can see myself lying in the road, but worse, I can see Janice, again, half on the sidewalk, half in the roadway, her neck still bent at that impossibly strange angle. I pray once again that she dies soon, and I once more watch a tear fall from her eye as she takes a strangled and tortured breath.

Sweet Jesus.

As I follow her gaze to where my body lay, broken, bleeding and all together dead, I once more hear the sirens crying in the distance.

No, God! Please, not again!

I'm suddenly transported backward through time to earlier this evening, like some twisted version of that fucking Christmas story with the ghosts, whatever it is called. I can't remember that, but I do remember I have done this before. Many times.

Maybe this is my punishment. Experiencing every second of the evening, over and over. I hope that mercy is also part of God's plan, even for assholes like me. These thoughts become fainter, as I watch myself weave slightly, on my trip to the bathroom, with the coke vial calling my name from my pocket...

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© 2023 dustygrein

Once upon a time, there was a little pond.

There, in the muddy water beneath the lily pads, lived a happy community of water beetles. They lived a simple and comfortable life in their pond, with few disturbances and interruptions.

Occasionally, a great sadness would come to this community, when one of their fellow beetles would, without explanation, climb the stem of a lily pad and would never be seen again. They all knew when this happened, that their friend was dead, gone forever. They grieved for these lost companions, and missed them terribly, as they continued their water beetle activities, living their water beetle lives.

One day, a little water beetle felt an irresistible urge to climb up one of the stems. He really loved his family, but was determined that he would climb to the other side of the lily pad. He would not leave forever . . . he would simply have a look around, then come back and tell everyone what he had found.

The little beetle set out in curiosity and wonder, and even a little fear. When he reached the top of the stem, he climbed out of the water onto the surface of the lily pad. Here was a whole new world of sunshine and blue skies!

The trip had been a long one. He was very tired, and the amazing warmth from the sun felt so good, he decided he must take a nap before heading back to tell his loved ones how wonderful it was up here.

As he slept, his little body underwent a miraculous change.

He woke to find he was no longer a water beetle, but had turned into the most beautiful blue-tailed dragonfly, with glorious broad wings and a slender new body designed for flying. This was amazing!

He flexed his new wings and was suddenly airborne. He had always been content in the muddy little pond, but now as he soared into the blue sky, he found a completely new world. This new life was so much more wonderful than his old one; he was free, and happier than ever.

Then, he remembered his beetle friends. By now, they must think he had died. He really needed to go back and tell them that he wasn’t gone, only changed; he was more alive now than he had ever been! His life hadn’t ended, but had finally been fulfilled.

Unfortunately, he discovered that his new wonderful body couldn’t go back down under the water. He wouldn’t be able to get back there and tell them all the good news. As he pondered this sad revelation, he looked down and watched as another water beetle fell asleep on a lily pad.

He now understood.

Eventually his family and friends would join him in this new life, and they would all be together again. With joy in his heart, he flew off into the clear sky, ready for the happiness, freedom and new adventures that awaited him in this fresh and glorious existence.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

© 2018 Dusty Grein

* This fable is based on a story I heard once, that stuck with me. It’s lesson may not be as deep for everyone, but hopefully, if you are reading this, it has touched you half as much as writing it touched me.

My father was moonstruck at a young age, and though he had a very whimsical soul, he also had great, almost psychic, intuition; in his handwritten journal he foretold the arrival of a dastardly entity at his club, the Comedy Fortress, who would be filled with both a nefariously melancholy demeanor and perversely righteous indignation.

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© 2023 - dustygrein

(Thank you for a great little challenge. Sometimes I create these little random word challenges in poetry, but occasionally I try and see if I can do it all in one sentence... this one worked pretty well.)

I miss Mommy and Daddy so much. I don’t know where they went.

I waked up from my nap, and everybody was gone. I found Mr. Snuggle-Bear, so I’m not alone. I found some crackers, but I’m still hungry and the houses and even the Seben-Eleben are all gone.

I peed in my pants, so I took them off. I know it makes Mommy and Daddy mad, and I tried to go in the potty, but I couldn't find it and I had a atsadent. I hope that’s not why Mommy and Daddy leaved.

It makes me cry. Daddy says “Big girls talk, and don’t just cry,” but I don’t know all the words. Maybe I was a bad girl, but I can be good, I pomise.

I just want them to come back.

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© 2016 - dustygrein

(audio recording: https://soundcloud.com/dusty-grein/steel-and-me)

Steel’s breath smells almost as bad as the air here, downwind from what used to be a city. Mine probably stinks just as much as the dog’s, but he never bitches about it so neither do I. We may not be Dorothy and Toto, but he and I get along.

Four days.

That’s how long Steel and I have been here on the west side. We have the cellar to ourselves and so far we have avoided the roving gangs of Burners. Our nighttime searches have been a bust though. All we have to show is one dented gas can, a few rolls of masking tape and the batteries.

Hell, I should feel thankful for those.

The last pack of batteries I found bought me three hots and a cot at the Ref-Center across town. Of course those were the square nine-volts and these are only double-A’s, but they should still be worth a fresh meal and maybe a pair of socks.

