Lost Love, Lost Self, Lost Life

Crush my heart. End the misery.
As does the Earth to a pebble
dropping from the heavens above.
Hope is vaporized in an instant as
quickly as we see the tiny bright
illuminating star, which upon
drawing closer–ceases to be.


Rocking to and fro, unique but to myself…the hospital staff observes but from a polite distance. I whimper, when I think one is near to hear. I hold my breath until I might faint. Sweating, lips parted, I gasp until one comes to mop my brow and gently place wet swabs by which I draw water past my lips.


I’m running as fast as I can,
the crowd is screaming, streaming
behind my desperate wake. Frightened, I look not left nor right but run, run, run. I try to remember–if you are right handed run to the left. Never…I feel the pain in my back and
stumble forward. The crowd catches me and begin to pummel my face and body with fists, sticks, the odd brick.
I’m dying from the blood flow out of my back. What, do you mean
“burn the Warlock, burn the Warlock, burn the Warlock”–as I drift off to sleep.

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Sea Dreamer

   I loved her. It was enough. 1749 seemed a difficult time for making a life for one’s self; not to mention a home, and family. The many self owned businesses manufactured gin and as a living was to be made from that.  Some people, me included preferred to earn my livelihood as had my father and his father before him. The love of the sea and its profits could make any man feel good about his work, and a modest profit besides. She was not yet with child and my heart knew that try as I might time and fortune would answer that riddle. She was most beautiful and was the answer to my hopes for someone who would share my life dreams and hopes.

   She was of a modest height coming to the bottom of my shoulder, her hair was the color of cured straw and her face held tender lips and eyes that were soft as the coming dawn. My mind drew comfort from being her husband. As such I was pleased that she kept house and was willing to quietly urge me to assist in chores that were not normally those of a man. Bear in mind, that this is between we men and are really not of a mind to shout from the rooftops those things our wives are able to encourage us to do. Things like tending the garden, and painting the house and such.

Mind you men folk, keep this to yourself.

She helped me as a fisherman, by aiding me to pull the boat from the beach and down to the water’s edge. I loved the strength I saw in her body, hair flying askew; legs and the beautiful arches of her feet as she strained and sweated along with me to float the tool of our livelihood to sea. I often enjoyed watching her mend the nets and she was more than able to do such work. She is the day to my night. I see her as a life mate for me. My purpose to provide for her was manifest. By my willingness to don a large warm sweater she knitted and row out into the sea where our fortunes awaited, was the greatest gift I felt as a man I could undertake.

Her world was my world. She was very special, almost unique. It is noted that from Eccles on Sea to Waxham she was known for her abilities in healing. I know nothing of those arts, but I am inclined to say that since they do well; they can not be bad. My love for her clouded my reason at times and in this manner I was content. She was demanding only to this extent that we have one day of the week and the odd holiday for our time spent just for the two of us. I could not see the harm as this gave me time to enjoy the forest which we both loved or the beach which we loved with equal measure. We would oft times walk, or picnic and finding a secluded area we loved with a hunger as though our lives were too short. She is beauty personified by the radiance of the sun; she is the pale underside of the leaves which contrast themselves against the gray skies of the incoming North Sea storm. She is the warmth and softness of the gentle spring sun. Her lips hold the moisture of the summer rains and her skin smells like flowers and her touch as kind as the innocent ewe seeking milk from its mother.

    I see her as my soul mate. I prayed that one day we would need not work so hard but live as the gentle folk in Surrey. My day at sea was to row out several miles and not return until my barrel was filled with salted fish. I left before sunup and sometimes returned after sundown. Always, she was there with lantern as I departed I could see her as I rowed east or the same as I rowed back upon returning toward the west. I could only refer to her position but she held true and never wavered. Upon one evenings return she wore a strangely colored smock, I deemed it not prudent to ask about it but waited until she wanted to tell me. She was fearful of my reaction but when she explained and seeing the mirth in my eyes I asked her to hug me and she knew shortly that the color caused another sensation within me. She smiled hugged me tighter and we fell into the consummate joy as our bodies answered each others beckons. She described it as an accident while she canned berries, wasting some upon her smock she tried in vain to wash it out. It would not so she decided to use the cloth to wash the kettle. The warm soft color like that of the rose would not come out but resulted is this new color seen only on the great paintings of the castles. We have not a name for it, I imagined berry color. She wears it for me when we retire and it is with great amusement that I enjoy it.

