Right Then;

Right then; he discovered himself shivering in a lifeless culvert, painful shards of juvenile laughter reverberated through his head. Right then; a black beetle, basking in the morning Sun, relished a new scent and turned in pursuit of the curious redolence. Right then; two grackles were startled by approaching voices and flew out of the tall grass with bits of cookie in their black beaks. Right then; a father pulled in the driveway, tickets for the ball game lay on the dashboard. He was surprised that no one bounded out the open door to greet him. Right then; two boys dropped their bikes and raced to catch a purple balloon, scooting across a vacant lot, they found a red slipper too. Right then; the unattended puppy, still wearing a Happy Birthday note, was jubilantly scampering about the open gate.. Right then; a delivery truck backed over a lone slipper, and crumpled a new tricycle. Right then; a bifocal-ed man sat and gloomily reread the ruling of the state parole board. He stared long at the unblinking light, and wondered what would be on for lunch. Right then; the young mother, dreamily leaned across the sheets to kiss her new boyfriend, and wondered where the draft was coming from. Right then; a shopkeeper returned from the dumpster, and called the police to report a discarded bloody bathrobe. Right then; Dr. Witstruck considered a social workers request to expand her clients medication, he determined the need to be in excess of the HMO guidelines and wondered what would be on for lunch.

My letter to your heart

You must tell me what flower you wish for me to plant. If your love is true, it will bloom in your absence. There are not so many things that I can give to you, but those that I can are enough, if you truly care for our love. Though my nights are your days we come around, like your star, one day and one night, and repeatedly thus. When the star I have chosen for you hangs above your pillow, you will see what I have wished for us. On the right day, the things you want shall be yours, if it is to be, and you have not over wished your star. In my heart is a big hurt that needs to be filled with a special force, I hope that it can be you. Be certain you have chosen well in your mind and not just in your heart, for if your pain is too great, any choice may do, for a while. There are not so many things that I can give to you, but those that I can are enough, if you truly love.                                            and flowers choose to bloom.

Freedoms Mistress

              

For some time the carriage rattled along the narrow streets of Washington, stopping before the shop whose window declared “McLogsdon Tailoring”. The occupant stepped out and crossed the walk to the door.

            The proprietor brightened to see his best customer, stepping forward, hand extended.

            “What is the purpose of your visit today?” he requested politely.

            “I am afraid there is an element for concern,” adding hesitantly, “I wish not to carp.”  

The tailor asked in astonishment. “Pray, tell?” 

The gent reached and turned out a hip pocket made from a bit of cloth so small it might only hold a few coins.

“Mary and Joseph!” He remarked, his brogue slipping. “Stitcher Girl!” He shouted dabbing a hanky to his brow. There appeared through the curtained door a young lady, shyly bending her bonneted head toward the floor. “Here, say the reason for which ye have placed such a margin on pocket material? Have you no knowledge of the importance of my distinguished patron?”  Her silence explained nothing, but there came the sound of a great crashing sound from the street and attention was drawn by all to the shouts and accusations of a calamity without. Instantly the tailor’s eyes were drawn to the event and quickly he departed to determine what sort of damage had occurred.

Silently the two remained to wonder at the awkward moment that filled the room. Abruptly there could be heard the sound of a bubbling and the woman quickly brought her hand to her mouth. “Please sir,” she pleaded and left to see to the spilling, onto the hearth, in the rear quarters. “masters dinner!” she cried and hurried to the neglected kettle. There came a shriek of pain and a lid clattered to the floor.

“It’s not a problem.” The gent shouted to the empty store, “I shall return at a later time.”  With no response he moved toward the back, asking “can I help?” Slowly he pulled back the curtain to see the woman kneeling on the floor, her hand reddened from the steam of the pot,  trying to lift the heavy lid with her good hand.

            Abruptly she spoke from her pain. “Yes Mister President, you can free my people!” she raised her tearing eyes to meet his shocked face. Now the tables had suddenly turned and it startled him to be talked to with such sauce from a darkie. Slowly he bent to lift her and grasped her reddened hand.

