Category: poetry

The End

I had waited for this moment for years.

First with dread, of course–the inevitable fear of the inevitable.

Then I began to pray for it.

I prayed for some relief, some closure, a chance to worry about something completely different.

I punished myself for spawning such blasphemous thoughts, but they came all the same.

 

When it was time, I was ready.

I sat there all night, watching, breathing, waiting.

How did I miss it?

When had the last puff of air passed her lips and dispersed?

In the end, it was impossible to tell when it was. It just was.

Why did I wish for this–

this hole of nothing? This abyss?

****

Random stab at fiction inspired by artist Sophie Calle (long story), and A Night of Writing Dangerously.

 

 

Medicine Head

From www.farm3.staticflickr.com
From http://www.farm3.staticflickr.com…Oh, how I wish I had taken this photograph myself.

My brain is lodged in the trash compactor,

unmoved by children’s Tylenol.

I stare, glassy-eyed, at a blank and patronizing screen

wondering

will I ever coax this contraption to do my bidding?

Saliva snags the back of my gullet, and travels like a barbed mouse through a snake.

Thick rivers of mucus dislodge all thought from rational moorings

and press angrily against the inside of my face.

One more attempt to form a sentence and I’ll erupt–

Vesuvius-style–

without Pliny to document my self-destruction.

The Brother of Invention

Our campsite--without my brother's addition.
One of our campsites–without my brother’s addition.

For years we slept together in one tent,

All six of us

Plus cat and dog.

As the youngest, I was tucked into the seams, farthest from the snoring heap of dad…

An unfortunate location on rainy nights.

When he hit high school, middle brother learned to sew.

Out of ripstop nylon and seam-sealer, he carved a modicum of personal space for the hours between dish duty and daybreak.

Groggy and stiff from hugging the lumpy terrain, we drank Tang out of Solo cups, stamped our feet to keep warm, and crammed back into the Chevy for the next 500 miles.

From www.etsy.com
From Happy Fortune Vintage on http://www.etsy.com

Lurching through Space

At last we wrest ourselves from gravity’s firm grip
And hurtle upward in our magic flying chairs.
The world expands.

Ant-sized creatures turn tiny switches,
Illuminating the place we just left like fireflies.

Ears pop;
Carts roll;
Bladders press against belts buckled low and tight.

Strangers brush limbs and stretch backwards into each other’s laps
without embarrassment or apology.

Reasonable standards plummet
to new depths–People magazine and snack packs and Bridezilla–
Because, now jaded,
Teetering in a tin can six miles off the face of our planet seems unremarkable.
The hours must be whiled
by any means necessary.

 

**Many thanks to Louis C.K. and last night’s flight for inspiring whatever that was.

Deep Thoughts on “Deep Thoughts about ‘Deep Thoughts'”

From www.eclectikrelaxation.com
From http://www.eclectikrelaxation.com

“Sometimes I think you have to march right in and demand your rights, even if you don’t know what your rights are, or who the person is you’re talking to. Then, on the way out, slam the door.”  – Jack Handey

For years I laughed at Jack Handey’s inane musings on Saturday Night Live, all the while thinking he was a character created for the show.

Not so; he’s real.

Not only does he live and breathe; some people take him semi-seriously. Recently, a friend forwarded an essay to me from the New York Times:  “And Now, Deep Thoughts About ‘Deep Thoughts.‘” In it, Kathleen Rooney asserts that Jack Handey is the perfect exemplar of contemporary poetic thought. Say what?

I swear I’m not making this up. It’s an engaging read, and the comments are worth a squiz as well (including this one: “I googled myself and decided this is not a person I want to know.” ).

Though I understand the author’s point, I agree with one of her critics. The author has conflated wit and poetry, which–though not mutually exclusive–are definitely not the same thing.

Here’s what I do know, though. Every time I read one particular sentence of his, I think about how absolutely flawless it is:

“The face of a child can say it all, especially the mouth part of the face.”

Brilliant.

 

Fifty-Nine Years and Thirty-Four Days Ago

©2010 Beret Olsen
©2010 Beret Olsen

A bookish fellow
Studied God on weekdays,
Then made his way to Chaska,
To woo the schoolmarm there.

Mercifully patient,
He waited six months of Sundays
For an answer
To his question.

Instead, they wandered the cold town,
Discussing only anything else,
Turning back before it was too dark
Or too late.

They parted ways then,
She to pore over lesson plans,
He to wend his way to the boarding house
Beside the tracks.

He wondered,
Hardly daring to sleep,
While freight trains thundered
Through the wee hours,
Through his thoughts,
Shaking the tiny, strange bed.

At long last:
Yes.

**********************************************************

A note from Beret:  I wrote the preceding piece in response to a photo prompt posted on 100 word story. They post a new prompt each month…plus it’s chock full of amazing 100-word stories, as you might imagine.