Now I Am Finished

Each face I see is marred by years of loveless existence.
I do not shudder to meet their gaze and I do not withhold my smile.

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Now I am finished.
The wind blows a song of desolation and I do not mourn,
I do not covet the glimpse of your image in my mind, nor do I grieve.
The sun is merciless and I do not long for your shadow over me.
The clarity of vision is now the courage to focus on the world around me.
Each face I see is marred by years of loveless existence.
I do not shudder to meet their gaze and I do not withhold my smile.
No pity wells within me, no camaraderie do I endeavor to convey.
Yes, indeed I stand through Grace alone and with no boasting of self-confidence.
So need is not to be spoken of in my heart anymore.
I sleep the sleep of peace and do not long for what was never mine.
I long to hear the desolation of a world in turning and in death believe only good.
In these final moments grant me the ability to recognize what is best for those left behind,
A word, a scrap of wisdom, a plea to listen.
Listen:
I left what I wanted and focused on the sound of God’s voice
And the wind opened its song of longing for me and the sun spread warmth into my skin
And I ceased to be sorry for the years upon years of could have been.
The voice of God sings vibrato that pierces my mind to ecstasy and breaks my chains of self-slavery.

 

Photo by Cristian Newman on Unsplash
I do not shudder to meet their gaze and I do not withhold my smile.

Hollow

She knew that going wasn’t necessarily allowed.

She could not stand another moment in her small apartment – not with the carnival going on.  The carnival had been in town for three days – tonight would be its last.  She thought, with regret, of the workers waking up on a Sunday as she walked to church, silently unhinging their mechanical rides and sweeping up the small pieces of litter that escaped the trash receptacles.  She did not want to hear the squeak and rub of peopleless rides before she had a chance to enjoy a Saturday night at the carnival.

The town welcomed the carnival every year but she could never attend – the carnival was too worldly for her family – still was, but her family need not know she found the lights, the noise, the smells so fascinating. Besides she was on her own – she needed to make decisions on her own. She would be up early in the morning and get to church early, but tonight she had to know what the carnival was all about

She hesitated at the gate, five dollars was a lot of money to walk around a carnival.

“Half price, half price now until we close down.”

A sign she felt and so put her money down.

She would simply be careful with her milk and eggs – they could last the entire week.

She ducked her head shyly as a gust of wind pulled and fluttered the canopy at the entrance and the ticket taker gave her, what she thought was a wicked grin.

She hurried along the carnival grounds and listened to the sounds of young children shouting with delight as the mechanical rides twirled black against the red-orange sunset sky.  A small family of four walked ahead of her laughing and sharing pink cotton candy. She smiled at their compact and secret ways of knowing each other; the dip and sway of the candy making its way to sticky fingers all, in turn, the smiles upon each face.

She was careful to stay away from the rides but watched the Ferris-Wheel glided several times around against the then darkened sky.  The last of the summer warmth curled about her in a soft breeze that lifted her hair in a gently swaying lift that seemed to keep rhythm with the music being played.

“Do you want to ride?”

His voice was deep and directly behind her. She jumped and turned, then stepped back.  He was tall and slender and she was sure he had some sort of makeup on his face. His eyes were startling brown, golden flecked and when he smiled at her and tilted his head she thought for a moment that they turned red.

“You’ve been watching that wheel for some time. I own this little place – I’ll make sure you have a ride.”

“No thank-you.”

“Why not? This is our last night.  We’ve done very well – I don’t think we will miss the price of one Ferris-Wheel ticket.”

He glided her past smiling and paying customers and walked her up the back stairs, where weary workers, not much older than she, dressed in black and white shirts, stepped aside as they walked by. “She’s next,” and she went inside a small cage seat that swung precariously back and forth and she was lifted up into the summer night sky.

She came back down and he was still there and laughing at her frightened face. “Look straight out, not down, child.”

