as blushing guardians of Gaia we could do better. . .and that’s a hard pill to swallow.
pass a glass of water, would you?
trickle down theory
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a flicker of time
Wilfred
He was proud of his blue tick hounds, his
sixty acres of hills, hollows, creeks filled
with copperheads and cottonmouths;
nights utterly still except when a smell or sound
riled the hounds from their sleep
to bay like old mourners.
My uncle read aloud Sunday mornings
from the Book of Job in a nasal voice,
about hating the night and waiting for day
only to find in the day that one wished for night,
about how we are here for a flicker of time
then reflected in no one’s eye.
My aunt had the custom of hill people of keeping
framed photographs of dead relatives in their coffins.
When my uncle died she got rid of his hounds, his
jew’s harp, said she was through with men
and their ways, but she kept his death photo displayed
on a lace doily in her living room.
Sandra Giedeman
the name of things
Zaca Lake
A white-bellied carp breaks the water’s
surface, crickets chirp a background chorus.
Bats fly a crazy trajectory, then
fold like origami, cling to the eaves.
A great horned owl swoops, glides
above an old man who fills mason jars
with what he calls sacred mud of the healing lake.
In the lobby of faded sun, I pass row after row
of pinned butterflies under glass.
Memento Mori of old hotel, long-gone guests;
of Anise Swallowtail
Mournful Duskywing
Cabbage White.
Days of green and summer’s
sulphurous heat that bursts cocoons.
Fragile speckled wings that someone felt
the need to pin down.
You’re awake as a child until they teach you
the names of things.
Sandra Giedeman
Game of Thrones
lost memories, lost mind
The Philadelphia Enquirer
OIL IN WATER
Pam Lazos
Chapter Sixty-Two
Waiting on the tarmac at the airport in Houston, Hart tried both Lapsley and Zenone, but was unable to raise either on his cell. He checked his watch. Even OSCs deserve Sunday night off .
After take-off, a stewardess gave him a choice between The Houston Chronicle and The Philadelphia Inquirer . He chose The Inquirer, a nod to a new life, and dropped it onto the empty seat beside him. Hart stared out the window into the upper reaches of the troposphere, a stunning black freckled with starlight older than any one of his lineal ancestors. He wouldn’t say he was at peace, but there was a calming feeling that came with his decision to take a leave of absence from Akanabi. He lowered his seat into the recline position, shut the overhead light and closed his eyes, but after an hour of chasing an elusive sleep, he flipped on the light and pulled out the Employment and Business sections of the paper.
He scanned the front page of Business first; nothing caught his attention. He flipped through until he got to B-5 where his eyes met those of a smiling Gilliam William Tirabi, inventor extraordinaire. The headline read Inventor Turns Trash Into Gold , a somewhat inflated view of the process as admitted in the first line of the article since alchemy was only involved figuratively. However, it wasn’t the headline that caught his attention, but the face itself, and the feeling that he’d met this child before. The article, written by staff writer Chris Kane, recounted the tragic death of Gil’s parents and the MIA status of his older brother. It discussed Gil’s reluctance to complete the trash project until recently when he came to terms with his father’s death and decided it was “okay”.
Hart closed his eyes and thought about this kid’s life. When he opened them again, the face of Gil Tirabi was staring right at him. Hart studied the picture until he thought he saw Gil’s lips move. He shook his head, tossed the paper aside and shut the light.
At dawn, the plane touched down in Philadelphia. Hart grabbed his carry-on and moved into the aisle.
“Sir, would you like your paper?” the stewardess asked.
“No, thanks,” Hart said. But a moment later he turned, picked up the business section and stuck it under his arm.
Hart stopped for a latte, paid the woman, and dropped the newspaper in the process. A customer behind him handed it back.
“Thanks,” Hart said.
Hart took his change, shoved the paper back under his arm and stepped out of line. He stood, lost in thought for a moment, then walked to a nearby trash can and tossed the paper in, but the face of Gil Tirabi stared back at him. Hart chuckled at his own ridiculousness and left the terminal.
Outside he flagged a cab, turned over his carry-on to the Indian driver, threw his briefcase into the back seat and climbed in after it.
“Where to, sir?”
“The Sheraton on 2nd Street.” The cabby nodded and started the meter. Hart closed his eyes and slept until the cab pulled up to the hotel. He paid the driver, retrieved his briefcase and got out of the cab and stumbled toward the lobby of the Sheraton.
“Sir. Your paper.” Hart accepted the cabbie’s offering, shoving the paper in his briefcase before heading inside to check in.
to be continued. . .
to read what came before click here
copyright 2012
pick your poison
We like to think of our bodies as amazingly sophisticated eco-systems.
It’s enough to make a rational person blush.
