Sep 19
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Thoughts of a Waking Hour

Warmth resonates within
Lead runs through your veins
You know that moving to stop
that ear-wrenching cry
the one the morning alarm makes
will chill your bones
So you wait
in a lazy haze of sleep
thinking,
“Is today really worth it?”
Thinking
“What makes this day so special?”
Is it worth the tears
and work and pain?
Worth the mind-numbing drone
Of everyday life?
Does this day deserve
my own selfish thoughts?
My wishes?
My hopes?
My dreams?
For in the end they’re all the same,
a whirl of days and
weeks and
years
But once again,
like the day before that,
you know you’ll move
to see the day through
and for the sign
that this one is
just the slightest bit
different
from the one
before
 
May 11
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Her Kingdom


            When she came, they told her to be perfect. They told her she was meant to sit like a doll in a pretty glass box, with a shallow smile painted on her face. She, however, was a child of the wind. She ran. She came home with dirty knees, ripped dresses and windblown hair. So they scolded her, but she ran faster, trying to get away from her keepers. They were worried, for she had ideas. A village full of free and intelligent woman was not something that could be tolerated. They held onto her harder. Forced her to sit. Taught her an empty smile. Put her in fancy dresses. Told her she was meant for the dusty confines of the parlor. She grew sad, missing her wild kingdom so one night she left. She stole silently to the true place she called home. The place where she was truly queen. The moonlight was her crown, and the starlight her gown. The wind was her perfume and her subjects where the loyal reeds that bowed before her.
May 11
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Her Kingdom


            When she came, they told her to be perfect. They told her she was meant to sit like a doll in a pretty glass box, with a shallow smile painted on her face. She, however, was a child of the wind. She ran. She came home with dirty knees, ripped dresses and windblown hair. So they scolded her, but she ran faster, trying to get away from her keepers. They were worried, for she had ideas. A village full of free and intelligent woman was not something that could be tolerated. They held onto her harder. Forced her to sit. Taught her an empty smile. Put her in fancy dresses. Told her she was meant for the dusty confines of the parlor. She grew sad, missing her wild kingdom so one night she left. She stole silently to the true place she called home. The place where she was truly queen. The moonlight was her crown, and the starlight her gown. The wind was her perfume and her subjects where the loyal reeds that bowed before her.
Apr 21
fiction 1 comment challenge: Family
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Memories of Better Days

        The rain poured down, soaking us as we sat, for not one person had shown clemency to us as we pressed smudged fingers against windows and knocked sharply with dirty knuckles on the people's doors. Though we were not beatniks or hooligans, we were sad, and dirty and lost. Some cold nights, when our friends did not wake up, we would huddle together, too frozen to move, yet too cold to stay still. I missed it: our family as they sat around the dining room table. Our lovely family of four. We always had had enough to eat. Always had a place to sleep. We were wanted, missed and loved. As we sat on the ground in the watery light of the street lamp around the bend, we thought of the days that had been kinder to us. The memories sweetened my mouth and warmed my skin. They were a woven coat of life itself, meant to protect from the cold. Even when the wind blew and rain pounded upon us, we were happy, kept warm by memories of better days.
Mar 23
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Her Time


A baby waits 
Rocks by a window
Admiring the stars
A restful soul 
Her time has not started
Day and night
Night and day
Timelessly she lives 


A girl waits
To live her life
Fairies and trolls galore
Happily waiting 
For her time
Day and night
Night and day
Time wanders by

A teenagers waits 
To live and love 
To explore and discover 
Hardly waiting 
For her time
Day and night
Night and day 
Time passes by

A woman waits
For riches and family
Works to hard, sleeps to little
Simply waiting for her time 
Day and night
Night and day
Time speeds by

A sad old woman
Sits by a window 
Admiring the stars
Only waiting 
Missed her time
Day and night
Night and day
Time crawls by
And she will die 

 
Mar 23
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The Ring Of Branches

           He had never hurt her like that before, taken her heart and torn it in half. Tears streamed down her alabaster face, and the light went out of her eyes. Then she simply broke. She leaped away from him as he swooped down upon her, and she ran, through the door and down the steps; she tore away from the house that held her captive. As she flew away, I slipped into sneakers and ran also, my shoes slipping in the dewy grass. Following her into the woods behind our house, I breathed the cool, early-March air into my lungs and sighed. Here we were safe from our father's wrath. Dipping and dodging, I headed through the woods, looking for her gray hoodie that hid the bruises, the ones that showed on her face after my father lost his job and his wife. She sat in a ring of branches, hair full of leaves, quietly crying. She looked up, her face whiter than ever, and held a hand out to me. I came into the ring. Here we were safe. Here we were warm.
Jan 11
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Balloon Girl

              The sky boiled a wicked dark gray and the wind howled warningly to bring in the small, and battered fishing boats. In the small, chipped, wood-and-plaster church the bell boy was frantically ringing the warning chime. Small children swarmed over the the cement and wood docks to collect the almost empty fish barrels carried in from open sea by the fishers. I leap down from a small wooden platform built over a flimsy dock, only tethered to the newer cement docks by a simple rope one one knot. The dock rocks wildly in the sea that is now black like oil, but my sea legs are strong, and I climb up to the cement platform that holds our village above the sea. I run to the bridge across the canal that is my street, hair wipping in my face, the bulbous balloons that hold up the bridge are already bobbing in the wind. I shall have to be extra careful this time. I fumble a small silver key out of my worn blue velvet robes and step gently onto the bridge. I must not lose my balance.
Oct 30
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City Lights


The cold leeches into my stiff, patched and dirty blanket.
The first sugar dusting is predicted to fall tonight. The first snow, blanketing the soot-blackened buildings.
Small and golden, my little girl loved the snow. And now she is gone.
The first cold wind of winter rustles my hat, carrying my it  beyond reach. I am too old, too tired to pick it up.
Besides, the night display is coming as soon as the blanket of smog and night make it difficult to see the loud signs of the city square.
Feb 12
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Tarnished Grandfather

Old, so old and broken resting in the dusty corner of an antique shop. The time, uncountable even by myself, an old grandfather. My fame and grandness wore off after that night at the party when I struck twelve and the masks came off. The rich smell of old velvet, slight golden strings, a soft wave of perfume, bonafide Degas sculptures, all  soft memories of the old times before the electrics came. Now I stand tall right next to a treasury of old things:Swift’s story Gulliver’s Travels is my favorite.  It lay open to the page where Gulliver meets the Houyhnhnms, a page I have memorized. A thick coating of dust, which I am accustomed to, rests over the strange instrument on my right. Though I was not positive what it was I knew that it was past my ancient Victorian palace times.
Dec 04
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One thousand rings

                 Here I stay rooted in my spot, not acknowledged at all but very wise. I know of the days when I was young and springy, when the air smelled of pollen and the earth was soft and sweet, the days when I took even my life for granted. The spot was a meadow; the pond was all blue. I wished I was a daisy, able to make life elsewhere and float away when danger came. First came the picnics, happy and brief. The touch of a smooth child foot or hand as it brushes the soft spots in my bark,  a small taste of joy. The taste of the still-fresh rain that fell and clung to my leaves. Then came the architects who blew away my dream of becoming a daisy as they came with their heavy branch-breaking bodies and their flower squishing boots. Then came the excavators with their evil metal teeth ripping up rocks and my friends, the poor young saplings.