Pink and plump upon my plate,
Wrong place, wrong time, cruel twist of fate.
One of a million tiny eggs set free,
Upon the current of a briny sea.
Sifting through the ocean floor,
For bits of plankton, algae and more…
What’s up bruh, yo, bust tha’ rhyme,
In clicks and snaps on ocean time.
Stay in school and you’ll be set,
Against most predators but not man’s net.
Swimming in a sea of butter,
The surfer half of my steak supper.
Emma surreptitiously melted into the streetscape, carefully concealing herself as she panned a male subject moving through the snow.
She’d been following him for days – the bank, post office, convenience store, his mother’s place – but he had revealed nothing remotely suspicious.
She trailed behind him as he beelined towards the corner restaurant, although she was beginning to concede that her client’s notions may have been painted with an ugly shade of green.
“What do we have here?” she muttered to herself as the shutter blinked open just long enough for the silver halide strip to register an imprint of his lips pressed against those of a woman he’d met out front and who was not Emma’s client.
The following is being reposted for a minor rework for Fandango’s Flashback Friday series. “Don’t Look Back…” was originally published on March 1st, 2021 taking inspiration from the image prompt from Sonya’s Three Line Tales challenge.
Wrapped in last night’s hazy memories, the dirt of the hard road pressed up between her toes.
The past echoes like a thousand screaming voices trapped inside her head.
“Don’t look back…” she whispers to herself as she travels the path from which she can never break free.
I hope you have enjoyed this walk down memory lane.
Seeds scattered upon the wind, like birds that have left the nest.
Each restless generation innately driven to carve out its own place in the world.
The mark we leave is not measured by how much we’ve grown.
It is determined by what we teach our children to sow.
The following poem is being reposted for Fandango’s Flashback Friday series. “The Waiting” was originally published on February 17th, 2022 using prompts from The Sunday Whirl‘s weekly Wordle challenge and Fandango’s own One Word Challenge. The version I am posting today has been reworked because I found some of the writing cumbersome and believe the changes work better for the peice. It has also been edited for some embarrassing spelling and grammatical errors that appeared in the original.
The tick of the clock
slams like a hammer
against Arianne’s eardrum.
Her eyes growing heavy
as the itinerant sun slips
towards the western horizon.
Endless red, orange and yellow
spills from the heavens,
onto the blue canvas sky
Great billowing cloud herds
transiting the azure ocean are
set ablaze against a fiery sunset.
Arianne sits by the open window,
hypnotized by the meadow sages
bending in the evening breeze.
Luminescent fireflies dancing free
leave trails of ghostly strings to fade
amongst the old grey stones.
Whilst wisps of fairy dust swirl
in the magical air, like lacy strands
gilding her already flaxen hair.
She knows not who the traveller is,
only that the journey ends
at the old weathered gate.
How much longer must
she remain here before
her limit has been reached.
For as long as she has a heartbeat
she has sworn to help
her weary guest reach the finish.
I hope you have enjoyed this walk down memory lane.
My trunk stretches into the salty water,
but this will not quench my thirst.
These stone monuments
carved by the mother of everything
will be all that remains of the
great herds that once roamed here.
As we go extinct, so does your kind, waiting for
our fossils to be discovered in the next great epoch.
It is absurd in a dubious kind of way,
the need to fit in with simulated norms.
I don’t care anymore if the jukebox plays
a re-mix of this fucked up excuse for a life.
The nightbird does not bend beneath such sorrow,
soaring high above the smoke-filled bordellos,
She knows no fear of being crushed beneath
the one-eyed monster’s armadillo-skinned boot.
I lay here all but empty – shamefully waiting
for the scent of homemade soap, and
the primal thrust of a hot starched pistol,
Though I’ve not a pound of flesh left to give.
I’m swept high upon a ribbon that swirls
in the turbulent eddies she leaves behind,
Catching glimpses of freedom in the pull of her wake.
Below my battered shell awaits, unsure if I’ll return.
Remember when I was whole,
In tune with time, a vibrant soul.
With every lie and new excuse,
My moral compass coming loose.
Wave on wave erodes my soul,
Until I’m but a gaping hole.
All my riches, hints of fame,
Cannot erase my guilt and shame.
So hellbent on winning the race,
I forgot to leave this world –
a better place.
Family gathered in a circle,
arms crossed and hands clasped together.
Frantically we assemble as the anticipation builds…
10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 –
“Happy New Year!”
…and then the room breaks into song,
“Should auld acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind…”
Scottish Traditional (Robert Burns) Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and auld lang syne? Chorus For auld lang syne, my jo, for auld lang syne, we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, for auld lang syne. And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp! and surely I'll be mine! And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, for auld lang syne. Chorus We twa hae run about the braes, and pu'd the gowans fine; But we've wander'd mony a weary foot, sin auld lang syne. Chorus We twa hae paidl'd i' the burn, frae morning sun till dine; But seas between us braid hae roar'd sin auld lang syne. Chorus And there's a hand, my trusty fiere! and gie's a hand o' thine! And we'll tak a right gude-willy waught, for auld lang syne. Chorus
Modern Should old acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind? Should old acquaintance be forgot, and auld lang syne? Chorus For auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne, we'll take a cup of kindness yet, for auld lang syne. And surely you'll buy your pint cup! and surely I'll buy mine! And we'll take a cup o' kindness yet, for auld lang syne. Chorus We two have run about the hills, and picked the daisies fine; But we've wandered many a weary foot, since auld lang syne. Chorus We two have paddled in the stream, from morning sun till dine; But seas between us broad have roared since auld lang syne. Chorus And there's a hand my trusty friend! And give us a hand o' thine! And we'll take a right good-will draught, for auld lang syne. Chorus
Dulled by the trolley’s rhythm,
I drift through fragmented memories
of past summers in Canada.
Lazy days spent at the lake.
Endless trees, evergreen garlands,
strung between water and blue clear skies.
Sunday snoozing in the back pew.
Choir hymns rippling through
waves of vanilla scented candles.
Those who have flocked here,
Explorers, seeking truths
for which there are no answers.
If ever there was a place to believe!
Even for the briefest of moments
before the colours turn.
Fading through the back window…
Leaving only our ghosts to greet
the chalk white snows of winter.
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