“It’s not terribly bad,” he said soothingly, covering the spot with his firm hand.

His touch cooled her pain. Her eyes filling with tears; she worked them off her cheeks with her good hand. Slowly their hands reached around each other into a tight embrace. There was a long silence and he looked down to her tranquil face, “Be you the first to know my writing today takes up your very cause, have you people in the South?

She nodded, drawing her reddened hand toward his face; together they felt the heat there.

“Your britches pockets was a contrivance, I had to speak to you somehows” she said softly into his coat. “He will beat me, Mister Lincoln.”

“No, he will not.” The president mumbled turning for the door. “You are a very clever woman. I shall think of you as I complete my proclamation today.” Then, meeting the tailors return, “I am found of my new change pockets and intend to reward your stitcher, and you, with more orders. They have livened me with an immense feeling of freedom” he stated proudly as he returned to the busy street.

An Open Letter to Jon Stewart

Jon, Is there a high school year book there from Paul Ryan's class? If so, maybe you could look something up for me? I think he was listed in there as Lyin Ryan, see I had this dream the other night, and I am sure I recall that he has this huge phobia from all the way back in Junior High. All the kids began calling him Lyin Ryan, as he was always making up stuff about his dad being really tough, and how his sister knew all these cool tricks, and how he got this bum to show an old lady his willie for a smoke, stuff like that. Well he couldnt stand the heat, and if anybody would challenge him, he would break out in a sweat and pee his pants. Thats when the nick name came about, it sounded something like, Lyin Ryan, stop your cryin, we all know your pants need dryn. Well anyway, look it up, because it was just a dream you know, and I dont want to smear anyone unnecessarily.

Found at the Foundling Door

                                                                                           

   On a day when there was no rain to dampen my thoughts,

   You were no more trouble than a pair of shiny dollars,

   Just waiting to be spent.

 

   We'd gather our smiles and slip around,

   Like a clutch of pups, undeterred by the troubles ahead.  

   You were young, needed everything, I had only ourselves.

                     

   Together we were a great invention of laughter.

    But now, the tears are too great.

    For our love will not survive the stares of the angry eyes.

 

    My mistake should not impede your happiness.

   I will hate myself, knowing that you were once mine.

   But I couldn't hold you and my youth all together.

 

   So I part with you here, where the foundlings have new possibilities.

   I will go with the rain, to leave you in bright sun shining.

   You will have a new mother, and an actual father.

 

   Tomorrow clouds of tears may gather.

   Carry my love with you both and a kiss on each cheek.

   No great currency, just change for a couple of shiny dollars.

 

The Widowed Bride

A tremendous act of kindness, by him brought love about Then sprawled beside a glassy pond their passions acted out A sunny day did rise and swell that perfect April morn 'Twas damp with chill, one wintry night a tiny lass was born Her papa was a strapping lad, who never shirked from chore Upon her mother's aching heart, they sent him off to war Their hearts were locked in mindless bliss, that Spring upon the heath Too soon their deed tore all apart, mid silence bound to keep With sturdy limbs, bright eyes of gray and hair of tousled curl Much interest in the child turned, who'd fathered such a girl? The letters came to cheer each day, upon the sheath, no mark But day by day each soldier's fall, revealed his beating heart Sublime the day the war had passed and soldiers all came home But not for those whose caissons rolled, her secret love be known For in first days with lists at post of lads who marched no more His name did cut the paper white, with ink her heart it tore Still letters made it to her eyes a mystery hand had sent As only one could even know from whence their passage rent And on a day as fair as most with child by her side She wed the deaf mute postman, who'd wooed the widowed bride

Starvation

Last night I went to bed hungry

Hungry for your touch
Starving for your smile
Gut rumbling emptiness

Emptiness that won’t be replaced
Like knowing that you won’t
Have solid food for... forever

Looking to the past for nourishment
Nourishment that is like a diet
And a hunger that is never fulfilled

When Life Seems Impossible

                                                               

 When life seems impossible              

   No one cares if you live or die…   

      Change your hair, show up early 

            Put out that extra effort,  sigh a lot

                 Dress to the nines and carry a flamboyant book       

   Make a fancy lunch, eat it lavishly     

                      Sit close to the action sipping expensive water

         When they call on you ignore them

           Tell them you are working on more important things

            While studying offers from their competitors

       When they come to escort you out

         Speak clearly into your lapel

           Asking,  “did the cameras get all that?”

