Goodbye

I let go the hand

of my old self; my stomach

clenches. I will

*

travel hidden paths

until I find out how to

just be myself and

*
know that I am not

my job or any job; not

even one I love.

Cemetery

Stones speak names to those

Who visit. Those who visit

Leave stones, heart to heart.  

Haiku for Spring

Grass seed lies scattered
like candy sprinkles, ready
to attach to earth.  

Precipice

Fear grinds my gut;

Longing breaks my heart.

I ache, love, hold–

Trying to delay the blow,

Holding to now, now

And you, you.  

“Legacy” – Flash Fiction for Friday Fictioneers

The following story was written for Friday Fictioneers, the weekly prompt provided by Rochelle on her blog, Addicted to Purple.  We get a photo for inspiration and no more than 100 words to tell a story.  Check out Rochelle’s blog and her impressive writing!  This week’s photo is from J. Hardy Carroll.  Also, if you’d like to read more responses to this prompt, or if you’d like to add your own, click on the blue frog below.

Photo Prompt copyright J Hardy Carroll

Legacy

(100 words)

Stepping through the doorway into the rampant weeds, I’m a child again, and Dad’s brought me here to explain his childhood.  Trees stretch up toward him now, not stopping to tell any secrets.

I wish I’d paid more attention.

Now, my imagination takes over.  Kitchen, there—bedroom, here.

And the fire started here, where there’s a bare patch in this wilderness.  It’s silly to think nature remembers what I’ve forgotten, but still.  Dad left home after that, another of grandpa’s drunken mistakes.

What about mine?  Would Dad return to the scenes of my betrayals?  Would he find anything worth saving?

Haiku for Bedtime

I tear–unravel–
into limp, snarled threads; my thoughts
collapse.  All’s fragments.  

Evening: A Poem

Pot roast cooks while the

TV drones; my jaw clenches.

A fly, somehow, got

 

in, and it buzzes

and lands on the lamp, walking

its silent feet up

 

the shade and you have

asked me a question about

visiting down Maine

 

while our baby sleeps,

but suddenly stirs, her brow

furrowed, voice plaintive

 

until the nightmare

passes—she clutches my shirt

and releases it.