March 3, 2014 § Leave a comment
Like time-worn puzzle pieces
the sticks fit together, wood that was meant
to be. They rested in a modest square,
shaped around a soft carpet
of leaves and dirt. We formed
a pointed roof, that didn’t keep away the rain
but let sunshine always warm
those inside. The structure remained
sturdy, resilient, calm. It seemed
to come alive at our presence
but rest in our absence. Its magic
was addicting and we returned
every summer until the rain and storms
slowly washed it away, along with those footprints,
that marched through the mud each summer
to find our treasured fort.
February 22, 2014 § Leave a comment
I had this old notebook when I was young
with pages and pages of tales I’d spun.
I wrote endless stories and once upon a times,
with mystical characters made up in my mind.
I found that old notebook in my closet one day
and thumbed through the pages of my fiction bouquet.
It revealed past wishes and childhood dreams,
but every story contained one consistent theme.
While their plots all evolved in different times and worlds,
something happened just when the stories began to unfurl.
A sentence, a period, and then nothing more,
my narrative would end, not a summation to implore.
The pattern existed in each and every tale,
as if I searched for inspiration, but to no avail.
But perhaps my endless stories spoke a message of hope
that the end of one’s journey can always change scope,
and that life is astounding because no one truly knows
what wondrous endings our stories may bestow.
They lay ready and waiting, just out of our sight,
they are free and they’re ours, should we dare to write.
Soccer Ball Piggy Bank
January 20, 2014 § Leave a comment
The ceramic container is dependable,
if nothing else. But it is something else.
It’s the shape of a soccer ball,
actually, it is a soccer ball.
But it’s ceramic,
and has never been kicked or stained with grass.
It stands there, or sits there, I’m not sure which one,
but like I said, it’s dependable, as most ceramic objects are.
It has held my coins since I was eight. Sturdy and decorative.
Being pumped with change, instead of air.
But every year, being completely deflated
of the treasures it holds so still and careful,
emptied aggressively with loud banging and clanging
and shaking upside down.
Its contents spilling out onto the floor
for the world to see. A meager compensation
for a years worth of dependability.
The sturdy container, now emptied of its worth,
its pride, is set back onto its perch
next to a flowered picture frame
and a rock shaped like a turtle,
where it will sit for another year
being dependable, but forgotten,
its contents losing value
and then spilling out onto the floor.