A Little Red Rose Dying

A little red rose dying hangs,
fastened to the curtain with an ordinary safety pin
and the dark red petals let life slip out into the suffocating air
and the stem is firm
with a tiny drop of blood protruding from where the pin pierced it through
and the limp leaves cover the bud like a light blanket in fall
and they gasp for breath before succumbing to exhaustion
and all color seems to drip invisibly from the rose like a painting shedding its hews.
The curtain vast and billowy like the ocean during a storm,
engulfs the window frame and the striped pattern tumbles down the wall,
it is a waterfall crashing abruptly into the floor
and it laps at the carpet with a thirst that cannot be quenched
and the rose dangles dangerously above on cliff tops
just waiting to fall should the safety pin fail
and the fibers of the carpet, like furry worms stand erect
and gnaw at the edge of the curtain, holding it securely in place
and in the deep recesses of the crimson cave the shadows touch,
fondling each other with wispy fingertips, appearing and disappearing
depending on how the light hits them
and the petals grip the stem to bestow one last kiss of life
and the young flower topples down, down, down
ripped from the pin
and the bud bounces softly, once on the sea of carpet
it is a feathery pillow softening the fall
but the blood of the rose forms a puddle beneath it
and it runs deep into the carpet, soaking it
and the petals are now a grey ash
they choke out the green of the stem and leaves,
with gritty sand, scratching at the throat
and the dust settles all dried out yet drinking greedily at the life slipping away
like grass slurping the morning dew after a draught
I see a ghost of the rosebud lying there
like smoke rising from a chimney
and the heat makes the trees dance, even when they are sad
and it blinds me and makes me see things behind foggy glass
but as I look into the pooling liquid
slowly seeping out of the little red rose dying
vacantly staring back at me,
I see my lover’s face

Dream Girl

The first time I heard “Truly, Madly, Deeply” by Savage Garden, I was in a barn and we were dancing. It was our first slow dance. I can’t remember if there were others there because it felt like it was just the two of us. The song, though somewhat cheesy, seemed to reflect all my feelings. When we were kids I never had thoughts like that but I guess everything had changed since the incident. I needed this. I needed him. In a way we were just the same as we had always been and I knew that some parts of us would never change. I guess it’s like the rides at six flags. They change, they get bigger and better, they get makeovers or new names, but you can always expect to see at least a few that are the same. Those special rides that no matter how many times they paint, they’re still just the same old fun rides you expect them to be.
He had been my best friend since… well I’m not exactly sure how long. I suppose the incident somehow skewed my sense of time, but all that matters concerning time is that we will always be together. He is tall with dark brown hair and lots of freckles and he has a way of tilting his chin up when he laughs that makes me laugh too. His name? Well I seem to have forgotten that. What is my name for that matter? Who really defines a person by a name anyway? A name is given at birth and means nothing of the inward character. A child is awarded a name before it can even learn to speak! A name in that sense is not truly earned and therefore is meaningless. If you must have an answer his name is Love, for he is the embodiment of it. Love, Comfort, Friendship, Loyalty, Strength, Humility…take your pick for he is all of these. Among his people he is overlooked. It so saddens me that I’ve devoted my existence to him for I am the only one of my kind. That I know of.
I wasn’t always so wispy and feathery. He tells me I once walked among them, but no matter, I prefer it this way. For I have his full attention and always will. When we dance, we dance with our hearts. When we sing, we sing with our souls. When we dream, we dream of the stars. Though I’ve not much use for their foods, and drinks, and homes, and schools, and workplaces, and all the things that they base their lives around, I love their music. That song resonated deep within me, reminding me, showing me glimpses of what I lost. Sometimes I miss those memories. Sometimes I sit and think about things like the rides at six flags that I never rode, the ice cream from Dairy Queen that I never tasted, and those sappy slushy movies I never watched. Then I think of his heart beating in my ear, his cool breathe tickling my neck, and his soft steady hands cradling my face.

Wolf-Pack Feast

Snow slides sleepily through the tall aspen trees
The flakes float down like a thousand silent bees
They gobble at the meat, causing it to freeze

Seven wolves gather ‘round the still, moose shape
Grasping and groping at its hair covered nape
The shadows, they cling like a giant black cape

My father, their snarls from deep in their throats
My mother, the warmth from their beautiful coats
My parents together, two gaunt ermine stoats

Feasting and fighting o’er every drop of blood
Taming themselves and refusing the mud
Deepening the ties to strengthen the flood

For their children they survive to teach them the ways
Of life, so they live till the end of their days
As best as they can, so their own they can raise

Grabbing a hold of life by its muzzle
Prettily tearing at heartstrings, a puzzle
Exposing the flesh where, her juices they guzzle

But I linger in tree tops above as I dose
Seeing the warm breath hiss out from its nose
My parents protect me from life’s evil woes

Apple

I am an apple

My tough exterior protects me
From hungry baby teeth
Who drop me in frustration
Bruised, my skin is smooth
In places and bumpy in others
Scars that riddle my face
Give me character, wisdom
I sit awkwardly on my frumpy
Less developed side because
I have still much to learn
Not perfect or beautiful
In any particular way but
Mostly content with
My light pink coloring that
Fades into a pale yellow
Though I often envy those
Whose deep red candy lips
Entice all passersby to taste them
My simple pattern is dotted with
White speckles of youthfulness
My fragrance is very sweet
But my surface is tasteless
It is impossible to know me
From just what you see

But on the inside

My flesh is pure white
Untouched by grubby hands
Though exposed to the open air
I’d soon turn a musty brown
Juicy blood trickling down
Or odious tears, beautifully sad
Shriveling up to hide myself
Green veins slither through to
My heart, a star, unique and whole
My secrets locked away within my soul
Sour tasting but sweet smelling
They accuse me of great deceit
But my aftertaste they’d like
If only they’d eat, initially simple
But truly complex am I