Oh, adulthood.
The Old Woman & The Light
OLD WOMAN: I’m sorry that it bothers you, dear, but I always rock when I knit. I’m not sure I could stop now if I tried. [There is a pause. In the silence, a light flickers.] Yes, it does. It’s an old rocking chair. Nearly as old as I am. [She laughs.] It could be me creaking. [The light turns on and off abruptly and repeatedly while glowing brighter.] Now, now. Remember: it’s not your house anymore.
[A door opens and closes, and footsteps approach. The light blinks off as Peter enters.]
PETER: Hi, Grandma!
OLD WOMAN: Peter! What a nice surprise. Come here, and give me a kiss.
PETER: [He leans down and kisses her cheek. Then, he glances around the room.] Were you on the phone? I thought I heard voices.
OLD WOMAN: [Laughing.] Oh, you know how it is with us old folks. Sometimes, we natter away just to prove we’re still here.
A Qualified Toast
A toast to explosions and battle scenes
But only on movie and gaming screens –
Not for life or everyday tasks.
Why is that so much to ask?
A Flesh Wound
Flashing metal strikes the stone
It chips – scratches. A flesh wound only,
The slightest mar: visible to the eye.
Inside the stone, the blow rebounds,
A shockwave. It runs through the stone
Like panic. Pushing and tugging at particles,
Forcing them apart and leaving behind
The tiniest fractures, completely unseen.
Dozens of miniscule wounds hidden
From stranger and friend alike. Unshared,
But dealt with. The parts stand together
To compensate for the fissures. Because
The stone must continue to stand.
It must continue to hold, to bear the load
Though each successive blow shatters more
And more of its interior strength. Stubbornly,
It clings to its shards until the final blow
Forces them apart for the world to see.
Remembering To Be Thankful
They’re generous and kind.
They’re nagging and needy.
They’ll give ‘til they’re empty.
They cling and control.
But if I need them, I can call them.
If I’m in trouble, they’ll come.
They’re wonderful and awful,
And I love every one.
Sleep Lost
First, the fog
Not drifting but drenched,
Weighting down thoughts
In a clinging web of thick paste.
Then, the wind burns through
A sizzling fire of a quick fuse
That sears the glue into rubber
Or maybe flubber – thoughts
So energized that they bounce
In erratic scatters of showers:
A constant, bubbling babble.
Too soon, the heat is gone,
But the once energetic balls
Are left scorched and jammed,
Hard and unmoving, into the
Walls, floor, ceiling, and void.
Around them, the murk is so
Thick it should be an ocean of
Flickering fish, but no such luck.
Movement is slow, laborious,
Haphazard, and hazardous.
Until at last, it simply
Stops completely.
Adoration of Greed
All bow before the gods,
Their platters gleaming, steaming, teeming
With meats and sweets – delectable treats
Of cheeses and creams:
Bestowing tasty dreams for those
Who worship and believe.
twytte 