There’s a Drift I met by the burn pits—I think her name is Doris, or Daisy... something stupid like that—but she says she has a half-dozen sports-bras stashed that she managed to steal from somewhere. If it’s true and one of them fits, I might just swap her a couple batteries instead. Safer than going to the Ref-Center, and I’d love to be able to run without having to hold my chest.

I don't care what anyone says, boobs are a pain in the ass.

The sun’s getting hot again. Midday temps are reaching at least 130 now. Luckily we’ve been riding out the worst of it here, two levels deep. The air is a bit staler down here, but the heat is manageable.

We’ll need to make a trip to the lake tonight; we are down to two canteens of water, and Steel has been panting a lot today.

The mutt knows I’ll give him my share if I have to.

One of the Noonas at the Ref-Center told me she heard we are supposed to get some relief from the heat as autumn begins, but I wonder. Whoever the genius was who fucked with the HAARP array, stripped the cloud cover off most of the planet before they could shut it down. The only rain we’ve seen in months, has been in our dreams.

I pour a little water in my hand and let Steel lap it up before we settle in for a siesta. It’s the best thing to do when it’s this damned hot.

#

I come fully awake from my nap all at once, like always. It doesn’t pay to be only partially aware. I learned that the hard way last year.

“Come on, Steel. Let’s go see if the group under the library wants to trade some mostly clean tape rolls for a new book.”

At least I would have something to read that way.

I almost make the stairs, when Steel’s warning growl, low and almost non-existent, stops me in my tracks. He smells something, and now I can hear it. Someone is in the room above us. I gently slide the bolt back on my rifle, and check the chamber before re-locking it.

I love you, dog. Let’s see who it is.

I make my way quietly up the stairs with Steel at my heels, all but silent on the pads of his feet.

I stop in the stairwell below the level of the upper floor, and slowly raise myself up on my toes, just enough to see through the weak light beyond the doorway above. It looks like a pair of Burners, probably on a foraging patrol.

Shit, they aren’t even trying to be quiet... probably feel invincible.

They should have checked the building completely, before acting all at-home and cozy. I bet they don’t even realize there is another level below this one.

I put my left eye against the scope, my right trigger finger lying gently inside the trigger guard. Just as I thought. Two boys in Burner boots and jackets; they don’t even look old enough to shave. I guess that’s a problem they won’t ever have to worry about now.

I raise my left hand, all four fingers straight up in the air. I can tell Steel has frozen at this signal without even having to look. We are a good team, Steel and me.

I think you might have some fresh food tonight, dog.

With a single motion, I close my hand into a fist and then stretch my fingers out flat. Steel lowers himself to his belly, crawls past me up the last few steps, and slinks toward the doorway. He knows how to flush out his prey.

Steel lays in the doorway quietly and turns to look at me. I brace myself against the steps and sight in on Burner #1, across the room. The idiot is standing in a thin beam of sunlight.

Almost too easy.

Even easier to imagine he is one of the crew who raped me last year. They are all dead—thanks to Steel and a couple well-placed bullets—but the anger comes on anyway, strengthening my resolve.

A simple quiet tongue-click is Steel’s cue and he begins to whine. Very softly and non-threatening. His posture is relaxed and his tail is slowly thumping up and down. He has his ears lowered and if I know Steel, he is grinning his silly-dog grin at them as well. He knows how to do the sweet and innocent act better than any human.

“What the fuck was that?” The sitting duck in my sights turns to look toward the darkened doorway with a bit of panic in his voice.

Maybe these two have a little brains after all.

His partner sees Steel and proves how green he is, sealing both their fates. He walks over and bends down, muttering some kind of baby talk to the dog. I gently squeeze the trigger on my rifle, and as the sound of the shot echoes up the stairwell, his buddy’s head explodes into a fine red mist behind him—bits of brain and blood spraying out across the far side of the room. I throw the bolt back, ejecting the spent casing, and slam another round home into the chamber before the noise is even gone.

The look of shock on the second Burner’s face is almost comical, but doesn’t last long. Steel uncoils like a spring, and without making a sound he tears out the asshole’s throat. His body falls to the floor, and his feet actually spasm a few times before his brain registers his own death.

I wait a few minutes to make sure the sound of the shot hasn’t attracted any unwanted attention, then stand up and enter the upper basement. I gotta hand it to the Drift who sold me this ammo. He said it would pack a punch, and he was definitely on track.

I quickly search the bodies. The headless one was packing a pistol with a full clip, but his buddy, Mr. Dog Food, was only carrying a 22-caliber pellet gun. Big Bad Burners they weren’t. Pitiful wanna-be’s is closer to the truth.

This is a tough world boys, too bad you didn’t figure that out sooner.

Between the two of them, they did have three canteens, which I use to refill my own supplies. The one I shot also had a bag of jerky in his pocket, so it looks like maybe Steel and I will both have a bite of dinner.

I signal the dog to have at it, and as he fills his belly on the remains of the Burner, I head back down to pack up my duffel. They were probably loners, but just in case, I’d rather not be here if their friends do show up to mourn their stupidity.

