Sunday, November 22, 2009

Story of Mine

Story of Mine

Story of mine, how you call to me, call to me,
saying I've left you there just as you were
I remember a time when your unfolding was all to me
But as at first, when your page was dear.

Can it be real, all that I hear? Give to me of yourselves, then,
Moving through the pages as I drew near
Filling in what waited for me: yes, as I planned you then,
Even to the original twists and turns.

Or is it only an echo, in its emptiness
travelling across time and memory to reflect at me now,
You being ever attached to my choices,
Display no more life than I've showed you how?

Thus I; typing faltering forward,
Light darts around me spinning,
Ideas dredging from their cranial conduits
and you, waiting, calling.

(spinoff of Thomas Hardy's Woman Much Missed, in honor of Nanowrimo!)

Tuesday, June 30, 2009

The Early Hours- Poem

The Early Hours

The crowded mind rebels
against the crush of matter
and the press of time
taking what is given not as it was intended
return to sender
return to sender

multihued geomes gyrate, kaleidescope new hues
against the pressing dark
and the hollow empty spaces
encountering a light breeze
near-silent whirr
crisp linens offer ill protection from the elements
A quiver of supressed movement
heaving shoulders in a sigh
Forbidding all that is lachrymose


Tuesday, January 6, 2009

Hangman's Rope

“What’s that on the mantelpiece, little girl?”

Mr. Brunner had always made me nervous- his unctuous flattery to my mother and me on his way into my father’s study had always seemed slightly creepy, but I didn’t want him to tell Father that I’d been rude to him.

“A rope,” I said, not looking up at him but keeping my eyes on the needlepoint I’d been working on.

“A rope, sir.”

“Sir,” I repeated obediently.

“And what manner of rope would it be, for it to be placed in such a prominent location?”

“Father keeps collectibles there, sir, see the porcelain vases? He’s getting through his Chinese pottery phase, Mother says, and he’s buying historical things.”

“So what would be so historical about that section of rope, my little tyke?” Mr. Brunner patted me on the head. “I am so curious.”

I ducked out from underneath his hand. “Mother said it was a part of a rope that hung someone. I guess they must have been famous, but she didn’t tell me who it was. Why don’t you ask Father?”

Mr. Brunner straightened, looking thoughtful. “No, I don’t think I’ll do that. Why don’t you find out for me?”

“Me?” I was surprised, and dropped my needle. When I’d retrieved it from the floor, I looked up to see him looking at me thoughtfully.

“Yes, you. I’d consider it a favor. Would you like a nice present in return?”

“I suppose,” I said doubtfully. “Would Father mind?”

Thursday, January 1, 2009

Prison Exchange

Prison Exchange

"Mazal tov," the large man in the grey suit said gloomily. He passed the chunk of stale brown bread to his companion, a skinny man with a ratlike pointed nose and beady eyes. "You've got your wish."

"Yes, and I'd like to thank you." The skinny man passed him an equal-sized chunk. "I know you think I'm being silly and that I'm in denial about the reality of our situation."

"You are."

"But I appreciate your agreeing to do it anyway," the skinny man continued. "It means a lot to me."

"Cut the sap, man."

"I will, I will; I just had to say it."

A moment of silence between the two was broken by the large man's sigh. "Remember the Purim seuda at home? My wife always made light, fluffy kneidlach, chicken soup with real meat, real vegetables, a kugel so good you wanted to keep on eating more of it forever, and all day long, hamantaschen and wine and candy were coming in the door."

"I don't like that kind of talk," the skinny man growled.

"Sorry, just thinking."

"Keep it in your head, then."

The large man looked hurt. "But- but we agreed- we need to keep-"

"I'm sorry," the skinny man said contritely. "I know. I just- just don't talk about food, okay? My wife was only a barely average cook anyway."

"Sorry too," the large man mumbled.

"It's getting dark," the skinny man said, staring up towards the ceiling at the tiny crack that served them as a window.

They sat in silence, munching their dry bread, watching the sky fade again into twilight.