poetry

Open Hands

Sally14 Comments

I remind myself,
Unclench your hands
Hold them open

I remind myself,
Take a breath,
Don’t hold it

This week, the W3 prompt is to go on an introspective free verse journey. To do that, Allpoetry suggests starting with an image. I started with an image of open hands.

As you can see it was a struggle.

I wanted to write about how when you hold things too tightly, they cut into your hands and cause pain and injury.

I wanted to write something about that time my uncle grabbed onto an electric fence to show us it was safe, and like gullible little nieces and nephews, we grabbed on, too. And it wasn’t (safe) and we knew it before we did it but we were so gullible and trusting which is a kind of open hand even though it’s a closed hand on a wire.

I wanted to write about that sensation that I still feel of a dragonfly in my hand that flew away.

I wanted to write that cheesy sentiment that flourished in the 70s right along with the yellow smiley face and peace signs — it said something like, “If you love someone, let them go. If they return, they’re yours. If they don’t, they never were.” I was in high school in the 70s — first loves and all that — but the more I think about it, I don’t think it’s true. I think in some situations, like children leaving home and finding their way in the world, they don’t come back, and that’s because you’ve done your job well. I have a daughter in London right now. She has fallen in love with a city that’s far from home and I couldn’t be happier for her. I hold her with open hands.

So I open my hands to the people in my life.

And I’ll breathe through the stresses in my life.

But I won’t write a very good introspective poem.

fiction

The Date

Sally24 Comments

He looked at his watch and sighed. It had been 20 minutes, then thirty. Her vest still hung on the back of the chair.

Surely she would be back.

When he had seen her photograph on the dating app, he knew. Okay, maybe creating that fake account posing as a younger man had been deceptive. Maybe even creepy. But he had to meet her.

He described exactly what he would be wearing. She would have no question that he was the man she was meeting. Nobody else would be wearing a brown argyle sweater sitting at the exact table he described.

He watched her stop when she entered. Her face went blank for a moment. Then she took a deep breath and smiled that glorious smile as she approached him.

“Dan?” she asked.

He nodded and rose. She hugged him, something he hadn’t expected.

They ordered drinks and chatted without a word about his age or appearance. She simply chatted about her work as a nurse and her orange tabby that greeted her each night.

He barely heard a word. He was studying her perfect lips and teeth, her high cheekbones, her tiny nose. He had been correct.

When she excused herself to go to the ladies’, he resolved to tell her when she got back. She was his daughter. He knew.

She never came back. The bar closed. The vest still hung on the chair.

As he was leaving, he realized that his wallet had disappeared in that hug.

This is my submission for this week’s Unicorn Challenge. The Unicorn Challenge is simple: write 250 words or less (DON’T YOU DARE GO OVER) based on the photo prompt.

One of my co-workers is newly single and he was reading me posts from Facebook Dating. We both open at the facility where we work — so this was about 5:30 AM when he started. He wandered off as people came into the facility, but later stopped in my office to read me some more. Later I saw him sitting in another office, reading posts out loud.

At the end of the day, he stopped by my office again. “When I first started reading them posts,” he said, “I thought they was pathetic. Now, after reading them all day, I think they’re just funny.”

Yes, funny. In a pathetic way.

fiction

Revenge

Sally14 Comments

He slipped into the water. Before he started swimming, he patted the arm pouch strapped to his left arm. Yes, it was there. The bulge told him the contents were safely inside.

The masts lit up the boats. The harbor was awash with light. But he needed to avoid being seen and recognized.

Silently he breaststroked towards the boat, the water barely rippling behind him. He focused on the goal. The light from the mast stays shone on the water. Each time he came near a finger of light, he dove under and swam a distance. No one must see him.

The closer he drew to the boats, the more light he had to avoid on the surface of the water. Over and over he dove and swam. Each time he surfaced to breath he would reorient his direction so that he was headed for the Euridyce.

Finally there, he heaved himself up over the side, trying to time his efforts with other waves hitting the boat. It would less likely be noticed that way.

Silently, he unzipped the pouch and pulled out the square box. She would recognize it, he knew. She had been hinting for months.

He kissed the blue velvet cover and whispered, “This will knock your socks off.”

And more, he thought.

Down in the cabin, he left the box on the shelf beside her. He had no doubt that she would see and open it.

