FIFTY WORD STORY – Fly on a Wall

It is a lovely wall. Red textured with a rough finish, which makes it perfect for perching. They hang paintings from it. Canvas on fat frames with all sorts of colors. The food is fresh, the air is clean, and all is well till she throws a dish at him.

——

 

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MUSIC SERIES – The Bricklayer

I thought I’d change up Mondays for a while with poetry inspired by music. Today’s was inspired by Another Brick in the Wall, pt. 2 by Pink Floyd. Let me know what song you’d like to hear about in the comments!

 

The Bricklayer

 

I laid every dusty, red brick

of that mortar riddled school wall

like it was just another job

for my denim jeans and work boots.

 

I never asked why they hired

a prison building company

to construct their grim barricade

or why they wanted barbed wire

 

until I saw a boy staring

through the window of his classroom

at what used to be clear blue skies,

and turned back to his science class.

——

 

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Cat Walk (and Other Haikus)

In the Closet

Hiding in the dark

beneath the tear-stained dresses

that dried her red eyes.

 

Nudity

It was like fine art

watching him parade around

in his ankle socks.

 

Fortnite

It took two long weeks

to pry his wired fingers

from their controller.

 

Bathing

I sank to my nose

in the warm palm of water

that held me softly.

 

Cat Walk

She walks the thin line

along the back of the couch

in her black fur dress.

——

 

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LOVE POEM #87 – Roommate

Roommate

 

I felt your heart between my fingers

beating like a heavy drum

and forgave how broken you were

when I found you on that bench

 

bleeding in the black of night

after some boy had left you

covered in sticky red bruises

that you said you deserved.

——

 

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Shot Glass

Shot Glass

 

They are like little bullets

lined in brown lead

that burns the liver

with every drop consumed.

 

When the copper taste

rolls over the tongue,

remember the six-caliber shells

you told your kids were not a toy.

——

 

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CACTUS (AND OTHER HAIKUS)

Tunes

On the brown sedan,

in leather jeans, listening

to spellbinding songs.

 

Cat Hair

A haze of gray hair

harries the great purple chair

after Felix leaves.

 

Swing Set

Slowly, the swing turns

in the tired winter air

waiting for a friend.

 

Broken Chimes

Hanging from split strings,

the surviving metal pipes

hum a severed psalm.

 

Cactus

I caress the thorns

contemplating what creatures

made her so thick skinned.

——

 

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DRESSING UP

The formalist would put you in a suit.

He would knot the tie so tight

around your tiny little neck,

that you would strangle to death.

 

The romantic would demand that you disrobed,

down to your silken stockings,

so that he could describe you walking

in all your splendor through the dusk air.

 

And then there is the Victorian,

who would worry more how Fra Pandolf’s hands

worked at the canvas of your throat

than how his ink depicted your dress.

 

Only chance would place him side by side

with Prufrock though, who would sooner put you

in a gas mask than a marriage gown,

so that they could ponder the sea together.

 

Yet who am I but another suitor

come to parade you across the palace floor—

for a minute. Another to curl the strands of your hair

over your ears and whisper sweet nothings to you.

——

 

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WAX FIGURE – 50 WORD STORY

He pulled the carving knife away from the eyes, and blew a burst of air across the honey-eyed woman’s face. The thin shavings that carpeted the floor made up the last of the imperfections, yet as he shut off the bright lights for the day, she felt anything but perfect.

——

 

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LAKESIDE (AND OTHER HAIKUS)

Dreamers

Up rose the sunlight

and with it the burdened arms

of bygone dreamers.

 

Sunset Shift

Not many saw him

sweeping under the benches

in the orange sunsets.

 

Domestication

If only the tears

could be managed with make up

as the bruises were.

 

Beach Walks

Bits of green sea glass

greet the sun as emeralds

gleaming in the sand.

 

Lakeside

The mush of brown mud

swallows my toes in the lake

as I amble in.

——

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WONDER WOMAN

Diana wasn’t like her comic book counter part.

She didn’t feel any inner struggle over her Superman.

She struggled with her taxes, getting tenure,

and which of her sister’s twins had twisted the cat’s tail.

 

But she was a Wonder Woman nonetheless;

the kind of woman who would wake up at five

and take the bus to the homeless shelter

just so the sorrowful could have a decent meal.

 

Maybe she pictured herself from time to time

soaring over the skyline as the sun began to shine,

dressed in a one-piece, red and blue suit

and a tiara that twinkled in the sunlight,

 

but I saw her more as the brutal hunter,

ready to hamstring the next Actaeon

that paraded his way into the wrong bathhouse;

protecting her nymphs from another abuser.

——

 

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