             Done properly                              

                  This should get you at least        

 

         Two weeks room and board at state expense.

The League of Obscure Saints

                                                  

Dear Diary; Upon returning from lunch, these notes caught my eye Dear God: It is my extreme pleasure to bring to your attention the details from the minutes of this months meeting of the League of Obscure Saints, South Side, Heaven 00001 In so far as I am aware, all were in attendance at this, our last meeting. A newly sanctioned member attended, to be detailed later in these notes. First to address the group was the committee head for the Trade Saints League, as is customary since they are considered the lowest of all recognized saints. Their concern was with some recent events when it was observed that no Trades Persons had prayed to any of them, but continues to call upon "God, Jesus Christ, and Judas priest." (Which he is not!) Now while the recognized plumbers are the most frequent users of these terms, it was revealed by St. Louie of the Holy Pipefitters, that carpenters would have the greatest need to cry out but have gone to referring almost always to fecal matter and physical acts between adults. This issue was not discussed further, and no solution was advised. At that time a report was presented by St. Lucky of the Beseeched Bookies & Card Sharks to remove the Gamblers Prayer from the list of Holy Requests as the odds are that it only seems to come from losers and lay bouts that show no desire to help themselves. In his estimation, they are the sorts who throw all their money at the lowest odds, failing to even glance at a racing form but choose whatever horse sounds good to them at the time, like they were in some voting booth. Finally, after all, hope is lost they expect heaven to get involved and save their bacon, as it were. Recommended action; Leave em hanging. On a lighter note, the Branch of lost Balloonists (Sunday Outfit) suggested people would pray more seriously if they got to ride in a hot air balloon. This was met with great agreement and it was suggested that a field trip be planned for our next Get to Know the Earth outing. This met with full approval, except for the representative from the Saintly League of Failed Skydivers, who thought the whole idea a bit of a flat joke, and predicted they would boycott the aforementioned outing. I felt that reaction a bit of a downer, but the rest were high on the plan. Entertainment has been suggested by Les Saints Reform rue Prostitues. Their spokesperson revealed her outline in a stunning four-point spread so all could see her points. But in the end, it became clear that her presentation lacked refinement and she was sent back to committee to perfect the thrust in her motion. It was then suggested by the member from the Saints in Blue that she needs to make apparent a price for performance, Topic closed. Under the subject of sainthood, a formal request was voiced to the board for inclusion to create a new committee seat for a group which is known as the Craft of Repentant Witches and Warlocks. It was said by them that, their crimes were in no way against the high deity, but were the result of a clerical error with theology. They had become put off by the rather lofty (their words) way in which some martyred saints were looking down on the new sanction and would like to see a new light on the whole lot. Hoping not to throw water on the martyrdom practice, the guest yielded to the spokesperson for the League of Contrite Executioners who pointed out that practices of the past were an element which has since cooled and would stake a claim that getting into heaven was not so hard as it had been in his time and would gladly usher a few of the whiney newbies back out. If they wanted, he could supply them with enough rope to finish the subject. With that comment St. Hazel of the CRW&W cut off any further discussion and recommended he could shelve his complaint with the rest of his subjects in the morgues. (Now, I for one don't understand why trade saints are allowed to retain their tools within the fine halls of the hereafter, but a struggle ensued when the saintly aforementioned Executioner produced his broad ax and was promptly met with a flurry of incantations. This instantly added one new frog or toad (not clear which yet) to the population. Pandemonium ensued, there was a confiscation of one wand-type item and the meeting did calm down, only slightly, while the closing prayer was recited, and further agenda items were dropped. Another date was not set for our next meeting but I did hear the when hell freezes over recommendation, but none would claim the motion. In closing I can only say, God, help us!