So she did and gasped at the sight.  Her small town was all alight. She saw the church steeple, the town square and felt she was level with the flag on the courthouse tundra. She twisted around carefully not wanting the seat on which she sat to swing too precariously – yes, just there but barely, the small farm where she was sure her family sat upon the screened in porch.

She swung down and felt her heart lift, she was sure that she could fly forward to whatever direction she chose.

He was standing there again, now smiling and she was lifted away gazing at his countenance.  This time she stopped at the very top.  She tried not to think of the small summer breeze slowly pushing the wheel backward and forward.  She closed her eyes the rest of the ride until she felt herself arrive within the well-lit exit.  A tired young man opened the gate and allowed her to step away unaided.

He was at the bottom of the steps. “Are you glad you went?”

“Yes,” she gasped and felt herself turn red to the tips of her ears and down her neck.

“Come I’ll buy you some cotton candy, looks like you could use some.”

“No, no please, I don’t really care for it. We had a cotton candy machine at church and I thought the stuff too sweet.”

He laughed aloud and she jumped, then smiled not comfortable but liking his laugh all the while.

“What’s your name,” he asked.

“Laurel,” she whispered feeling ashamed – this was no proper introduction.

“Well, Laurel, would you like to see the two-headed chickens or the trapeze act in the big top?”

She looked down and whispered no thank you and hoped he would believe her.

“Well then,” he said soft and low, “why don’t you let me make sure no one follows you home.”

She looked up into his face, somehow kind, somehow not.  He seemed without age and her heart pounded in her ears and her hands clenched around her waist.  She liked his stare and was very afraid.

“But you would be following me home.”

His face softened in the green, then yellow, then red glowing lights.  Touching his fingertip to her soft cheek, she felt a shiver deep down. He had found a hollow place within her brief existence.  She knew he would take and keep it.

Alien Maiden

I was married once and for a very short time.  I’m not sure what made me decide to get married.  I hated every moment of it.  I missed my solitude, and I hated meeting all the people that came with letting one single person into my life.

My brother-in-law was dating a dog.  I’m sorry but the girl was painful to look at and she had the personality of a soggy wool blanket.

So, I tried to befriend her.

I wanted to champion her, actually.  Yes, she was ugly, and she had no charm but I simply hated the way my sisters-in-law rolled their eyes when her back was turned.  My wimp ass brother-in-law was too cowardly to dump her.

That’s when I was certain that everyone in the room hated me including my husband.  I mean he smiled when I showed up in white and he seemed happy to put a ring on my hand but he seemed unhappy that I sympathized over the girl.

I excused myself during one family gathering and went into the bathroom and looked at my face.  No, I wasn’t beautiful but I wasn’t ugly.  My hair was done and my makeup wasn’t smudged.  I heard laughter outside in the room where everyone was having fun without me.

They were a clique that’s all.  I and the ugly girl had walked into a tiny little house where everyone knew each other and we were lumps next to the guys.

When I arrived back to the party, I looked at my husband who was talking to his best friend from high school who was now dating his ex-wife.  I felt a little sick why hadn’t that bothered me before?  The room began to swim.  I excused myself for some air and wondered how many eyes rolled as I walked out into the tiny backyard.  My skin began to crawl, I wondered what it would be like to grow old and live with a cat.

I walked home. When he came into the house he was shouting and yelling at me that everyone was looking for me; they thought I had been abducted.

“By Martians?”

“What?”

“Did everyone think I was abducted by Martians?”

“Where were you hiding?”

“I want a divorce.”

I have two cats, Athena and Artemis.  We live in a different town, with a big red maple in the front yard.  I pay the local neighborhood boys to mow my lawn in the summer and shovel the walk in the winter.  I plant inpatients in the shady areas around my little house and listen to the whispers coming from the sidewalk.

“She’s someone’s mistress.”

“She screened in her porch for her cats.”

“She may have loved once, you know like one of those old dame movie stars.”

“I hope she doesn’t die in that house, she’d be the type to haunt it.  It’ll ruin the neighborhood.”

“Oh hush, she’ll hear you!”

