N as us, Another Year

Time does nothing to repair this heart.

Not that I desire such.

Suffering . . .

This daily embrace

Gladly . . .

Instead to know your absence .

tú.

tu sonreír.

N as us, mi aprendizaje queen.

Black Cats

It was the Fourth of July in Fort Worth, Texas – and my brother Richard felt like playing a joke on our younger sister Ella. She played in the backyard while Richard carefully approached her from behind.

His tiptoed steps were perfectly stealth as he pulled the black cat firecracker and match from his pocket. Its stem was long – and Ella didn’t hear the match strike.

Richard’s lips curved more and more into a Grinch-like smile as he moved closer and touched the flame against the stem.

It was perfect – except Richard forgot to release the firecracker.

While he savored the scent of the burning gunpowder the flame moved up the stem and into the stock.

How ironic.

Two black cats.

One silent.

The other loud...

Blast!

And one hand exploded open.

Hot Coffee

In this dream, I sit at the edge of my bed. It appears that I’m in a rest home and the room is crowded with occupied beds. The man lying in the bed beside me is fully dressed in coverall. Dark oily stains cover much of his sheets and I wonder if he works in an auto shop.

Between our beds, a small shelf sits against the wall, on it sits Styrofoam cups, a pitcher of water, and a pot of hot black coffee.

A tall elderly man approaches the shelf and pours himself a cup of water. He then drops a small pill in the water and takes a seat at the edge of my bed to drink it. I’m annoyed at him, but he looks tired, and I don’t want to be rude.

Moments later, he lumbers away.

Next, a middle-aged woman approaches the shelf. She appears to be stressed, mumbling to herself, and holding a dark pill. I get the impression that it is her last pill—and she is debating whether or not to take it. She holds the pill over a cup, still debating with herself.

I think she’s addicted to it . . . and her better half wants it no more.

She steps away from the shelf . . . turns and tries to walk away.

Two steps later, she angrily swings around and tosses the pill into the batch of coffee. She wants to destroy the pill, believing that it will quickly dissolve and be done with. However, the same motion which releases the pill into the coffee then desperately jerks up the pot from the shelf and begins pouring hot coffee into a cup, hoping to retrieve the quickly dissolving pill. The cup overflows—but no pill. Her wild glance swings over at me and then back at the shelf as she reaches out her open palm.

“No,” I say to her, as she turns the pot upside down—pouring hot coffee into has palm, screening it for the now fully dissolved pill. The last drop strikes her palm before she flings the empty pot against the wall and jumps on the edge of my bed to throw a fit.

I watch, as her angry eyes search, hair flying amid her wild screams, and the expression on her face when she realizes that her has burned her hand. Her eyes find me once more.

“YOOOOOUUUU!” she hisses, “You told me to do it!”

“What?” I try to reason with her—but realize that she’s mad, in a crazy sort of way. The pill must have been some sort of suppressant.

She launches at me and grabs my ankle as I kick myself awake.

Blades

Mortal is the blade that cuts beneath my ribs

It takes what I cannot hold

Jagged across my bones, then twist

I sadly weep, it’s cold.

Limbs fold and surrender to the smell of dirt

Dust to dust, and earth to earth

I promise

Defend thyself, or first the spirit shall fall.

Powerful is the blade

Unyielding, it seeks

All

The Odds

For months now, I've been building my family tree; using online achieves such as ancestry.com and familysearch.org. Both are outstanding sites. I stored everything on my home PC.

Two nights ago, my computer came under attack by an aggressive virus.

I fought desperately to repair it. But in the end I had to reformat my hard drive.

Everything -except my family tree- was recovered.

What are the odds?

Too Wild

Daddy rarely spoke to me, unless I was in trouble. So, I expected this time would be no different.

Two weeks earlier, while I was seven years old, I had approached him and asked if I could keep my turtle inside his water tank. The tank was actually a bathtub he had found somewhere around the neighborhood and hauled back to our house. He kept it outside in the shade next to our house, partly filled with green water, algae, a few catfish, perch, and a floating log for his two turtles to rest. It was a haven for mosquito larvae.

I had caught my turtle in the creek down the street; and I was proud of its uniqueness. It was smaller than daddy’s turtles which were light green and fairly docile. My turtle was a fighter, dark gray with a strong beak and thick shell. It had led me on a high speed chase through Crawfish Creek and down a dark, snake infested tunnel to catch it.

“I know who’s been killing my fish,” said daddy, looking suspiciously at me.
I could feel the energies draining from my body as I thought, “Great! Here we go again.” I had assumed he was talking about me.

Each day, I had been feeding breadcrumbs to the tank; but stopped when I heard that some of his fish had been killed. I hoped to avoid getting blamed, but I was apparently too late.

An awkward silence settled around us, as I looked down at the tank and floating fish, wondering how daddy would tie it to me. He had an effective method of placing blame. He simply defied us—my siblings and I—to deny his accusations; else the punishment might be more severe.

I wished I hadn’t come. “Why didn’t I play longer with my friends,” I thought.

Then the silence broke.

“It was that bad ass turtle of yours,” he said, “I caught it baiting one of my fish when I came home today.”

I looked down at my turtle, innocently sitting on the log. The larger turtles seemed to fear it, as they kept their distance.

“He’s too wild,” said Daddy with an almost proud tone, “Take it back to the creek.”

I was relieved and happily carried out his order.

Writer's Block

“Is it true,” he ask,

“Is it truly a writer’s greatest fear?”

Too quickly I respond, calculated and unclear.

Today and each I fail to admit,

Its echoes revisit and in the background insist,

“Cleverness will not help you here.”

This bright page glares.

No -- it stares into my uninspired eyes -- misty -- and wanting heart whose rhythm ever hits;

Weaving dreams then launching twards unfitted mitts.

Yes -- writers block persist.