Iceberg
yesterday
part of my life
broke off
a glacier calving
an iceberg
floating free
my
tongue tip
tip-toes
round
my mouth
touches
the tooth
I cracked
I look
in the mirror
wrinkles
mask
my face
I no longer
know
the man
I see
I fear
each sharp-
edged scar
each violent
abrasion
Change
summer walks
garden paths
footprints of flowers
green dreams
wind-lisped grass
multitudinous tongues.
bright birds
morning bells
midsummer madness.
forced feeding
a million beaks
and bellies
cloudy morning
a chill in the air
rowan berries
bright yellow
little red faces
crab apples
bending branches
winter never far
fear of frost
always upon us
Bilingual
I went on a French immersion course last week. The instructor asked each one of us to address the class for ten minutes in French. When my turn came, I stood up and announced that I didn’t know what to say.
The instructor then suggested I tell the class about my dreams. What do you dream of? I said that I didn’t have any dreams, I just had nightmares, not rêves but cauchemars, you know, nightmares. She asked me to describe my nightmares and I said I couldn’t. So, she repeated, describe your dreams. I don’t have any. Do you dream about your mother? Yes, I said, but I don’t call them rêves / dreams I call them night-mères / cauche-mères, sometimes couche-mères. Couche-mères, the instructor repeated the word. The look she gave me: finger-nails scraping down a chalkboard. She turned her headlights on me and I sat there, frozen in the twin beams emanating from her eyes. Yes, night-mères, I repeated, because I set myself goals, not just dreams, achievable goals, and then I have night-mères, inspired by my mother, who says I will never achieve any of my dreams, because they are not her dreams, the ones she has for me, and they are the only ones that count.
You are here to speak in French, the instructor said, and you must speak French for another five minutes. So I told the class about the seals in the Parc du Bic in Quebec. The seals are like a plague, I said, like mosquitoes, only bigger and nastier, quite vicious, in fact. So the people who made Off to keep the mosquitoes away designed a new chemical spray that would keep the seals away. Now the French for seals is phoques, and since this is mainly a problem in Quebec, at the Parc du Bic, and not elsewhere, they called their product, you guessed it, Phoque–Off. It’s quite simple to use, I said. It’s a spray, not an ointment, and you point the spray in the general direction of the seals. Then you squeeze the button and loudly say “Phoque–Off” at which point all the seals slide off their rocks with a little splash and vanish into the sea, leaving you alone on the beach. I have tried it myself, I tell them, and I know it works so I highly recommend it to anyone who is plagued by seals.
I still don’t know why she threw me out of the class.
We have been spending time at our cabin.
~
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In the window, on our bench, the light flows through green bottles.
~
~
Our paths are green tunnels.
~
~
And in the fields and along the trails are blueberries.
~
~
Lots to pick and eat.
~
~
~
for Mom
~
of all the silvery summer days we spent none so warm sun on granite boulders round blue berry field miles across hazy miles away from hearing anything but bees
and berries
plopping in the pail
~
beside you I draped my lazy bones on bushes crushed berries and thick red leaves over moss dark animal trails nudged between rocks berries baking brown musk rising to meet blue heat
or the still fleet scent
of a waxy berry bell
~
melting in my mouth crammed with fruit sometimes pulled from laden stems more often scooped…
View original post 56 more words
Change
Summer walks along the garden path,
imprinting its footprints of flowers.
Green dreams wander the wind-lisped
grass with its multitudinous tongues.
Bright birds toll the morning bells
and announce a midsummer madness.
Occupational therapy, this forced feeding:
a million beaks and bellies nurtured.
All too soon, the shortening of days,
fall’s stealthy approach, the long trip home.
The moon will then swing its winter lantern.
Orion, dog at heel, will hunt his star-frosted sky.
Crows, those eternal survivors, will take salt
and the occasional meal from icy roads.
Comment:
It’s cloudy this morning and there is a chill in the air. The rowan berries are a bright yellow-turning-rapidly-to-orange. The crab apples are little red faces peering from laden tree and branch. The whole world has a sense of imminent change. Winter is never far away and the fear of frost-on-high-ground is always upon us.
My body
My body has so many rooms and you,
my love, possess me in them, wander
through them, and I see you, here, there,
everywhere, your presence a shadow
glimpsed in a mirror, or your warm touch
a breath upon forehead or cheek. Where
have you gone? Why did you leave me
here on my own to languish in your absence?
