The voice in the sky is silent,
but us old timers smell the scent
of a war a-brewin’.
Them and us don’t see eye to eye,
and they been fixin’ to teach us
a lesson for a while now.
So we’re digging deep under
warm, fuzzy cover, burrowing
beyond reach of the troops
of wakey-wakey, rise and shine,
of chores to do, people to see,
of adulthood – their terms.
By Pedro Simões from Lisboa, Portugal (Creative Commons)
Expat vagabond
fleeing any and all forms
of authority.
We fell,
yet knew not
we fell,
beyond ken
of words
of power.
We scoffed;
we welcomed
poverty,
knew no more
how we spoke
before.
We built our kingdom
on the swings,
thrilling to the danger
of the air through our hair
and the void beneath,
learning solidarity
through gravel-scarred knees
and disapproving glances.
I’ve watched you rise and fall,
and lose a few teeth
to cold stone and concrete.
When you swing harder,
your feet tread clouds,
leaving footprints on the sky.
I won’t let anybody hurt you
not then, not now, not ever.
After several days
in a special blend
of herbs and isotopes,
they gave me back my brain.
Strapped me to a chair
and hoisted her in,
glistening wetly
with eerie potential.
After several weeks,
the dive-bombing plesiosaurs
abandoned their nightly raids,
and left me alone with sleep.
After several months,
I came to know
that I was science,
more god than human,
the angel of entropy,
the sultan of centrifuge,
the chaotic butterfly,
the destroyer of worlds.
By Allan Ajifo, via Wikimedia Commons
I have a car,
I’ll help you move,
he says, avuncular,
pointedly without motive.
Over dinner, he talks big.
How life is hard.
How only I can fix him,
by spreading my legs.
I am half his age,
yet he grasps
at authority, at maturity.
His stories are rehearsed.
His wife is dying,
he tells me, but even she
is just a prop, a stage hand
in the drama of his need.
Big Combo Trailer. By Allied Artists, via Wikimedia Commons
Honestly,
it’s dishonesty,
to say that nothing warms the cockles
of my charred and bloodless heart.
I confess –
I know nothing
of confession,
of communion,
of wafers,
holy water,
but plenty about wine
(the ungodly kind).
Pietro Longhi [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
I met a man, doors half-off,
wind keening through rent masonry,
bitter vines embracing stone.
I took my bricks and patched him up,
killing weeds with lemonade,
righting doors with tender patience.
Never enough, this love I poured
into a shell held together
by damage, secure in regret.
My home has no white picket fence,
but with a lick of paint it shines.
I bury my damage out back.
By Ken Lund, via Wikimedia Commons
Winter clings to limbs
laden with summer promise.
Shoots grasp at sunshine.
Caroline Hutchinson 