“Goodnight,” he chirped with a swing
of his cane and a tip of his hat. And at
that moment the sky came crashing
down. A delicate crown of light
slipped over my head, yet darkness
was all that I knew. The wind blew
him farther and farther away from me.
Tepid mint tea briefly lingered on my
baffled tongue. I was young once
Tag Archives: creative writing
Household Songs: The Brief and Unremarkable Life of Joseph Clarence Strauss/V
Mama is the quiet one,
like the small,
pretty angel that sits up on our
Christmas tree.
Papa is the noisy one,
like the big,
angry wind that rattles my bedroom window
at night.
Cinquain/LXXVIII
trumpets
raised to heaven
bellow for three cadets
whose days beneath the cruel sun
are done
What Was Done
It was written on his clavicle
in daubs of dying wisteria by
oppressively agile hands.
I was summoned to the theatre,
though I wore only my nightshirt.
His fists are weeping, even now.
I tremble beneath the hidden spikes.
I tremble; he is colder than the night.
They speak of nasturtium and distant
breasts, one arid tongue at a time.
Without the head, the body falls.
What was done here shall have no memory.
Tyranny Takes Many Forms
Wide brims of light blind a corpulent
matron. She has only ever seen receding
snatches of the cyclical punishment–needy
but resentful–attached to her coattails. She
dreams–often–floating freely through a
sea of checkered lanterns to discover a
new (and better) dwelling.
Contracts are finite.
Attachments, not yet severed.
It is, perhaps, the suffering children clinging
to her hem, who make the brightness so
unbearable.
Cutting the Cord
But oddly when you tell me that
my face looks like a sickly rat,
you neglect to think
of our zygote link;
this sad skin,
is your twin.
Household Songs: The Brief and Unremarkable Life of Joseph Clarence Strauss/IV
When he beholds the anguish
of his ally,
hot, briny rivers begin to gush from
quivering eyes.
The caustic thorn which punctures
a cherished one
will crush your own heart into a
thousand fragments.
A Final Bidding
White bird in the distant bright, if it please
your youthful heart, come and unfold
those mighty wings by green arrow’s edge.
Around us, red leaves murmur of the approaching
frost, yet, I suspect that her apron pockets contain
secrets which we will never hear.
White bird in the distant light, if it please
your faithful heart, come and promenade
gracefully by my weary, rain-washed eyes.
The persimmons are slinking away and
I fear that we shall never meet again.
If it please you, it would please me.
Cinquain LXXVI
fickle,
faded fellows,
fresh from Flitwick, trickle
into the film and flatten rows
of toes
Never an Orange
There is something magical about the feeling of a new pencil sitting within your hand. To me, they are symbolic of the creative process.
The image above was inspired by the text from a scene from Terrence McNally’s play Master Class, which follows opera singer Maria Callas as she gives a master class at Julliard. The text from that scene can be found below.
******
Maria: At the conservatory Madame de Hidalgo never once had to ask me if I had a pencil. And this was during the war, when a pencil wasn’t something you just picked up at the five and ten. Oh no, no, no, no. A pencil meant something. It was a choice over something else. You either had a pencil or an orange. I always had a pencil. I never had an orange. And I love oranges. I knew one day I would have all the oranges I could want, but that didn’t make the wanting them any less.
Have you ever been hungry?
Soprano: Not like that.
Maria: It’s. It’s something you remember. Always. In some part of you.
sundry folly 