“Do you think she’s an alien?”

“That’s enough!”

Black and Thin

Swift it flows, black and thin

Sharp the glint.

The moon hangs low and brilliant,

illuminating

silhouettes — brightening the night.

I’ll see her shadow dance

I’ll narrow in upon

the heart he loves.

She dances in love, she raises her arms

to the Above.

I’ll pierce her shadow

and so pierce him.

I’ll salt-tear my face, bite my lip, taste

the blood at the anguish of this night

So pierced, my friends.

Deep in my throat, I taste the iron of hate.

Deep in my heart I know the waste.

And yet swift it flows, black and thin

This river within, this torrent of hate

for both of them.

And when the deed is done, the small kingdom

Of two taken to one

I’ll return to my white and silver throne

I’ll return to praises and music,

no one knows

the black and thin deeds I’ve done.

 

Dear Tuesday

Dear Tuesday,

You’re awful.

Dear Tuesday,

You’re awful.

I do not hold you responsible for my attitude (I am adult enough to own my attitude) nor do I sling out my sentiment to cause pain, resentment or embarrassment…perhaps.

Aside from that, I feel that you are the way you are (awful) simply because you hide behind Monday.  The accusation of hiding, in some estimations, may prove to be more cause for resentment (on your part) and insult (again on your part) than being just plain awful,(which you are) I understand.  I myself have been accused of hiding and that accusation stings and nettles me – I’m sure it does the same to you.  However, to keep to the truth I am sure, beyond doubt, that the reason for my feeling resentment toward you is that you hide behind Monday.

Tuesday, hiding is a despicable practice and never have you come forward and tried in any way to defend Monday.  Never have you reasoned with us, (slaves to the paycheck), that the reason we hate Monday is that you yourself Tuesday show no mercy in longevity nor do have you open-handedly proffered us hope.  You are a repeat of Monday with the added rancor of making us all feel trapped without a Friday in sight.  Tuesday you even paint poor old Wednesday with a drear and deadly gray that makes sorrow seem interminable and Thursday so very far away.

I do want you to know that I have settled down to write this letter to you on a Wednesday.  While I suffered through your hours yesterday forming my accusations I thought it would only be sporting of me if I gave you the full day – to see if you redeemed yourself at all.

You did not.  My home was quiet, dull and sullen with the Tuesday doldrums when I walked through the door.  All the inhabitants therein, right down to the cat, looked at me with the idea that perhaps I should do something – anything, which would give relief.  I failed and being that it was Tuesday I felt that perhaps my failure was helped along.

Know too, that I pause in my other letter writing (one to U.S. Literary critics that has been confounding me for some time, another to audiobooks in general and another to Corrie – I just found her physical address again and the most adorable owl cards that are just dying to be sent) so that I may further analyze my feelings and express to you my dismay.  I realize too that there is nothing I can do – you are.  Nor do I want to argue the fact that you are third in the week or second in the week according to ISO standards (drop dead).  Nor do I want to want to delve into your ancestry to some Norse god – you are more than that, you are more than a name – you are a 24-hour eternity.  You’re awful.

With Regret,

 

Me

 

No Make Believe

Makes little difference to me, the lifting wind that brushes the sun darken oak leaves up. The sylvan world moves from dark to light in shifting shades of green-

Makes little difference to me, the lifting wind that brushes the sun darken oak leaves up. The sylvan world moves from dark to light in shifting shades of green-

Means little to me.

I care not for the song of the lark or the longing flight of the cardinal for his mate. The scarlet dark against the shifting green all directed by who knows what; so why care for the cause of a hidden effect?

I could care less.

And I do not mind the boom of guns nor the crack of the whip that separates me from those I should love. What does their life matter as I have been taught that only my life should revolve my world?

What matters the words written that saves souls?

I think little of peace or what contentment is and soon all theses distractions I mention will falter due to lack of attention.

How could the world continue to spin without my permission?. Oh, and by the way, I most certainly don’t believe in evil.