Young Writers Society

Neglected Scarecrow

There is a lingering smell of cigarette smoke in the air,
in the air that is cold and clear, here.
Mist and midnight, black and thick, surrounding the park--empty park--
Time has stopped here.
Hanging from slightly red-rusted chain, four swings dangle
limply like neglected scarecrows. Dangling limply
with her arms wrapped around the chain,
her face is hidden by ginger curls.
It peeks out from under her blue-checkered dress:
one bright red shoe, bright in that dim, washed-out space.
A wind gusts up from nowhere, the
chains whine. A clock makes its
muffled chime from far away and the
little doll drops to the dirty pebbled floor.


Neon-pink Umbrella

She always asked me to peel her oranges--
soft, filled-out flesh and smooth skin
sweet and cool inside
I would claim a section as my payment
and let the juice dribble down my chin

***

Come play in the rain! Why do the puddles have colours?
A rainbow drowned in them. But when the sun
comes back, he'll fish it out. We'll reach up
with your neon-pink umbrella, and steal it back.
We can keep it on the driveway.
All we need is chalk.

I made a strawberry pie for you, but Daddy wanted some
and I gave him half. Half is fair.
Half is generous. Don't forget
to leave some for the pixies in our cupboard.
They might get jealous. But
you're a little half pixie yourself.
If you eat it, they won't mind.

Don't turn out the light. Wait 'til I'm asleep, please.
The dark is just one big shadow like a
big black blanket, keeping you safe out of sight.
It's your shadow. The circus clown--he
jumped at his own shadow. But you,
you know better than a clown.


Entschuldigung

Ireland, Greece, no big deal.
My sister: world traveler.
What do you do when you are
In Europe, with a passport,
A four-day weekend and a
Few euros in your pocket?

Pack in a purse and go to
Germany, home of Luther-
Land, afternoon coffee and
Castles. It was November,
The beginning so it was
Cold and Potsdamer Platz was
Bedecked in white… fuzz and fluff.
In the middle of the square
Was constructed a huge hill,
Ladder on the back to climb
It and all. Throngs of people,
Fake snow, street vendors; and she
Walked towards the middle of
Everything, knocking in
To someone and muttering
Entschuldigung…
She looked up and it’s GERARD.
Gerard Butler. Still walking
Away my sister looked back…
And back… and back… and people
Milled around her, avoiding
The American walking
Backwards. She never got a
Picture. Tall and broad and gruff
Loomed over her. “No photos.”

Instead my sister watched him
Buy a ridiculous large
Fur hat and sled a fake hill
In the fake snow, in Berlin,
Germany, Europe, home of
Albrecht Dürer, good beer, and
Nietzsche. He went sledding and
The rest of the night was pure
Gold, alone because of that.

She wrote about packing for
Germany in an over-
Sized purse and the Luther stuff.
She didn’t write about Gerard.


Loneliness is just a cliché until you realize it’s your only company. --1st version

In that empty field she
Pulls on all the heavy armor that
Sat beneath the only tree;
Stares blankly through her telescope at
The crowded shores far from her island
Trap where it’s always biting, bitter winter
Except across that line where grass becomes sand,
The line she tries to break of breach or splinter
And doing so she turns her back to
The pale, glaring sun. There, bulky and squirming on
The ground like a shackled giant, lies a shadow.
Gloomy and silent, he moves his brawn
in time with her, kicking at the clock face
that is her island trap, her prison of glass.


Loneliness is just a cliché until you realize it’s your only company. --2nd version
Set in that empty frozen field she pulls
On all the heavy silver armor that
Lay piled beneath an oak, the only tree;
Stares blankly through her telescope there at
the crowded shores far from her island trap
where always it’s bitter wintertime
except where grass turns into sand and scrap—
the line she tries to break or breach or climb
and doing so she turns her back towards
the pale and glaring sun. There on the ground
a bulky, squirming, shackled shadow lies.
His gloomy silent outline moves, is bound,
In time with her. She’s kicking at the clock
Face that is her island trap, her frail glass dock.


Chocolate-covered sky

the past projects stories through colours
green bottle-glass ground to chalky grey dust
under a scarlet heel, into the dandelion yellow
pavement the same colour as her dress. green like
his eyes, grey like his skin, scarlet like...
it was supposed to be blue.

there was a chocolate-coloured sky only twice
in his life, when he let out his first infant squawk--
baby think of the colours. tell me about the colours.
the sounds will worry about themselves.

it clashed terribly with the orange flames, her
pink skirt and ashen hair. their promises were
silver and daisy white, clasping hands with
petal-soft skin.--baby look at the colours
here a patchwork quilt, a stained glass
a rainbow with the paint running
and blending and fusing like oil slick.

his favourite shirt looked like wallpaper

she dressed the colour of music the third time
the sky melted into a chocolate colour and
her lips tasted like sand.

--baby

pale purple flowers. she only saw the flowers
that smelled like lilacs. they didn’t mask
the other scents. they tasted like ash
felt like wax--please baby--and

dead.