Never Seen

Pawley's Island, SC 2007 by Laura Lawless

I have thoughts
that don’t coincide
with the way you
brush lint from
my shoulder.

I could write volumes
on ineptitude
or how my eyes
could never be blue
like the sky.

The blue is inside.
Dark and roiling,
a wave to forever
drown in; a never seen sea,
of course,
but the hint of a
rivulet meandering
along
the stark plains,
its meaning lost
on the unknowing.

Fine as a Frog's Hair

Frog Image from The Graphics Fairy

I’m grumpy before a winter’s dawn. Grumpy and cold, so I pull into the parking lot of a convenience store for coffee.

I enter to see the dour expression of the sales clerk and reflect it back to him.  Sam is emblazoned in black letters across his nametag, and he asks in monotone, by rote, “How are you, today?”

Just as automatic is my static reply. “Fine as a frog’s hair split three ways.”

Sam’s ice eyes gain lucidity as he seems to shake himself from a dream.  He looks at me, registers my face. “What did you say?” he asks.

I repeat, “Fine as a frog’s hair split three ways.”

Suddenly, his eyes crinkle around the edges as he smiles, then guffaws laughter.

“I ain’t never heard that before,” he laughs and slaps his knee.  “Fine as a frog’s hair…?”

“Oh, that,” I say, smiling slightly, too. “I picked it up from an ol’ feller I worked with at my old job. I’ve been saying it ever since.”

Sam is still laughing when he hollers toward the door leading to the back room.  “Bob! Hey, Bob, come here.”

Another clerk emerges from the shadows with a bleary-eyed vacancy. “Huh?” He grunts towards Sam.

“Hey, Bob,” Sam laughs. “Don’t ever ask this woman here how she’s doing, because you know what she’ll say?”

“What?” Bob asks, though I could clearly tell he wasn’t really interested.  He probably wanted to get back to his nap in the back. 

Sam bellows with another belly laugh.. “She’ll tell you she’s fine as a frog’s hair split three ways. You ever heard anything like that, Bob?”

“Uh, no. No, I ain’t never heard nothing like that.” Bob is a lost cause as he turns with a growl and scurries back into the shadows of the other room.

I pay for my coffee and even before the first sip, I realize I’m more awake and amazingly, smiling from ear to ear. I thank Sam and step away from the counter, grinning at the new grumpy customer behind me as I walk to the door.

When I pull it open, I hear Sam calling. “Miss! Hey, miss. . .”

I turn back to his laughter and notice that even Bob has emerged again from his hole with a hint of mirth brightening his face.

“You have a good day, Miss,” Sam says, waving.

“You, too,” I nod back at him. Then I pull my scarf around my ears and step into the cold night.  Sam’s laughter rings behind me, brighter than the sun that has not yet seen fit to rise and greet the day.

(Note: I submitted this story for publication. It was rejected because it wasn't believable, the punchline wasn't funny and it was condescending.  The truth of the matter is, it's almost a true story. Names changed, of course, to protect the innocent.  "Sam" is the regular guy at this place I stop on cold mornings for coffee.  He and his co-worker work the night shift; anyone who works the night shift knows you can be vacant and dim at times. I've been there and done it, so I know.  The first time I said "fine as a frog's hair split three ways" to "Sam",  the scenario unfolded exactly as I've related it above. It's not condescending, though I suppose I can see how it sounds that way. "Sam" is a friendly acquaintance who battled cancer and won.  This is me and the life around me. Simple amusements sometimes, yes, but also sometimes utterly profound. Sometimes, you just have to find a reason to smile. So, for better or for worse, I present it here for your reading pleasure. Take it as you will.) 

Morning

Too early,

I step into

 a static space

between night and day

and breathe;

My soul escapes

the seam of my lips

and transforms into

 a mist of molecules,

an aerial ghost,

that rises to kiss the last star

before it fades.

Painting: Twilight by Charles Warren Eaton

Summer Child

When I was a summer child, I kept

my milk in a mason jar, submerged

in a cool Cane Creek where I played for

hours on end, whispering stories

to the wind; I heard the voices of

trees who were my friends, who cuddled a

lonely child and held her close. I was

raised by the wilderness, a small wild

bird, flitting here and there by the brook.