On the day that it occurred I was looking inward and not outward until the force of the gale hit. My nose was focused and remembering smelling my love and not my surroundings. The wind struck my boat with a mighty heave and the waves came up suddenly. I was forced to retrieve my nets and turn towards the west and home. The waves came up higher and the water washed over the gunwale. I paused often to bail out the water and knowing the wind was pushing west it gave me some comfort in rowing. I could not see my love with the lantern and hoping to do so I turned to look for her. I was not able to see the shore but I knew I was going toward them. It was just a matter of time when. My hands were bitter numb from the cold and my mind was seeing images of days of love and my darling’s fathomless eyes. How I longed to be in her arms this moment. How I wished to deeply to feel her fingers in my mouth. I wanted to touch her very spirit with my tongue. While I bailed a wave larger than most tore away one of the boats oars. I screamed in frustration. I could but helplessly sit and bail hoping that the wind would push me in towards shore. Such was not to be as a large wave crashed over the boat and spilled me and all my trade works over and into the sea.

    I have never felt such anger as I strove to swim away from the wreck only to find my legs entangled in the net. I felt myself being pulled down down towards where the sea was calmer and she seemed to wait with the lantern. I smiled and she smiled in return and I loved the brightness that enveloped us both. I kissed you and you kissed me in return. I love you so much.

    She waited until dawn and with lantern in her numb hands she returned wearily to their cottage. She knew he would return and prepared food for them both. She would constantly check every day until he returned. I came to you every day and I stretched my arm out towards you but I guess you could not see it. I was angry because I realized the stupid net held my arm pinned to my side. You would be proud of me. I held those stupid crabs off for two months before they consumed my flesh. Had it not been for a nosy squid that took a plug of my flesh, then after that it was every body help yourselves. I should have caught more of those and cooked them.  I can not see you now, I have but hollow eye sockets; but I know in my heart that you still wait. I love you so much and I will be faithful in paradise until you come join me. 

Oh yes, the color of your smock is pink.  Continue reading

At The Window Seat

At The Window Seat

I was able to spend a few days
with my Mom and while knowing the
window seat was there, never really
gave it a thought. That is until I saw
my Mom sit upon it.

It rests there by design, as though
even the forgotten builders
understood a young shrill voice
would one day cry mine;

It was the honorees place who
established first dibs upon the
precious space; doling areas for
fellow siblings and friends toys
like a feudal lord divides his lands
one to each who best develops his
or her place.

Not without responsibility did such a
lofty tile decree, in the winter
boots and shoes left by the back
door, coats fell nearby as all must
be done by unwritten mandate,
if breached, the serfs as one would
rise up and oust thee.

Summer was a time when as the
days grew from warm to hot,
sometimes a visiting relative might in
a non-violent coup, by her beauty or
his handsome new features, manage
to all win all of said title without
lifting a finger.

How they succeeded at this at times
was seemingly beyond my grasp,
I begin to notice his little furrow of the
brow and her slight pout of lips that
weakened the seats value and
dissolved any order and as violations
mounted quiet negotiations were
taking place in enclaves where
genders were not allowed to breach.

I got a summer job.

The coups and such were still being
counted as my responsibilities grew,
silly things like the window seat no
longer mattered.

When the cushions appeared, Mom
just brushed it off as a flight of fancy;
something to do with silly
old pillows no one barely sits there
any more, she smiled and offered
me a seat.

