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Contemplations

I stared into the gaping maw, wondering if it would swallow me whole as well.  The black dress Grandma had me wear itched, the cotton scratchy and rough.  I didn’t understand what was happening.  At my small three feet of height, the world seemed so much bigger.  Scary big.  And this hole?  I felt that I was standing on the edge of forever.

I tried to ease back, and stepped into my Pa.  He wore his stern face.  The face he wore when I broke the lamp.  And when the cow died last summer.  He motioned with his head, and I turned back around before he got sterner.  I just hated facing that black pit.  I tried to not squirm while the Pastor said his bit.  It must have been nice, since all the women were crying.  But I didn’t understand what he was saying, so I just stood and tried to look stern like Pa.

When the Pastor stopped talking, Pa nudged me in my back.  I stepped forward slowly, scared to death.  I held the rose out at arms length as far as I could stretch.  I dropped it and it hit the edge of the pit before falling down into the black.  One lone red petal remained

Afterward, the women came by and hugged me a lot.  Most of them smelled like powder and it made me sneeze once in a lady’s face.  Pa stood next to me, looking very stern and just nodding when anyone spoke to him.  After the last few trickled past, Pa put his hand on my shoulder.  I looked up and saw that all his sternness had faded away.  His eyes looked wet and he gave me a sad smile.

“Let’s go on home, Mae.  It’s gettin’ dark.”

I nodded and took ahold of his hand.  We walked, slow, back to the truck.  I looked back to see the men with shovels putting the dirt back in the hole.  It wouldn’t swallow me now.

To Be Continued . . . 

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Posted by on May 3, 2013 in Short Story

 

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Pushing

The darkness encloses
Surrounds
As I push against the background

Straining against the pressure
I wait and catch my breath
Just five more minutes
Days
Months

And I will break through
Out
With sun on my face
And sky above my head

 
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Posted by on April 3, 2013 in Poems

 

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Where are you, Allen Ginsberg?

“I saw the best minds . . . ”
And I don’t see them anymore.
Just the weak and weary march of brains
Burdened and enslaved.
The land starves and the people wither.

In this land, the Dead still dance,
Whether they have life or not.
The dirt grows deeper as we sink down this hole
Dug for us by generations past.

I sit and spend,
Spinning like the world under me.
This is how it works, right Mom?
And yet it doesn’t seem right.

Something seems off,
Maybe the broken light bulb,
Shattered in a fit of rage.
Maybe the damaged soul,
Silently crying out.
Maybe the fluttering one-winged butterfly,
Unable to take off.

Where are you, Allen Ginsberg?

 
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Posted by on November 10, 2012 in Poems

 

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