your arrival is music
to my strained ears
relief for my nerves
that threaten to pop
the hair out of my head.
you’re the sanctuary of my mind
which struggles not to leave home
to escape the cries of your offspring
for every young mother of a newborn
who is blessed to have her mate
come home of an evening
If I wrote a story about you,
I would use words like “mystic” and “crazy.”
I would get a hand from the gods
because the gods are my friends.
I could choose a few anecdotes –
ones that would make people laugh.
I might bake a cake and call it you,
just so I can share you with my other friends.
If I clap my hands and you come running,
I will praise you, my friend, for that means you love me too.
I might circle the globe with you,
and we might just have fun.
Even though you’re afraid of heights
and I don’t need a plane to fly.
We could ride elephants and catch heffalumps:
it’s the Pooh thing to do.
And when we get home with all our treasures
we will place them on shelves and forget they exist.
If my enthusiasm for you dies,
I will probably die.
If I decide suddenly that I shan’t drive you to the airport when you need to go
(because that’s what friends do)
you might disown me, but I’d deserve it.
And if the water of my endless ocean of devotion for you dries up,
I will be left with a salty taste in my mouth.
But chances are that’s the worst case scenario,
because you’re as crazy as I am, and us crazies need to stick together.
If I wrote a story about you,
then it would definitely include me.
This is part of Stream of Consciousness Saturday, because it’s totally stream of consciousness writing and it contains this week’s prompt, “if/then.”
This is part of The Daily Post because it was totally Unpredictable.
It is my pleasure to take from you all you have to give. And you give it willingly, you do. But for a price, of course.
You know I shall enjoy my pleasure, and you indulge me each time I ask. We have that sort of relationship, you and I. Of mutual benefit, do you not think?
The pleasures you give are sweet, they are sumptuous. They linger on the lips like the taste of a kiss, they do. And what is it I give back to you?
About a hundred bucks a day. Chocolate is not cheap, is it?
______________________________________________________________
Find the Daily Post here, where today the prompt is Pleasure.
How dare you change on me?
I was so in love with you, once upon a time. When we met in the rain that day–remember?–I left home without my umbrella and you offered me yours at the bus stop. You were too shy to stand close to me, so half of you got wet.
A month and a half later we were living together already. My mom said it was too soon but I was hooked. I couldn’t get enough of you. And I thought you couldn’t get enough of me…
How dare you change on me?
You started working late. That was about a year into our relationship. I actually felt sorry for you – all those nights you stayed at the shop, stocking shelves because the student quit. And the boss, he wasn’t well. Or at least that’s what you told me. But then I found out.
How dare you change?
You did change, right? You made love to me three times that first night. And just about every night until you were “too tired” from working late.
How dare you?
I remember that night like it was yesterday. I came to the shop to bring you a sandwich, but the place was locked up. I thought, of course it was, the shop was closed. So I went around back – that door was open. I went inside, expecting to find you stocking shelves. What I found made me sick.
How?
You and your boss, locked in a passionate kiss. What would his wife say? Did you know you were gay when we got together? Or did you change on me?
when we met
your fences stood tall,
proud and mighty
of a wood that near gleamed
pristine
at a week
i saw a splinter
maybe two
and perhaps some of the sheen
dimmed
at a month
i was sure i found
chinks, chunks
and a dozen knotholes
popped
at a year
your fences made a decrepit
clown’s mouth on
an abandoned funhouse wall look
new
and today
your fences are afire
as you try
to resurrect them in time:
surrender
for my dear
i pour water upon your ruins
forsaken
to the fizzle of my love
eternal
in a certain proverbial light
you look like a rock star
all glitter and sweaty
though in truth i know
the glitter’s internal
something you show me
when we’re alone together
something about you
so private and yes
fascinating to me,
it’s that inner glitter
that keeps me coming back
now to do something
about the sweat
a shower perhaps?
do you glitter
in the shower?
Chips of presents
shattered in my mind
your heart gathers them for me
like droplets of dew’s magnetic wake
liquefy my thoughts
weep tears of joy
or leave me to be
dust
LGH
February 18, 2007
It was an ordinary morning. I got up, made my tea, prepared my honey on toast, and sat down with the newspaper to enjoy them. Breakfast is the meal that most reminds me of my wife, God rest her soul in Heaven. I haven’t a job to go to, since I retired two years ago, so my mornings are quiet.
Until a jarring knock on the door disturbed my routine. I opened it to find a middle-aged man in a grey suit standing outside with his hands behind his back.
“Mr. Davidson?” he asked without any attempt at salutation.
“Yes,” I replied.
“Mr. David Davidson?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
He produced from behind his back an envelope with my name on it and nothing else.
“You’ve been served,” he said, and without waiting for a response he turned and left.
I sit here now, with my tea growing cold, the day’s news forgotten along with my toast as I read for the third time the contents of the envelope. I am to be a witness for the prosecution of the young man who lost control of his car and ran down my dear wife as she stepped out to the curb to pick up the newspaper one snowy morning, a year ago today.
It seems I must adjust my morning routine once again.
This post is part of Tuesday Use It In A Sentence, brought to us by the lovely MLW. Click this link to find the prompt, and join in!
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.”
Linda G. Hill 