Having made us coffee, a habit I
picked up while in the fifth grade,
we lived not together so Mom
could not know till I told her about
boiling my Dads used coffee grounds
after he and my Step-Mother left for
work. I felt guilty about this but
continued until I began to pilfer
fresh ground coffee; when found out
and warned on the dangers of stained
teeth I was given an alternative
named Postum.

Ok.

It tastes great at the first cup,
then good at the second, okay
at the third if you can make it
that far, because it loses flavor
and then–bland.

Enough of that.

I handed a cup to Mom, she
thanked me. She mused about
the seat and how it seemed
abandoned now. I knew that
she missed the buzz, but
understood the bedlam of
children at play.

I told her that running and
playing about the house
seemed not that long ago.
She chuckled I always loved
how she laughed. Seems as
though when the responsibilities
mount, the humor is first to suffer.

Life offers and demands much,
the more threads, the harder the
weave. Daily demands often trump
fun, any moment of laughter is to
be relished.

As a child I never realized the fun
interaction could bring, isolation
was my solitary friend or having a
book to read. I did not grow up
around sisters and brothers, for
the most of the summers unity
was by chance not often by design.

I did not mind.

How grateful to my Mom, I guess
she may never realize. Thank you
and gifts seem not enough. I wish
I had the means to take care of her
needs, so she might not want.
This is not realistic because I know
myself and it would not be fair to
her as a reminder of who I am.

Gratitude is enough and with her
family surrounding her, I need not
worry. I pray that life and GODS
mercy will make her future peaceful
and filled with wonders.

The window seat is still there, waiting
for the next bunch of combatants,
to add to its mystique.

Flowers From Heaven

My editor directed me – stay on after the night beat. She sent me on

assignment to an outdoor garden show held at our local home store. I

could purchase anything from a tractor down to boxes of toothpicks. I

thought glumly that a cup of coffee might be what I needed, but, first

work.

I knew nothing of flowers so I hoped that I might cobble a photo essay

together using the names that were probably posted to identify them. She

was standing beside the first row and I noticed her when I glanced up to

seek a sales associate.

Her hair, pale as the flower of the Belladonna and wonderfully the color

of the mist shrouded sun as it rises in the distance of a warm summer’s

morning. if touched, it might feel like the softness of the Hydrangea, its

closely packed groupings of blossoms taunted and beckoned to me with

it’s wonderful fullness. I noticed a few berries of this plant and having

pocketed one I was determined to test its sweetness.

Her face gazed upon the world with a stoic calm reserved for visiting

dignitaries. her eyes seemed to float like the flowers of the Wild Rose

upon its green leafy bed as the wind moves gently across their faces. I

admired her serene smile and impish charm that seemed to foundation

her facial features.

She stood straight as the Malva plant or Hollyhock she did seem a little

aloof or perhaps I factored wrong, and she might not be comfortable in

this place. When she turned her profile to me I immediately snapped off

a picture in her direction. her body was framed right and left with the

multicolored flowers stacked row upon row. I thought that if I could ask

her for assistance she might reward me with information on these plants;

I approached her.

Her lips were pretty, and her chin and soft cheekbones were a wonderful

contrast that gave her a sun kissed glow. She was wearing a soft cotton

smock and leggings that ended just past her calves. bare legs and soft

pink/green plaid canvas shoes adorned her feet. Gentle eyes were softly

surveying me when she said, “Hello, do you work here?”

“No. I was hoping you might help me, my eyes twinkled smiling, my

name is Anthony and I work for the local Sentinel newspaper.”

“What would a local reporter find interesting at a home store?”

“Ah, that is what eludes me but I hope to appease my boss by making a

photo essay from the flowers that are for sale here. If you would kindly

go with me for a short walk around it might make things easier for me,

however, I do not wish to trouble you.”

“My name is Amber. I have some purchases to make and I do not wish

for the stock to be swept up and sold. If you wish to accompany me then

by all means you are welcome.” she looked at me with a firmness that

said she would not accept any compromise.