Death's Transfiguration

Centuries lain in twilight satin
Soon the dawn shall bring repose
Casting forth a life now laden
Drowning with his sin of woes.

Hers was oft the voice of laughter
Hands so soft, and love devout
Shining bright the two incisor
Wounds upon her lilting throat.

His was drawn into her shadow
Hovered with her every motion
So consumed, his joy did canto
Ceased her heart's demure devotion.

Never glancing, ever seeing
Eyes of dark, unholy grace
Pulse of cold, her crimson streaming
Comingles with his earthly trace.

Aimlessly his vast despair
Cursed in every breath he breathes

Life defying, past revolting
Daylight shafts, at last, shall tear.

Finally, her eyes reopen
Like chrysalis in warming air
Celebrates how love shall render
As butterflies, to kill despair.

Sleep Wrinkles

Buttons from a Teddy Impressions of sound safe sleep Sleep wrinkles speak of my last nights A pen on pages wet from a weep Once, the lacey blouse Of a great date Then, beer-soaked laces of a football In the mirror, heading to work, late Sleep wrinkles may say If I had a good time, or not For the guy who sold me this lovely grave He's cussing those sleep wrinkles Two days old, looking like a 38

Fridge & the cycle of life

Pretty much the fridge is a place 
where we hide things
 we thought we might want to eat later.

Then when we find them
 later it puts us off our feed 
and we can't eat what we just took out.

Back in it goes, 
till finally 
we are just fed up and pitch the nasty stuff out.
............... like the cycle of life.

pick it,

try it,

store it,

toss it!

The whole system stinks,
 if you ask me.....
hey what's that smell, not me I pray?.

a man who had no feet

When I was a young pup I lived with a man who had no feet Every night, prior to sleep He'd arange his clothes upon the sheet As if he was still within them. And there, a shoe on each bedpost He would slip beneath Spread eagle and wide eyed He would dream the night away God knows where those shoes took him

the Book of Secret Desires

        the Book of Secret Desires     JdSchooley on 3/16/2012               

She closed the book,
placed it on the table
and finally decided
to walk through the door.

For her, a lifetime of corruptions
were then dispelled.
You were suspected.
I was an implement.

They would do nothing.
The book could encompass
what otherwise impossible thoughts
might carry the imaginer away in their dreams.

Delivering that final comeuppance,
the journey of a lifetime,
or simply to re-exist,
one need only cast their thoughts into those pages.

One of the romantic verses could revive a lost love.
And who wouldn’t pay the price?
The elevator had been serviced dozens of times,
and none could circumvent its curious course.

Some whispered a curious curse
when it arrived at the lobby with no one on-board.
All weren’t lost, indeed, many returned
after fabulous adventures or a miraculous cure.

