“You know,” the spouse mused,
“This bird’s the double D-cup
of the poultry world.”
*******
The haiku challenge is over, but I am unable to dismantle the machine. Though it may look as if I am listening to you intently, I am probably just counting your syllables.
Nirvana plays on–
without Kurt or anomie–
in waiting rooms now
*************
For the Weekly Writing Challenge.
Yesterday, The Daily Post issued a haiku challenge for the week: five haikus in five days. Please be kind; I’m a little rusty. I haven’t written one of these since puberty.
Iceland
Volcanoes erupt
from bare rock like cone-shaped swords
A land with no trees
I was shell-shocked, sleepless,
mostly numb for three days straight.
On the fourth day, I was holding our tiny creation, mesmerized by her miniature, spastic gestures,
when I felt a sudden rush of sorrow and overwhelming futility.
Who am I to invite someone new into this crazy world?
Though fierce when provoked, I am so small, my shell hopelessly permeable.
What protection can I offer this perfect and vulnerable creature?
I wept for the confusion in store for her, for the first time she will be disappointed–perhaps by me–
And for the first time her heart will be broken.
Tiny girl clutched her raggedy rabbit
in a very particular way:
one bunny ear tucked in her mouth, keeping her thumb company,
the other poked partway up her nose
in a warm and vaguely comforting way.
She teetered on the edges of the room,
saucer-eyed and silent,
watching chaos unfold.
Sleep-deprived snarls,
caustic blasts of incomprehensible rage and frustration,
and at last, a primal bleating
made her customary nighttime monsters seem benign and predictable.
My eighth grade English teacher made us memorize poems and recite them in front of the class.
“Someday you’ll thank me,” she said. “What if you’re sent to prison? How will you make the time pass?”
Two years later, we stopped for tea with relatives before starting a 200-mile drive.
I gripped my warm mug and eyed the drifting flakes, tuning out my aunt’s cheerful banter.
Then, rolling at last,
The heavens opened
And deposited a great wall of snow in front of our Chevy.
Piled atop each other, we spent the next cramped hours
with
Emily Dickenson
Robert Frost
Edna St. Vincent Millay
and
William Shakespeare
I went to a party this weekend–the kind with save-the-dates and RSVP’s.
A twenty-four hour party, in a house full of favorite people.
We had long conversations,
and random, hilarious exchanges in the kitchen, doubling over and holding the counter for support.
As the light faded, a surf band materialized…
and a truckload of barbecue,
margaritas in mason jars,
ping pong, dancing,
and heat lamps on the giant patio.
Bliss.
Then, around 10 pm, I started thinking about that great book in my bag,
and the pile of pillows on my fuzzy blanket
and I wondered:
am I a little under the weather? Or just old?
****************
Special bonus! One of my favorite poems of all time:
Grown Up
Was it for this I uttered prayers,
And sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs,
That now, domestic as a plate,
I should retire at half-past eight?
– Edna St. Vincent Millay
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.
Summers were the antidote
For wounds inflicted by the words and silence
Of the cruelest people I know:
Children,
Blissfully unaware of empathy or mercy.I donned a skirt I’d never worn–
Ill-fitting, handmade, and hand-me-downed–
Perhaps an attempt to play a different role in this year’s performance.It was inappropriate armor for my return to battle.
On the front porch,
My father tried to coax a smile,
Or at least turn my sullen gaze toward the camera.From there, I walked alone,
Clutching a bag lunch and a binder
Too grown to admit fear
Past the smokers
And knots of cool kids
To the front doors.
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.
Bad Parenting 101 