Where Do You Go?

The hum of traffic

pours down foggy streets;

sound billows like smoke

through the trees.

Where do you go?

Why do you weave

in and out of traffic

like a ribbon of snake,

forked tongue licking the breeze?

It’s all make believe,

this urgency of life’s

movement from

one place to another.

Shattered moments of day

are relegated to tired memory.

Day falls into night,

and night is a sleep

where soft owls call

from the dark.

Where do you go

when you dream?

Wooded Paths

Along wooded paths,

a mockingbird laughs 

with the wind, 

and I join in 

with a chuckle or two,

finally at peace again.

Almost

it was

the magic

of autumn rain

the way he

held her hand

beneath the oak

and kissed cold

from her lips

she shivered

and believed

almost

Driving with The Window Rolled Down

Crickets chatter in the gloaming;

a red fire sun slips behind trees,

and the world is lit by night.

Finally.

Darkness glittered with street lights,

like eyes, stare into the void

that is me

driving with the window

rolled down.

Thoughts on a Long Commute

Driving home today, I noticed many seeds floating in the air.  One even came through my window and landed on the steering wheel as if to say, “Hi.”  Then, it drifted on, back out the window, in search of its final destination, where it will drop and grow into a tree or wildflower.

The little seeds inspired me to think about the world, the galaxy and the universe.  

All my convoluted thoughts boiled down to this: What if Earth is a giant seed floating in space, drifting here and there, until we reach the space where we’ll plop down and grow?

Where is that place, I wonder?  And what part do I play in that grand dream?

Cane Creek

Take me to the creek side where persimmons

grow, where the juice of plums and muscadines

streak children’s  dirty faces like war paint.

We danced the rain dance, called on freezing snow

and bade thunder and lightning to go, while

huddled in our woodland huts, hidden from

an angry God beating his wayward wife,

or moving furniture;  we did not know.

Those long ago summers were forever

with an end. Did we hear the keening trees

cry in sorrow over a child’s lost dreams?

As children do, they grow and drift away

forgetting huts and magical games they

built in utter faith along the winding creek.

But, I remember and I am starved

for the peace that only the wild gods know,

charging barefoot and naked through untamed

undergrowth, saving little girls lost in the wilderness.

The Storm Arrives

The storm arrives with gusty winds,
as tears of heaven touch the ground;
A rumbling thunder never ends.
The storm arrives with gusty winds,
lightening flashes, trees do bend;
A trembling clash of nature’s sounds.
The storm arrives with gusty winds,
as tears of heaven touch the ground.

Summer Ghazal

Warbling birds, cicada’s song, green fields and blooms, lonely sighs,
summer’s passing. In this heat I wilt in lonesome sighs.

Another season fades, love sick loon, dancing in the sun,
carefree and wild. Barefoot, I run to catch the last ray’s sighs.

Oh Summer, you pass so quickly! I blinked my eyes, you flew
into bleeding skies, gone as quickly as love’s tender sighs.

Time to sleep now; rest, sweet Summer time, ‘til another day,
After Autumn’s finery, Winter’s chill and Spring winds sigh.

‘Til next time when your hot breath touches my cheek tenderly,
You are my own sweet dream, recalled with a longing sigh.

The Red Leaf

I am
a red leaf
dancing in the wind,

drifting,
falling,
to a soggy ground.

I am the chill,
the long dark nights
of winter setting in.

A sharp-eyed crow
sits in treetops,
caw, caw, cawing
at the red leaf falling,

shivering as my chilled air
engulfs him.

Antiseptic White

There was nothing to do

but wait,

inside antiseptic

white walls

listening.

Nurses’ sterile voices,

drawing blood

or trying.

Mother’s groans of pain

with each empty stick.

Her blood ran dry

last week;

She has no more to give.

I wait

in a corner,

glazed gazing

through a window.

Bird in a blue sky

flies free.

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

lament

at dawn
mists hang above the river
suspended
between dark and light
the water’s lament

Long Gloaming

Trees afire,

an egret shadowed

in long gloaming

looking for fish. 

I could starve for love

when you’re not here.

                     Did I say you?

I meant the egret,

gone,

                     it’s after-image burned

                     in purple ripples,

flown away

in despair.