A Sabrina Orah Mark Style Imitation
When Samantha fell off the roof, the woodsman gathered an iris, the truth, and a yellow moth. He wondered if the junction would occur on Thursday of next week. The queen of a hundred lakes exclaimed with sympathy and licorice. He untangled his boots from Samantha’s white tendrils, feeling a bit embarrassed and underdressed. It was evening. The soldiers would be playing cards by the fire right now.
I heard the woodsman’s toes etching red diamonds on the moth’s left wing. Blood pricked my fingertips. Whether it was one of Samantha’s beaks. Whether the crown bounced off the glass window. I wasn’t sure. Chip after chip…the soldiers upped the ante.
Wiping Honey Off the Bench at Dover Beach: “On Sentimentality”
They say you won’t understand
why I am truly First Person Fabulous. You may see me sitting on the red chair at the outdoor café,
white saucer, white cup to my lips.
They say Ambiguous You are disconnected from the tepid me. Instead of gulping tea and leafing open the paper,
you might witness my sobbing shoulders
and a maddening flicking of tears.
Am I more than an occupied parking stall approached a second too late?
But I know you are intelligent.
You are capable of dual activity: the duality of the connection we share, though not tangible, is “arterial and venous.”
They say poets imbibe sentiment with every sigh,
but if we agree to sit under the canopy of the Banyan tree,
Ambiguous You on your side
of your practical metal bench,
and First Person Fabulous me
placated on the idea of my imaginary one-foot bench,
couldn’t we curate the perfect environment
to generate poems of phô and snakes and pills?
Come then. “Let us be true to one another.”
NOVEMBER 19, 1929
Three Kings’ ransom $10,000
Already strangled, skull chiseled in
Gill Jamieson, 10
Son of a Hawaiian Trustee;
Son of a Japanese plantation worker
Both strut, fret, and heard no more
Picked up after school at Punahou
Driven away in a cab
Only one kidnapper
Kidnapper’s jagged red stone
A nameless marker in Mo’ili’ili Cemetery
Ingachou: heap of misfortune
It’s probably just me, but I didn’t know I could turn on “like” comments for viewers’ convenience. Okay, it’s on now. Hmph!
Writers are demi-gods
changing the outcomes of history
with one emotional conversation,
inventing worlds and
choosing victims to toss over a cliff
or to be abducted by a madwoman.
Out of the cursor, we could saw
Jonah’s whale in half and revive Captain Ahab.
After the intermission break,
Adam could jump out of a hat
donning an apple in mouth
shifting blame, transforming all fruit-like allusions.
We are writers,
unfettered and powerful,
waiting to emerge out of the blinking cursor.
Posted in artists, Choices, creative non-fiction, Creative writing, Dreams, fiction, writing
Tagged blinking cursor, creating worlds, creative art, curiosity, fiction, powerful art, writers power
There are dark nights
when you’re submersed in thoughts
of failures and just too shy of grabbing
that next marker, accomplishment,
a red hairband;
then someone lets you know
how pale life would be
if you weren’t there
to pull her hair back
so she could face down wind
and curse back at the world
with all her red hopes and optimism.
Inside, you smile yellow.