In Lieu of Flowers

I am sorry for your loss she said

And I was unsure of my response

And so nodded as though inconsolable

Lest she see the mirth behind

The watery eyes

And she must have been convinced

Because she touched my arm and left

The casket lid was propped for viewing

A ritual insane in its design

A corpse in maquillage

Lay still while mourners and other guests

Watch for signs of decay

And comment on how good she looks

To hide their embarrassment

And still I want to laugh

I press a hankie to my face

To stem the flow

Hysteria they think

Sympathetic glances cover me in

Hives and I shake my head and sniff

Someone is singing now

Something about redemption

Atonement and that sort of thing

And suddenly I want to scream

Do you really think it matters now?

Withheld

I am watching

the way the ink bleeds. 

Dripped from a pen

poised

in hesitation.

Held by a shaking hand. 

 The grip is weak,

the words unspoken, 

 held fast in thirsty parchment.

Ash

Today I saw someone

Defeated

Burnt down to embers

Too cold to ignite

Hope

Extinguished

And in the empty grayness

Loneliness

Aloneness

Laying in the ash

Train

Waiting on the platform for the 10:15

She touches a hand to her hair

And checks her lipstick twice

Winds her watch

And looks impatiently down the line.

She tries to read in vain, a novel somewhat comedic.

Words slip past sliding by eyes withdrawn and thoughtful.

So much can be hidden in the act of holding a book.

The pretence frees her mind and a smile plays across her mouth

Lifting the corners slightly.

She removes a compact from the depth of her bag

 and presses powder across her cheeks to dim the pink anticipation.

The time is 10:05.

10 minutes.

Emotions skitter across her frame, chasing each other like puppies.

She turns the page of the book she isn’t reading.

She can hear the rumble in the distance and as she stands she smoothes

the creases from her skirt.

Her shoes are new and she hopes he notices.

A young woman has come out onto the platform.

She is holding the hand of a child who is jumping in place.

“Hush,” the young woman says, “it’s coming.”

Nervous now, she straightens her coat and pats her hair once more. 

And as she does the young woman with the child looks over

and the two exchange a smile.

Others drift out onto the platform, bored or expectant. 

Watches are wound.  Books returned to bags.  Hands are held or let go of.

The train thunders into view, a relief and a disappointment.

Metallic sounds shriek and hiss then stop and huff as though exhausted.

Doors sigh and stairs are lowered.  Places are exchanged with those waiting.

She sees him amidst the clouds and her heart quickens.

He takes long strides down the platform toward her.

He smiles and she responds in spite of herself. 

And as he moves beyond her, pulls the young woman

and child into a firm embrace the smile falters

then withers, then dies.

She lowers her gaze and lifts a hand to her hair,

 looks down at her shoes and boards the train.

I Am a Writer

I am a writer.

I’m a writer because

I put words on paper.

I find joy in blank pages and the

Words that appear like magic

Just because I want them to.

I’m a writer because

the thoughts in my head find relief in running free

Across unlined fields of parchment or kraft

Or sometimes canvas.

I’m writer because I read.

I take comfort in words, letters, vowels and verbs

I swim in them and sometimes they

Swallow me whole.

I’m a writer because I do so.

I write whether it’s correct or incorrect

Or jumbled

Or even very good.

I write because it’s part of who I am.

It’s how I am and because I write

I’m learning to ignore the other voices that yell at me

And scream things like

STOP!!!

YOU SUCK!! YOU’RE TOO OLD!!

YOU HAVE NOTHING TO SAY!!

IT’S NOT GOOD ENOUGH!!!!

And just write anyway.

Because really, why wouldn’t I?

I am writer.

The Curiosity Chronicles - Excerpt

 

The Curiosity Chronicles

The Gallery of the Obscure

You will need to prepare for a story like this.  Stories like this one should be read at night, long past your bedtime, preferably during a thunderstorm and by the light of a candle.  But if your parents are the overprotective type a flashlight will do. 

If you look around the room you are in right now and think about it you are probably warm.  You’ve probably had a delicious supper and possibly dessert.  And very likely as you begin this story and huddle beneath your blankets you are in your own room and you pulled this very book from your own bookshelf.  You likely have a parent or two somewhere in your house possibly making your lunch for tomorrow or folding your clothes.  Perhaps they even tucked you into bed and kissed you goodnight.  Now close your eyes for a moment and imagine that it was all gone.  Imagine that all you owned fit in the knapsack that is lounging on the chair in the corner and that your parents aren’t there at all but traipsing through the jungles of Costa Rica or climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro simply because they liked the sound of the word.  And now imagine that they had forgotten you completely.  If you can picture all of this then you might be able to imagine what life was like for the Cornell children and how much they longed for what you have right now.  Pity I wouldn’t give it to them.  I couldn’t could I?  Who would want to read a story about 3 children who had everything they could have wanted and dressed in lovely clothes and had holidays at the beach with their equally lovely parents?  No one.  Not a soul.  And so the story I am about to tell you is about 3 children whose parents didn’t want them at all.  In fact they hadn’t seen their parents in so long that they had forgotten what they looked like.  Almost.   Maybe I should rephrase that.  They tried very hard to forget what their parents looked like because sometimes it is less painful to forget a thing than to remember it. 

Letting Go

Letting go today

Of false friends and

Unfulfilled promises

Of hopeless things

I thought better of

Of an image I don’t possess

Or have access to

Of ugly feelings

Alarm bells

And melancholy

And should have beens

Letting go of nothings

Of poisoned words dripping off

A willing pen

Of cold realizations

And harboured thoughts

Of rejection

Born Again

Touched her once when she was small

Forced her up against a wall

Did things that he shouldn’t do

Kept her quiet, no one knew

Found the Lord to mend his ways

Absolution, life of praise

Took things that she can’t replace

Hail Mary full of grace

Went to church with other sinners

Said the grace at Sunday dinners

Forgiven now for what he’s done

Isn’t he the lucky one

Softly shuts the door behind them

Safe in knowing Jesus loves him

Yesterday

Yesterday

I saw a man

Waiting to cross the street

I stopped for him

And caught his eye and

He smiled at me

But as he stepped away from the curb

His smile faltered

And I realized that one of his legs

Was far shorter than the other

It seemed he had forgotten

For a moment

His affliction

But as he left the sidewalk

And made his way across the street

In jagged uncooperative steps

He raised his eyes in apology

There was no need to be sorry

I was just happy that

He smiled at me