she lay awake
’til the break of dawn
and watch
as fairies
tuck themselves
away in corners
among the dust
then she closes her eyes
and dreams
tall grass
dip’t in dew
glistens in the light
of sparks sprinkled
from fairy wands
the prism’d rainbows
arc ‘cross black sky
cut by lightning
rendering sleep
unfathom’d
“But Mama, I wanna see him again. He loves me!”
“You are not goin’ out with that kid, and that’s final.”
“You don’t understand! He’s the peach fuzz on my cherry pie! He’s the whipped toppin’ on my sundae!”
“I never! That’s ‘xactly why you’re not seein’ him again! Talkin’ like that to your own mother!”
“But… but… I’ll die without him!”
“Nonsense! There’s other goats in the barn.”
“Don’t you mean ‘fish in the sea’?”
“Fish? I thought we were talking ’bout Billy! You mean Johnny? Sure, you can go out with him.”
If only my cold fingers could just grasp at the lifeline that is sobriety, hearth and home, family… For want of the gloves of compassion, I sit here under my bridge and while away the time, reciting poetry to rats, and sleeping in the grime made up of luckier men’s footprints.
The sun riseth upon fangs of dogs, as hungry as I. My first thought is not to fight back. But where would I be then? Surely they’d not rip through these layers of disgust that I wrap myself in. No. I shall live to behold the fathomless expanse of stars, and wonder what the universe I once belonged to will grace me with next. Long past are the days when, in my delusion, I believed I had control.
Now I sit me down to rest
I hope to get this off my chest
If the kids’ screaming doesn’t stop
I swear to God, I’ll blow my top
try as I might
to be grown up
do all the things
that make me big
and independent
and feel like i’m part
of the grown up world
they make me fat
or give me pain
and when i stay
awake and read
i sleep in way
through my alarm
and drag myself
all through my day
to find myself
awake at 12
a glass of wine
back in my hand
and i have to face
the harshest truth
i’m just not old
enough
to adult
“Hello, June!”
“Ugh. What are you calling me for at this hour in the morning? I haven’t even had coffee.”
“It’s that time again. You gotta wake up!”
“Why are you always so damned perky? I hate morning people.”
“Ha! I’m just going to bed.”
“Show off.”
“So, you up?”
“Yeah, I’m up.”
“Excellent. May, out.”
writing fiction makes
it possible to kill you
more than just one time
childish games of long ago
when we’d laugh and run
for “home”
after being found
but not yet tagged
but when you told me,
“hide!” two days ago
life was far from carefree
not fun,
but frightening
i’ve not yet been tagged
nor found
and i’m afraid laughter
is far in the past
i mustn’t cry
as i slept last night
in this cramped and cold room
i dreamed that we were eating
on a patio in summer
we were adults
the dogs i hear now howling
are maybe coming for me with their noses
i only hope
that you
are holding their leashes
what’s that?
a friendly voice…
a woman, my mom?
and you, dear brother
He must be safe in jail
the easy answer
is you’re nasty –
your tasty little
comments above
meaningful murmurs
that on the surface are
humorous, but if
they could hear you
they’d be unim-
pressed by the
quality of your quips
you’re the epitome of
vulgarity
but wouldn’t it be nice
if you could be just
a little bit more
accepting and
excepting the standards
to which you hold
yourself up there is
nothing to show me
that you’re any
better than
anyone
else
you could be the
epitome of,
well,
someone like me
This post is part of Stream of Consciousness Saturday where the word of the week is “press.” Click the link to see how you can join in. It’s fun! https://lindaghill.com/2016/05/27/the-friday-reminder-and-prompt-for-socs-may-2816/
And this post is also in response to The Daily Post where the word of the day is Epitome.
Dear Boss,
I’m writing to let you know that it is with regret that I hand in my resignation. I no longer feel comfortable doing my job.
It started with Simmons at the water cooler. He told me that Marsha is sleeping with Johnson, but she wants it kept quiet because her husband might find out.
As Chief Gossip and Director of Jokes, I’m afraid I’m unable to restrain myself. Considering Marsha’s mouthful of jagged, dangerous-looking braces and Johnson’s wooden leg, I’m sure you can understand my predicament.
It’s been a pleasure working with you, particularly during the big printer-blow-up incident of ’13. I heard, due to a miracle of modern medicine, they actually managed to sew Thompson’s testicles back on. Still, the plaque we hung in the printer room is an excellent reminder for everyone why it’s not a good idea to photocopy one’s posterior.
I wish you all the best in the future.
Sincerely,
Bozo
Linda G. Hill 