Pop beads.
You remember them.
Plastic, in white or pink.
Pop ‘em on. Pop ‘em off,
accessorize or not.
Kind of like he treated her.
Pop-it beads: a 1950s fad. Anybody else remember them?
Shrink Wrapped
News on reels, envelopes sealed with spit
new was last month or a week gone by.
Today it interrupts my present,
becomes a never ending loop.
Sunday drives with i spy and the license game
morphed into get-me-there robots.
Talking heads decapitated
into monotone maps.
Family restaurants turned mausoleums.
Mommy, daddy, Ashley and Drake
eyes down and mouths shut.
Thumbs talk…with imaginary friends.
Paris in Paducah and Chicago too,
a world of twitter and bird shit.
Color me shrink wrapped
and struggling to breathe.
In response to dVerse Poets Pub, December 17 prompt. Write about the times we have lived in – describe the life of the decades you have gone through. Free-write whatever comes to mind and then create your poem around those ideas. Cut it down but keep that raw feeling from your initial free-write.
Birthing
Aperture in the universe
newborn, idea, or brush stroke
unfolding, release.
Something unknown
outside the well worn crease,
explodes through bland ticks of time
into significance.
A bit of pyrotechnical grandeur
becomes millions of colored lights,
if only we dare to dream.
…and she shall take up the pen
Taste of time begins to dull
ticks of spice turn clockwise gruel.
Ink forms script on pages new
memories writ, the present’s gift.
Black on white shall tell the tale
when life deserts the day.
Empty Nest
Coffee cup in hand, she focused on the shapes coming into focus through the morning mist. James said they’d be a family science project. Bat houses. She’d agreed, only if they were a good distance from the house…
A good distance from the house…in-state college would have been nice. She smiled softly, thinking about the “Roots and Wings” adage on the plaque above her bureau. He sure spread his wings…
The telephone startled her. Coffee sloshed as she grabbed the phone. “Hello?”
“Oh, sorry mom. Did I wake you? It’s noon here. Just wanted to touch base. I miss you.”
Word Count: 100.
Photo credit: Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.
Flash Fiction written for Rochelle Wisoff-Fields Friday Fictioneers.
Learn more about bat houses!
Starry Starry Night
In the darkest of nights
ceiling light turned on
pin pricked scrim draped overhead,
we lie down upon our bed
and revel as the stars appear,
even in our quiet room.
dVerse Poetics Tuesday: First time joining this group. The prompt today is to write about stars….during these winter nights before the winter solstice, their light is symbolic to so many.
Before the Dawn
In the darkness of early morn
candle light multiplies.
Glows softly upon the shelf
reflects in window panes
and illuminates my soul.
Photo credit: debbie miller
Loretta
Happy in her new digs,
plywood and metal scraps,
original resident dead.
A step up from cardboard,
if she could eradicate the smell.
Comic strips, the colored ones,
wallpaper of choice.
Condoms stored in knock-off bag,
Pick your flavor, pick your place.
But no, not here. Not in my space.
Golden locket round her neck
broken knotted chain.
Daddy’s picture kept within,
missing god knows where
always hangng near.
Mama’s image burned one day.
Albatross memories
seared in heart.
Flailing arms and slurred tongue,
bottle thrown. Crashed into her soul.
YOU. GET. OUT.
And so she did,
grabbed the locket and ran.
Happy sweet sixteen.
Birthday promise made that day
always kept, these many years.
Sobriety.
Eyes tired, never shut.
She saw their faces, every john.
Every thrust she felt,
every punch and hunger pain.
But slurring, oblivious sot?
She would NEVER be her.
Photo credit: Linda Lacerna. Somehow, in this holiday season, my heart is drawn to those who have not – the Lorettas of this world.
Thankful
Your cardiac arrest
like a lifetime –
until it wasn’t.
The Reader
Grocery cart near, she sits
tattered book in lap,
mutters, sometimes yells
talks aloud to no one.
Page eight, crawl through,
into that letter E, straight lines.
They won’t follow, can’t see me.
I fit in this book! FLAT SPINE!
Invisible. I hide in air,
melt on pages with big letters.
Home is no where. Go ahead.
Jump into the story. Whatever it is.
Show them. I AM SOMETHING!
She stands up, unsteady,
lands on top of book,
face first in torn pica print.
And she disappears
from your corner,
into a pauper’s grave.
Photo credit: Wikipedia
lillian the home poet 