Oh well... it was time to move on anyway. Slinging my rifle, I lift the duffel to my shoulder and join Steel upstairs. Together, we make our way toward ground level and the afternoon heat. I pat the new pistol tucked into my belt, and smile at the dog.

Looks like I have a bit more than just batteries to trade now, mutt. Let’s go.

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© 2017 - dustygrein

The piano music has started again. It might be less sinister, if only it weren’t so hauntingly, terribly beautiful.

I’m not sure how much longer I can hang on; I gave up all hope of being rescued at least two days ago, when I still had hands and feet.

He must be a surgeon; he hasn’t used any anesthesia, but he he has kept me alive and aware through each of the amputations. The sick bastard even made me watch as he turned my hands into a pair of white-nailed, pink gloves.

I think he wears them while he plays.

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© 2017 dustygrein

(a ballade supreme, in *catalectic tertiary paeonic tetrameter)

Audio Recording: https://soundcloud.com/dusty-grein/hotel

The old lawyer closed his case, and said “That’s all there is, I guess.”

“Did my uncle really die there?” He looked up and gave a sigh,

“In the lobby’s where they found him. It was probably the stress,

of the many renovations he was planning when he died.”

That was how it came to pass that it was now my turn to try

and fix up the old stone building, like it was when it was new.

So I moved to New Orleans. This city's beautiful, that's true,

but quite soon I learned more truth, about the evil that befell

many guests who chose to stay there, and the tales told by the crew

of the ghosts and apparitions at

Hôtel Le Fontanelle.

When I moved into the place, I found that it was quite a mess.

It confused me and I couldn’t understand the reasons why;

till I woke up one dark midnight, to the gentlest caress

and the faintest quiet echo, sounding like a baby’s cry.

I sat up and found my blood was running cold, my mouth was dry,

while my fists were clenched quite firmly and my lips were turning blue.

Through the pounding of my heartbeat, all that I could think to do

was to calm my labored breathing, which I did… until a bell

began ringing somewhere near, and then I found that I was glued

to my bed, here in my room within

Hôtel Le Fontanelle.

After that I knew the time had come to find a priest to bless

every room and every hall, to help those earth-bound spirits fly

off to Heaven, or to Hell, I really couldn’t care much less.

It was my place now, and I was not afraid to dig and pry

into all the secret stories there, exposing every lie.

I discovered there’d been voodoo rituals, which blasted through

the thin veil between the realms. Into this hole, the spirits flew.

The old ju-ju woman in the swamp refused to cast a spell

which would mend the rip. Instead she laughed and said that I would rue

the day I stepped o’er the threshold of

Hôtel Le Fontanelle.

The true horror of the situation only bloomed and grew

after my attempt to free them, for I really had no clue,

that this failed attempt soon meant my body too, would start to smell,

from the bed where it lay rotting. See, the cost of sin comes due,

and it must be paid with interest, to

Hôtel Le Fontanelle.

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© 2023 - dustygrein

* This little used poetic meter means each line is is built of four 4-syllable feet, with the stress on syllable #3. It is catalectic (latin: no tail) because the final syllable is omitted from each line, giving it a syllable stress rhythm of:

tap, tap, THUMP, tap, tap, tap, THUMP, tap, tap, tap, THUMP, tap, tap, tap, THUMP.

The car shook and vibrated, the locked up wheels cutting screaming furrows in the packed dirt of the road. My foot felt rubbery as I pressed with all my might against the brake pedal, trying to force the steel behemoth to stop before I ran into the child.

I looked over and Mary’s face was white, her lips pulled back in a grimace of expected horror and her hands on the dash board as if trying to hold back the front of the car.

As the car shivered to a stop, the dust rolled around from behind us, obscuring the road in front. I hadn’t heard--or felt--us hit anything. ‘Please God,’ I thought as I threw the car in PARK, ‘let her be okay.’

“Steven! Did you hit her? Where is she?”

“I don’t think so. I’m sure we stopped in time.” The truth was, between the adrenaline that was still coursing through me, and the clouds of earth in the air, I wasn’t sure of anything.

“Well, go look!”

“Right.” I opened my door and stepped out.

As the dust cleared, I could see her. The little girl, no more than five or six years old, was still standing in the road, inches in front of the car.

Thank God!

“Mary, she’s fine!” I heard my mousy wife get out of the car. We both came around to where the girl stood, and it wasn’t until I saw the ax in the child’s hands that I once again began to become concerned.

Mary stopped, and her stare grew wider as the girl raised the heavy tool. Before I could move, she swung it down and buried the sharpened head deep in my poor Mary’s head.

The girl-shaped creature then turned its face toward me, and I saw hideously long teeth as it opened its mouth much wider than should have been possible. It hissed and narrowed its eyes; with a wet ‘schlup’ sound, it pulled the ax free from Mary’s skull.

I fell to my knees. My horror had combined with my rapidly beating heart to shut down my motor skills; I was helpless to even raise my arms as I watched the now dripping ax head rise into the air above me.

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(c) 2017 - dustygrein