Always there, lay the book, often a token. Hers was a baby shoe. This decision might be her last. With breath held, her trembling hand punched her date of destiny into the numbered panel. The gate slid shut and the elevator cage dropped like a rock.
No need for a doctor or Mortician. The elevator would work fine for any wishing to see if she had gone to the penthouse corridor, absorbed those pages and placed something with the other items collecting there. Photos, and rings, the detritus of loneliness, tear stained kerchiefs, calling cards, crutches, whatever came from the heart. Most knew this to be a place of sorrow and loss, for hither to, minds had long pondered the bitter cast of deaths transfiguration and how that played out. Yet, none would know whether her selection from the book was as a child longing for its parent, or the mother in search of a missing child. None could know her intent, since this excursion in the Elevator de Fantasy may have been a wish to simply depart the planet, or new-birth in another time and place, with whatever parents the shadow of the pendulum might choose.
Long before the serpentine acanthus foils and inlaid granite floors were complete, La Plaza Taress was the greatest ambition of a sorrowed father. For his inspiration served as distractions from his remembrance of her. His every heartfelt pain went into the minutest detail of the Art Nuevo murals depicting her favourite stories. Marble balusters encircled the entrance, capturing the flow of her silken hair. Enchanting chandeliers resembled her crystalline ear rings. Most importantly, his greatest design, the heart of the structure was the fantastic elevator. Gloriously the brass cage, wound in twining ivy, appearing to be lifted by doves. Clockwork gears gleamed and spun so smoothly the cables literally sung like angels. Cut glass panels cast a rainbow of light enchanting it all. So dazzling was this facet that all agreed it to be the most beautiful building in all of Paris.
But on the very first time the cage rose to the top, he would let no other inside, it fell instantly, arriving empty and intact. He could not be found. It was suspected when all that was left behind was the Book of Secret Passions, poetry he carried always, that he had been taken away by her heart and his great love for her.
Today, those with no luggage, who cross the grand lobby, aren’t questioned as to their intent. This pair of lovers or that ageing widow yearning to relive an afternoon beneath a weeping willow. Her book remains on the table, near the Elevator de Fantasy, at which sweet Taress did last recite from the book for her murderer/betrothed.

Natural Elocutions of Denial

Practically every meaningful word which I have uttered is wrong. How can I say this, don't I know what I am saying? It is exactly because of what I have said and not meant, That I can now say my words are fiction. Had I known what was most true, that is what I would not reveal. Somehow we are like frightened children, scared of the truth. All my secrets have made me a Liar, you and I are not alike. The cat and the dog hold nothing back, save for indifference. We speak in guarded undertones, hoping not to annoy. We save our feelings for when the time is best. But we have missed the mark, time has had its way. Another thought another day, and we are busy with fresh denials.

The Song of Sweet Taress

Truncheons of despair, surge within him
Wintry, his fist, and brooding soul
Assails, a sea of darkness solemn
Mind, a tangle of lost control

Icy, his blood runs shrill and sinking
Replete, within his veins complex
Brain, confounded truth denying
Completes, his troubled power vex

Loathing, rapine astride his trace
Vines and creatures wither there
Evil, profuse with no disgrace
Entwine, with sweet Taress's hair

None, could better know her timbre
Or sweeping curtsy now effete
His, was iced hard with rancor
For which, drowned out her fair express

Locutions, his hate for all this day
As late, the song of sweet Taress
Shall not, proclaim to where he lay
To wait, the guillotine's finesse

I am Well Rider

I am well rider
Many buckets have I known
They press my feet into my toes
The windlass whirls
The rope in hand
Scratches at my cheek and nose

Echoes fill my head
When down the rocky shaft I plunge
Bursting far below, the tiny sky recedes
As black cascades and icy numb
The bubbles churn
Against my ears like drums I am well rider

None can know my obsession
Many times Ive dropped down in
To see and feel my cold fixation
To sink into the deep
Below, where life is in cessation
But that is where I find the eyes

Long forgotten faces
How they hold you
Want to tell you of their stories
They have left our world
Each denied their places
I am well rider

Soon I must return
But here I found a solace
Here my ache and pain does churn
Her face and hair has bound me
My empty lungs now burn
Yet only here I see her

Her story is sad and tragic
Cast, she was in shame
Taken by a lovers anger
Her only sin was loving,
A man who would not Father

The Neophyte's Plight

There comes a space, inside of silence

Where opens there a moment

Just inside of one heart beat

A wink, a smile, a glance

While faster than a beam of light

This dwells like an aroma

Both know when it sweeps in

Afloat on billowed night

Why hadn't you seen it sooner

You laugh at such as you

As quickly as it came about

Now all at once it's through

Then crash and burn, your heart mid flight

How could you show such guile

With nuance as your hearts desire

Greet the plight of the neophyte

Yet pause, reflect, and smile