Mr. Climsy's Book
Mr. Climsy had a vintage, hard-covered book on a shelf on his bed, above his head. He hardly ever read. But it was there just in case, he said. One night, he bumped the head of his bed, and down fell the heavy book. The corner of it landed solidly and deep into his eye. He is now half blind, but happy to say, he isn't dead.
Ten nude women made their way up the winding cattle path toward the road, prodded along by a Frenchman, painter's brush in hand, canvas under armpit. The strange scene made Francine forget about the twerp she intended to tell to take a hike, and she called to the women, "Your clothes are over here."
I Didn't Hear (British accent)
I didn't hear a damn thing. And I didn't hear a damn thing because there wasn't a damn thing said. Not a whisper. Not a word. Not even an ahem. If someone were to have tipped their tea to sip, even the slightest of slurps, I would have heard. So I am telling you, I didn't hear a damn thing. Hence, there wasn't a damn thing said.
Sad isn't good enough
I am sad for what I said. I am mad for who I am. I know it was bad of me to treat you that way. Now I want you to know how sad, mad and bad I was, so you can forgive me. Because then I won't be as sad and mad. Isn't that sad and self-centered of me, to wish to be free? What have I given to you, but more sad.
The Wise Man
I met a man who could open your eyes, and clear away the fog by applying droplets of wisdom. He was a man who could stir your soup with an unguided spoon, and point you in the right direction, even if it was to the moon. He'd sit on a stone, and watch others think, his wisdom ever growing; and his ship, would never sink.
Under a Harvest Moon
Long awaited, under a Harvest Moon, caring, yearning hands crept like vines thru woods, grasses, fields, then in thru my bedroom window like a breeze to the bed where I slept. The hands touched my face; caressed. Can people share dreams? Do we connect at cataleptic levels while we are asleep? Tell me.
Thought I Knew
Who is this man I thought I knew? His heart has turned a deep, dark blue. It's cold, grown old, and doesn't see true. Who is this man I thought I knew? Who breaks promises without renew. Who stirs you up, then lets you stew. Will he suffer for what he cannot undue? Will he go through life, just like you?
Fall back to scholarly roads, brown eyes, brown hair, and did you tell of an upstairs room where your story did bloom, and did you call me by name three times to stop the world from turning. The green light was for work, and the spring for disappearing. So sad is the forced flow of the river, and watching the twig you threw get smaller & smaller.
None for Nun
As the older boys were ushered into church in a straight and silent line, the old nun scornfully scolded each one with a pointing finger to warn them, to keep their eyes to the front. It was as if she thought their presence alone could raise the roof or bring fires to the pews.
She sat in silence atop the hill, staring down at tall grass and daffodil. Rooftops there were, of brown and red, on cottages of brick and quill. She daydreamed of a babe wrapped in white and pink bow. The one she had no choice; was forced to let go. The child now lost among those cottage tops; the thoughts of her would never stop.
Moving with freedom
When I cannot think with purity or clarity, I realize I have a sudden need, an urgency, to leave the house, to leave the city, to leave my body. It is only then, I can move about in freedom to search for the footprints which will lead me to where I need to go.