There were so many things in the woods and the town that the people didn't like to talk about. It was a conspicuous absence since stories were the way they entertained each other. The lack of ghost stories just made the ghosts stronger, but not strong enough to keep you away.
Maybe they were sirens. There was an almost gravitational pull when you got close enough to the shed. Sometimes, you tried to test your toughness by creeping as close as possible. Other times, the discomfort was too strong.
On the day you disappeared, no one thought to look by the shed. Not for days. Everyone knew not to go down there, and most people couldn't be dragged there by oxen. They looked everywhere else first, and when they finally thought to check by the shed, bones and scraps of He-Man t-shirt were all they found.
No one would ever tell the story. It hurt them, but they never spoke of you again.
JD: So very creepy, like an old episode of The Twilight Zone.
ReplyDeleteCreepy and sad. And enigmatic. What’s in the shed? Ghosts of victims or an animal or a mad human. Who is the murderer? Or are we time-flipping and the presence is the boy?
DeleteTalons
ReplyDeleteA puzzle with no end,
the one true road rain-drenched
of meaning, this guide sidelined.
Rest within the pit of pages,
wrestle with the how and the why,
how the wild must be tamed,
except the eagle will always need
to soar & the grey wolf run free,
no matter the myriad ties & blocks.
Vickie J
This is so compact, but it’s also jampacked. It’s really impressive what you do with so few words.
DeleteTalisman
ReplyDeleteInside a talisman, the eye,
an amethyst vision
the sky could not hold
lest it turn the sunrise out,
& bereft of nature’s burn
we shift. An acreage hides us,
shades us from the night,
wakes us with a blackbird’s call
in emerald light, leaves shrugging,
as if we should never doubt
their incurable care.
Vickie J
I really feel like this one wants to be put to music.
DeleteHIS MUSE
ReplyDeleteIf only she had behaved,
he said, as though she were a pet.
He beat the dog,
but the dog was allowed a daily walk,
so she was below him
in order of rank in his house.
He was all about power, control,
undermining & reinventing,
but history is not a wheel
and the neither wood nor stone.
She held out for a hero,
but no one came, only the storm.
From her turret in the pearl clouds,
she could only stare down,
the old world so estranged now,
betwixt the brambles & the mist.
Vickie J
This one is my favorite so far. I can put a lot of story into this one. If that makes sense. There’s more room.
DeleteThat should be ‘she neither wood nor stone’
ReplyDeleteLullaby
ReplyDeleteHis words were like a lullaby,
soft & low, a murmur of a rhyme.
You were blessed to hear it
for he did not speak so often,
not since the forgetting time,
the drift & shift between the firelight,
a breaking, a split that roared
into a chasm of bleed. Days spin
& glide to a sharp edge some days,
the out of tune only feel the grit,
the solitary drip of seconds on repeat,
when time stopped. The cat curls,
ginger fur entwined with scarlet flame,
fire snapping at dry twigs, pointing.
It’s where he sits & ponders things,
the day he could not freeze,
the moment etched inside, the one
he cannot utter, even to himself.
So sometimes he sings a lullaby
to the one woman he could not save.
Vickie J
There is a repeat of ‘days’ so I’d change that to ‘sometimes’
DeleteThis is really rich, and part of it structured like a lullaby. It makes me wonder what it would be like if you really focused the lullaby aspect of it Rhythmically
DeleteScarlet
ReplyDeleteChase the morning
where it dances in blue,
skirts the dripping sun
birthing through cloud.
There is scarlet & there is you,
a mist the rain sent to me,
scent of green & in-between,
a pressing need to hold & know.
Vickie J
I read this a few different ways and it landed different every time. Really interesting read
DeleteNature’s echo
ReplyDeleteWe count lines devoid
of numbers, the zero, the no-show,
the inside out of wilding,
bare leaves drawn & coloured in,
the passing of an ancient storm,
& we are shrouded here in moss,
shrunk to our own raw nature,
our curves becoming rock,
tree roots binding us together.
Vickie J
This one is rad, and I Think it would be great to hear out loud, spoken word style.
Delete