God, she looked lovely sleeping there.

Next to him.

This is this week’s Unicorn Challenge response.

The Unicorn Challenge is simple: 250 words and base it on the photo.

fiction

Three Day

Sally11 Comments

“Three is my magic number,” Bea said.

“Why do you say that?” her father asked.

“Well,” she replied, using her fingers to count things off, “you write my birthday as 3-3, March 3. There are three of us in our family — you, me, mom. Our house is number three on the street –“

He interrupted, “That’s not our house number.”

“I know that,” she replied, “but if you count the houses from the turn-off, we’re the third one.”

She continued until she ran out of fingers. “I’m in the third grade. I have three cats. There are three letters in my name. I eat lunch with two other girls – that makes three. My friends have three-letter names: Ivy and Nia.”

She found a notebook. “I’m going to collect a hundred threes today,” she announced, and in her very best third-grade scrawl, she wrote numbers down in a column.

She listed off the three-letter names first: Bea, Ivy, Nia, Mom, Dad. Then she continued: “thrid [sic] house” and kept going.

Bea worked steadily all day on this project.

“Bananas.” Won’t eat one today, thought Dad.

“White rocks.” Only three? thought Dad.

“Broken fence rails.” Need to fix those, thought Dad.

“Letters in the mail.” Bills, thought Dad.

At bedtime, Bea was discouraged. “I couldn’t do it,” she told her father. “I only got to thirty-seven.”

“I’m giving you three stars for trying,” he said.

“What?” she asked.

“Look in the fish tank,” he told her.

When she did, she squealed with delight.

This is my contribution to the Unicorn Challenge. It’s a simple challenge: write a story no more than 250 words. Base it on the photo prompt.

poetry

Delilah

Sally14 Comments

My darling,
Much better than quarreling
Is this: I will stroke your hair,
Swear

Devotion
To you while you’ve no notion
(Have you?) of whose side I’m on.
Yawn

My pretty;
Sleep on my lap. I pity
Your great surprise when you wake.
Take

Care, dumb thing.
Out of the strong came something.
Sweet fool, you yielded to me
Key

Expertise
That I might put you at ease
And take from you that which God
[prod]

Had conferred
On you. Soon the deed’s occurred —
Come take the hair of this mutt!
Cut!

The W3 prompt for this week was to write an ekphrastic poem about the Rubens’ painting of Samson and Delilah.

The more I looked at the painting, the more I disliked Delilah. She’s so false. What did Samson see in her? Well, I think that’s pretty clear in the painting, too.

This is an Irish form I’ve used before: deibide baise fri toin. Syllable count for each quatrain: 3-7-7-1. Rhyme scheme: aabb. The first two lines rhyme on two syllables, and the last two rhyme on one.

The poet of the week gave an additional challenge of including a line from Samson’s riddle: “Out of the strong came something sweet.”

poetry · prayer

Lost Prayer

Sally11 Comments

Dear Barbara,
Remember when
We used to pray
And say amen

To all of our
Troubles and cares
Passing them on –
Gone – to “One Upstairs”

Who heard our words
Read our mettle
Enclosing us
Thus to settle

And face what came–
Oh! Life was hard
Especially
Yours. See — one card

Then another —
Life dealt you crap
Death, illness, hell
Fell in your lap

Week after week
We bowed our heads
We wept, we prayed
Life frayed to shreds

Why did we stop?
I don’t recall
Did we give up?
Our cups to fall

And break, as did
Our friendship? I
Wish I knew what
Shut that door. Why?

Why do people
Move on from God,
Friends, prayers, tears?
Fears? Fatigue? Fraud?

I am a fraud
Yes, yes. That’s true
But we did pray
A day or two

I was out for a drive with a friend the other night, and suddenly I recognized the landscape, the roads, the buildings. It had been years since I had driven out there but I used to meet weekly to pray with a friend. She lived out there.

We stopped meeting rather abruptly some 20 years ago — and I don’t remember why. I don’t remember a falling out. I don’t remember a lot of things from those years. They were so stressful.

But the stresses in my life were miniscule in comparison with hers.

This poem came out of the hashing around of those memories.

I need to add that faith failures — the doubts, the fatigue — they are all MINE, not hers. Pretty sure, anyway.

fiction

Magično Zastrašujuće

Sally8 Comments

“That was NOT here yesterday,” Medina said, pointing at the large white castle.