I walk from room to room, but when I knock
you open no doors, and though I seek,
I fail to find. I know you are somewhere near.
I hear your footstep on the stair, your voice
in the silence that surrounds me. My name,
a syllable or two, whispered in the way
I so clearly remember. How can it be true,
my love, that you have gone, that you have
left me here and forged ahead into another
time and space? I count the hours and days.
Will you prepare me a place? Will your face
be there to greet me? Alone, I clutch at straws,
embracing dust motes, counting the angels that
dance on the rainbows on the head of a pin.
Last Rites
Flash Fiction Friday
11 August 2017
The employee gazed around his empty office. Tomorrow he would leave the work environment in which he spent his entire adult life. He turned out the lights, closed the door behind him, and walked down the stairway to the exit for the last time.
He took the long, solitary walk to the spot where he had parked his car. In the car park, he fondly kissed his wife’s photo and said a quiet farewell to his beloved daughter. Then, he climbed into his car, started it, and began the short drive home.
Later, at the inquest, the driver of the gravel truck swore he had no chance to avoid the head on collision.
“One moment the road was clear, the next this car was heading straight at me,” he paused and blew his nose. “There was nothing I could do.”
“Yes, sir,” the police officer stared back at the coroner. “I was the first investigating officer on the scene,” he glanced down at his note-book. “And yes, I can assure you that the car driver was not wearing his seat-belt.”
“He loved his work,” his wife testified, fingers twisting the white handkerchief that stood stark against her black dress. “There must have been something wrong with the car. He would never have left me alone like this.”
“A wonderful dad,” his daughter said. “He loved me, and the grand-children. He had so much to live for. It was a terrible accident.”
“Unhappy with his retirement?” queried the employee’s Department Head. “I don’t know what you are trying to imply. Nobody forced him into retirement: he made that decision himself. He seemed very happy with it. We all knew he was out of touch and not up to date with his research anymore. That’s why he chose to retire. He told me all that when he came to see me to tell me he was retiring. His decision to retire had nothing to do with me.”
The employee’s DH raised his eyes heavenwards and gazed at the ceiling.
Out of sight, in the safety of the witness box, he rubbed his hands together, again and again, as if he were washing them.
Comment:
It’s been so long since I last wrote and posted an FFF (Flash Fiction Friday). It feels good to be back writing prose. And yes, the last two FFFs were on May 5, 2017, Moonshine, and April 28, 2017, Crocodile Tears.
So much water under the bridge and so glad to start getting back to my creative blogging schedule.
Catch up
The mask I wear has strings
attached. Two I have tied,
two more hang down like
pigtails, swaying as I walk.
My tongue pulses round
my mouth in search of
that tooth I cracked, yet
afraid of its sharp-edged scar.
It feels as if I have lost
a part of my life and I am
running in circles looking for it.
I guess I’ll catch up with it
someday, and when I do,
I hope it will know me
and tell me who and what I am.
Meanwhile, the mask clings
heavy to my features
and prompts me in the new
role I must play. My friends
walk past me now
and do not stop to talk.
When I look in the mirror,
I no longer recognize myself.
All my ID is fake. The success
of my disguise fills my empty head
with a sudden sense of shame
and I know the sound of sorrow.
Rain
Insane, the rain
washing down
my window.
Insanity of raindrops
mixing, matching,
their Van Gogh
rainbow colors,
no artist’s eye
to select them,
just a false ear,
tin drum
to their sound.
They blur blossoms,
twist tree and bush,
water censers now
those branch ends
bending beneath
water’s weight.
Unseen, the island now,
nor visible the bay
beneath cloud blankets
wrapping them away.
Sun Worship
Worship the sun
as it rises over the hills
from whence cometh
its golden glory.
Trees and their forest,
forces older by far
than this Christian god,
walk in darkness
until touched by the sun.
Worship the sun ropes
that tie you to your daily work,
rejoice in your bondage,
for no man kills
to glorify the sun.
Sun, my father and my mother,
sunshine that floods my spirit
and enlightens my world,
here, before sunrise,
I raise my voice in a song
praising you, and your strength,
the life you give, the death
you will one day bring.
rogermoorepoet 