Believing Is Seeing
I watched the boy shuffling along the sidewalk. His eyes were on his phone, and he had air pods in his ears. I glanced ahead at the line of brake lights before me. Traffic was still waiting on the red to go green. Looking back at the kid, I saw a shop door open behind him, and a masked man came out. I blinked, wondering if I were seeing things, but the man was definitely there. He grabbed the boy, covered his mouth, and carried him back into the shop.
I was stunned. I scanned the area and tried to determine if anyone else had seen what I did. Other pedestrians seemed to go about their business. The other drivers I could see wore the blank-faces of those navigating the evening rush hour. There were no indications anyone else had seen anything. I felt panic rising into my chest and squeezing my throat. Frantically now I tried to signal the cars around me, pointing at the shop and screaming, "Did you see that? Did you see the boy?"
No one reacted with a sympathetic response. I felt unseen and ignored. I fumbled for my phone and managed to unlock it and dial 911. I opened my car door and swung a leg out, wondering why an operator hadn't picked up yet. Before I could pull myself out of the car, horns started honking behind me. The light had turned green, and traffic was moving on.
My mind froze. I didn't know what to do. Auto-pilot took over. I closed the door and drove forward through the intersection. After a minute, I looked at the phone and noticed I never hit "Call." Had I really seen anything, though? What would I say to 911? No one else seemed to care. Or maybe nothing had even happened. That must be it. There must have been some contextual clue I missed. Something to explain what I saw.
Replaying the scene in my head, I thought perhaps it was simply a prank. Wasn't that the masked man laughing? I couldn't see his face obviously, but maybe a hitch in his shoulders there was a clue. And the boy was clearly not struggling. Maybe he was expecting the prank? I put the phone back in my pocket. No, there wasn't anything to report. I didn't want to look like a fool. I also needed to get home. It had been a long day.
As I approached the next traffic light, I had to come to a stop. A police car with sirens going entered the intersection from the right, and turned left. By the time he was through, the light was red. "Darn," I said aloud. "Just what I needed. I can't catch a break."
You and I
Shimmers fade,
Colors gray;
Summers shade,
Yet I stay.
Flowers wilt,
Cinders chill;
Winters melt,
Yet I will.
With time, each phase
of 'ppointed fate
all nature plays,
and yet I wait.
My love still keeps
its course, my sweet.
My heart still leaps
for yours, complete.
Forests flame,
Oceans drain;
Deserts rain,
I remain.
Purpose
Art -
that which fulfills a purpose
and yet not bound
nor curtailed
nor restrained
by that purpose
- stretches the perceiver,
animates the passive
gaze
(or quiet read)
and stirs
the heart and mind,
evoking that purpose.
Art can be so bold as
to inspire,
discomfort,
reveal,
sadden,
overjoy,
humble,
confuse,
confront,
or defy.
And yet, the artist
cannot contain the art,
control its purpose,
but must concede, rather,
to pursue the purpose,
and let the art bloom
beyond this pursuit.
The purpose is merely a gateway,
a stepping stone,
a foundation,
upon which - through which -
the art is created;
this purpose,
an essence,
a presence,
is a beginning,
not an ending,
not a box,
but a flower pot, with soil that feeds the growth
of those with the patience, the quiet, the focus,
to see what springs from the
art.
The Detective
The detective walked on to the crime scene,
eyes teary from the smell of rotten cabbage.
She scanned the piles of brown and green
before focusing on the human damage.
The victim was young, tall and lean;
his prime stolen by some sinister savage.
“Probably between ten and thirteen,”
said the M.E., “Looks like a 12-gauge.”
The detective returned the M.E.’s glance
and saw the words he was slow to tell.
“Yes, it is,” he threw up his hands.
“Another dead by the Killer of the Carousel.”
She closed her eyes and tightened her stance,
inhaled deeply, preparing for hell.
“I’d hoped it was over, this ritual dance,
but now I see it will never end well.”
Twenty years ago, she had caught a fresh case,
a death at a carnival, her first painful shock.
One memory the detective could never erase
was the shape of the body painted in chalk.
Back then it was a girl, all pig-tails and lace.
“Nothing prepares you, no lecture, no talk,”
her Captain had told her, giving her space.
“This grief, this path, you alone must walk.”
The media coverage was constant and bleak -
murder and gore, a ratings sensation.
More victims were taken week after week,
pulling her into a black hole of fixation.
When a roguish reporter made her misspeak,
that odd nickname was born from total frustration,
and vaulted her prey to an infamous peak -
a star in the serial killers’ constellation.
No evidence, no clues, no traces were left.
No connections were made, the killings were random.
The detective received letters, mysterious and deft,
that promised an answer if she solved a conundrum:
“What remains of the lover’s heart once cleft?
Who, once jilted, can return to solitary humdrum?”
She would come to believe this artifice was theft;
it had kidnapped her mind, and she paid the ransom.
The letters had stopped along with the killing
after four years of time spent chasing the lives lost.
Until this victim was found in fetid cabbage swilling,
her life and the Killer’s had gone on uncrossed.
In her mind she had rode round a carousel chilling,
circles of self-doubt spinning up at great cost.
“Chalk it up to experience,” a cliche unfulfilling,
was always the throwaway comment tossed.
Standing in that field, full of death and rank,
the detective could see the lines connecting dot-to-dot.
Inspiration filled what once was always blank,
A constellation of lateral leaps of thought.
A heart cleft by a lover loveless and frank
is tilled like a field and ready to pot.
Only once the soil yields ripe fruit to yank
can the lover be healed, can the heart be rewrought.
The conundrum was solved, the riddle clear.
The Killer could now be finally revealed.
The detective had left her husband that year
before the first victim’s fate was sealed.
Another marriage had cooled his evil sear,
but that wound could never be fully healed.
Just last week, she had happened to hear,
divorce was decreed; and now a Killer afield.
Essence
Haze of warm air permeates the brood
of pines
that rise around my drowsy repose
lying
on a mat of needles, soft and subdued
Radiance glides down among the limbs
in beams
that motes of forest dust disclose
glowing
in the lines of light, delicate and slim
Velvet daydreams swirl within the calm
inside me
serene I seem within the shadows
drifting
afloat on the salve of nature's balm
Trying Times
It started when his parents were sent to prison after the trial.
Restless hours in bed followed by turbulent days of denial.
Straight As at school became "Fuck you!"s at his aunt.
Life was a trial, a blur of "I won't" and "I can't".
Psychologists were called, and psychiatrists, too.
No one could help him, no one could get through.
Then came that specialist with that fateful question,
“Want to join a clinical trial, a new drug for depression?”
He was admitted at once and began the medicine.
Round the clock monitoring, it was an arduous regimen.
But he never got better; in fact, he got worse.
My brother was soon brought to rest in a hearse.
And now I am back at the courthouse once more.
A new trial to test me, can I walk through that door?
What “if”?
What if I told you that someone else was there that night?
- The slippery postulate of the desperate defense
What if our choices could transcend our insignificant plight?
- The rhetorical premise to enflame and incense
What if we just need more time for our hearts to unite?
- The plaintive plea of a love in suspense
What if society could be more gracious and polite?
- The fantastical musings of dreamers come whence
If what the questions pose is weighed, more than their answers may be portrayed.