Jim-Bob guffawed. “Castles don’t appear, darlin’,” he said. “Look — it’s got a name ‘n ev’rythin’.”

The stone marker read: Zastrašujuće Magično, 1234.

“Magic-no,” read Jim-Bob. He tilted his head toward the sign. “No magic, see?”

Medina stared at the building.

“Weren’t there some book about Zara-juicy by that Nee-Chee guy?”

Medina cringed. She couldn’t believe that she was traveling with such an ignorant yahoo.

“You’re thinking of Zarathustra, right? By Neitzsche?” she replied, emphasizing the correct pronounciation, Nee-chuh, of the philosopher’s name.

“That’s what I said!” he argued.

Medina spoke the words to him in her native tongue. “Za-STRASH-oo-yooch-na MA-geesh-noh.” In English, she explained, “Terrifyingly magical. That’s what it means. Don’t read the number aloud. It will open the magic.”

“Aw, darlin’, ain’t no such thing as magic,” he said.

To her, the building was proof that there was.

“Jus’ to prove it to ya, I’m gonna say that number,” said Jim-Bob.

She grabbed his arm. “Please, no,” she pleaded.

“Twelve-thirty-four,” he said, waggling his head as he did.

Nothing happened, and Medina exhaled slowly. Thank God, he hadn’t read the four digits individually, she thought.

“Ain’t no such thing as magic,” he said again. “Kind of a crazy year, though, ain’t it? It’s like countin’! One, two, three, four.”

Immediately, the ground rumbled. It opened and swallowed Jim-Bob. With a loud burp, the ground closed and the castle disappeared.

Medina smiled.

“Buh-bye, darlin’!” she said.

Another Unicorn Challenge done! No more than 250 words. Base it on the photo. You, too, can do this.

poetry

Geraniums

Sally11 Comments

Plants weren’t watered while I was gone
My son forgot
The geraniums were wilted
So jilted, fraught

A good watering – life appears
Or reappears
I should say – its posture improves –
Life moves, cheers

Yes, cheers my heart. All is not lost
Tiny buds burst
Within days — I am delighted
A righted thirst

The W3 prompt this week: Write a poem of three stanzas inspired by the phrase ‘A Wilted Flower’ —Rhyming: Optional

The story in the poem is true. I didn’t know I needed to tell my son to water the plants. Geraniums are so resilient. I wish I could say the same of some of my other plants.

I chose another unpronounceable Irish form: the decnad cummaisc, a form that employs quatrains with both end and internal rhymes. Here are the guidelines:

  • Four-line stanzas.
  • Eight syllables in the first and third lines.
  • Four syllables in the second and fourth lines, which both end rhyme.
  • The final word of line three rhymes with the middle of line four.
fiction

Chalk Outline

Sally6 Comments

“My legs aren’t that fat,” Bobby said.

“It’s HARD to trace a person!” replied Johnny.

Bobby stood back staring at the figure sketched on the road. “It looks like I have no neck. AND it looks like I’m holding a bottled water.”

“You WERE holding a bottled water,” said Johnny.

“You said you would make it look like a hand grenade. That’s why I put my other arm up over my head — so it’d look like I pulled the pin and was about to throw it.”

“I know how we can make it really realistic,” Johnny said.

Bobby narrowed his eyes. “How?”

Johnny leaned in before he spoke. “Use a real grenade,” he said in a quiet voice.

Bobby smirked. “Yeah, right,” he sneered. “I suppose you have a whole box of them in your house.”

“I don’t,” said Johnny, “but my great-uncle Toby does. I know where it is.”

“A whole box of grenades?” Bobby questioned.

“Well, no — but he has a grenade. I’ve seen it.”

The two boys walked the few blocks to where Uncle Toby lived.

“He’s not home,” whispered Johnny. “He’s in Florida, but I know where the key is.”

Once inside, Johnny headed straight for the bedroom and pulled a box out from under the bed. “See,” he said, pointing to an olive-drab device.

Bobby picked it up. He hefted it in his hand.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah. This is real. Trace me holding this.” And he fiddled with the ring holding the pin.

My meager attempt at the Unicorn Challenge, which is write something (no more than 250 words) based on the photo.

Can you tell I struggled with this one?

Meh — got it done, though.