I agreed and reached into my pocket. Bringing out the dark berry I eyed

it for critters, sniffed it and prepared to pop it into my mouth.

“Stop!” she said and many patrons turned to see what the commotion

was about.

“Pardon, what is wrong?” I said visibly shaken.

“Do know what you are holding in your hand?” she queried.

“It is just a berry from a plant over there; it looks tasty although the

smell leaves a lot to be desired.

“Hmm, if I told you it was poisonous would you still try it?”

“As a reporter I am curious of just about everything.” I hedged.

“Please hand it to me.” The reporters stubborn streak reared its head;

“it is mine, and I am going to try it out.” But I felt compelled and handed

the berry to Amber.

“You are about to learn something about flowers that not many people

live to tell about.” Squeezing the berry just enough to release a tiny drop

of the dark liquid she let some rest upon her index finger and placed it

against my lips to taste.

I let my lips rest against her thumb and index finger and gently probed

the liquid from her hand. If she noticed that I also kissed her hand she

did not react but I am sure she felt the suction because of the soft plop

that even I heard. She withdrew her hand and with a look of ages old

wisdom sadly asked, “is this what flowers mean to you?”

“No, it is merely the establishment of a link that reaches across the

distance to those that I care deeply about. Also those who have shown

me a kind gesture or a gentle touch via computer. It is by words that I

see as I read. Sometimes it’s from what I feel is going through my heart

at the given moment.” I wrinkled my nose at the bitterness of the fluid.

The difficulty of trying to explain my heart was more than anything I

had ever bargained for. My heart began to beat faster, my skin felt

clammy and the color drained from my face. I began to see red and a

sizzling sound was droning in my ears. Gasping for breath I reached out

for her but she was, though I was totally unaware, propping me up

already.

She guided me to a bench that because of the Peony vines with flowers

running across it, held a sign which said please do not sit. We sat. I

leaned against her as she looked at me with concern in her eyes and a

mixture of mirth. “You are so silly. Slow news day,” she asked.

I nodded in the affirmative and smiled weakly, “I am a dork. Do you

forgive me, people are watching.”

She did not leave my face with her gaze for an instant. I will if you

promise to forgive yourself.” Then she smiled and I realized my life

would never be the same. She bade me sit and rest, telling me that she

must hurry to pick out her choice beauties, she promised to return and

check on me. She said she might take some of the pictures for me of

some of the flowers and this sealing her return I thanked her and handed

her my camera.

My mind drift was drifting. I seemed to hear and see all the words

everyone was saying and see the musical stanzas as the piped in

background music pumped out its melodious notes. Fragrant smells

became visible objects as my brain labored against the same movements

and undulations as though I were cared upon a swift moving river.

Smells of fresh water seemingly everywhere caused the occasional

moisture to caress my face like the moist lips of a hungry lover.

I was floating along as though in a dream. I thought I saw a beautiful

young woman walking along a beach wearing a pink lounger and

following close, a small but eager child who was bouncing along after

her.

I saw a raven haired desert beauty totally at peace with the natural order

of her surroundings and walked in the desert not unlike the Native

Peoples of an earlier era.

In another I saw this wonderful sun kissed beauty that challenged my

concepts of persuasion and limited my ability to give a simple answer to

a complex question.

Still in another I saw my own people as spiritualists who sought only to

live in harmony with life, all within it, but were beaten and chased away

from the land they loved and the natural order they had for thousands of

years cultivated and come to understand.

I could not as yet determine my own fate, perhaps I have no right to live

in harmony with all, and perhaps chaos must be established to effect

serenity. I do not know but I am willing to learn.

I saw the beautiful lady who bore my camera away as a bouquet of

Hydrangea…soft, comforting, caressing my face gently and fragrant to

my senses. I settled myself on the bench and waited for my teacher and

benefactress to return.