In Darkness

It’s been a dark day

Awaiting fresh poppy deliveries

To hang and dry

To crush with mortar and pestle in hopes

Of visiting vexed vixens

Intent on mixing oils with petals

On canvas

To burn matches

Create riddles wrapped in enigmas

Suffering fools

Wedged between reality and surreal dreams

Of flames nipping on toes

Licking the spines of escapees running

Running with leaden legs

In terror

Horrid images of melting faces

Sinister clowns

Laughing murderously in captivity

Pacing as lions before the raw flesh

Devoured in torn chunks

Pulling and ripping as the mane waves

Gloriously in slaughter

An epitome of beauty

Repulsive synchronicity

Until contented satiated fullness

Awaits passing prey

The Pram

Lying on my back
On thin foam makeshift mattress
Combed cotton coverlet close to skin
Sounds drift on summer breeze
Birds chirp
Familiar voices and foreign ones float
Interrupted by distant staccato airplane motor
Eyelids heavy I drift
Comforted by nearby walls
Retractable sunshade
I peer upward to glimpse sky
Viewed through mosquito netting
Quivering green leaves shuffling overhead
Squinting in bright green-blue refracted light
Inhaling synthetic scent of bleached white plastic
And clean air and baby powder
Falling downward into cavernous
Dreams
Chilled by air
Warmed by sun
Wholly content
Until squeaky springs
Jar my body
Casting rest aside
pram 1

A Mazing End

PART IV the final chapter Continued from Maze Escape

Like a swimmer breaching the water’s surface after copious time spent searching for treasure, a spontaneous gasp forces her lungs to expand. Eyes closed, fingers extended she reaches to feel any recognizable object.

She lies comfortably, a firm cottony pillow supports the weight of her head. She’s aware of ambient sounds, a pendulum ticks, a diesel engine grumbles, and a gentle breeze moves the blinds tapping the edges of the window frames. She grasps something malleable like an old hacky sack. Gradually she musters courage to open her eyes.

Blinking in the bright light she realizes she is in a bedroom.

Centered on a Damask bulletin board, a single sign reads, “Fresh Paint. Do not touch the walls for one hour.”

fresh paint1

Stick Chick contemplates her immediate surroundings.

“It must have been a dream,” she thinks.

*** THE END ***

Saved by Art

Beneath waters of a rushing river laid moss growing helter-skelter

Upon rocks that jutted upwards without breaching the surface

Decades upon seasons of rain and sun

Freeze and thaw kept long floaty strands from reaching

Oxygenated air above

Moss grew pushing against the current

Or turning its back to allow water to flow freely

Holding its own

Occasionally the current crushed cold

Weathering the rock even as the moss lived

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Gradually drought dried the river

Slowing the flow

Exposing nuances formerly hidden

Soft green growth eternally drowned

Unfurled for the first time

Face to the sun

Hidden strands like human lungs breathed in oxygen from the air

Rather than from water-logged filters of moistened roots

Deep and powerful breaths

Brush to the canvas

She became free