Let there be no strife, I pray thee

between me and thee

for we be brethren.

If thou wilt take,

lift up now thine eyes and look

from the place where thou art.

For all the land which thou seest

to you I will give it.

Let there be no strife, I pray thee

between me and thee

for we be brethren

Arise.

Walk through the land.

For I shall give it unto you.

Let there be no strife, I pray thee.

Walk through the land

for I shall give it unto you.

Let there be no strife, I pray thee

between me and thee

for we be brethren.

Arise.

Give me the persons

and take the goods to thyself

For we be brethren.

- D. S. S . R.

The end.  Exeunt his seed to the fanfare of horns and a choir of angels—his angels, his angel, crooning louder and louder with every thrust of his hips.  Shrink the iris to a thin band as the pupils swell to black saucers; dig those claws into the fleshy pads of her shoulders and drag them down her length.  Winch the brow’s musculature high and taut, skin pulled into ridges like bunched cloth—sweaty, oily cloth, hung above a ridiculous face.   The fact is, he doesn’t care how his face looks right now, not one bit.  His back arcs, moonlight shadows splayed on the sun-mottled skin of middle age, and Abel thinks for a second, as his life flashes before his eyes, does she feel it?  Because it’s not a sunset and it’s not William Butler Yeats; it’s animal simplicity like feeling cold or hot or hungry, but she’s not an animal and she really doesn’t eat.  And while he’s and engineer by trade, while he’d built her from scratch with the sweat of his back and calloused fingertips, he just couldn’t concentrate on her workings as he shuddered with fulfillment.

An utterance of affirmation as the prostate spasms, how romantic; she even knew to cradle him gently to her breast, without even knowing why.

The tiny bud begins to flare
His infant eyes first blink then stare

Bright green, petite and new
Soft skin with pinkish hue

In spring wind it shivers lightly
Wobble, bobble, he steps, not sprightly

Deepened color and growing size
Ever taller with clever eyes

Full and firm, now hunter green
Mature and thoughtful, strong and lean

Some shade it gives throughout its life
Deep care and love shown to his wife

Trunk and root by it are fed
He tucks his children into bed

Much storm and wind it safely weathered
Family, to him, securely tethered

Summer’s end means fall is here
Girl speaks “I do,” he sheds a tear

Around the edge, see yellow there
Gives wise advice, gets silver hair

Orange it turns, by all admired
His mind is strong, but body tired

Splash of red shines for a while
Deep loving eyes and tender smile

The sturdy points begin to curl
With age the aches and pains unfurl

So now the Leaf begins to brown
The Man is surely slowing down

It falls in splendor for all to see
His life remembered, a great legacy

The Little Girl

Every time I sit down and think about my future I see a little girl sitting on a big red couch.

When I used to see her she would always have a bright smile on her face and her beautiful brown eyes would entrance me as it filled with happiness and hope.

“What do you want to do when you grow up?” I ask and her smile would widen and she would bounce up and down in her seat with untamed energy.

“To become a veterinarian and help the animals of the world..” She would describe our bright future in great depth and my heart would fill with warmth and her happiness would become contagious.

Things have changed and now her future doesn’t look to bright…

She looks at me with slight bitterness. Her broken heart shining brightly on her sleeves. To me she is still beautiful wrapped in depression and hurt.

“What do you want to do in the future?” I ask softly afraid that if I am to loud she might shatter.

She gives me a bittersweet smile and her hands fist in anger. I see the heart wrenching sadness and the cold hard rage.

What she said sent an sad smile to my face and a deep longing to my heart.

“To die”

Downcast eyes full of grief

Body numb to the chilly air

Dress tangled about her legs

Winds whipping through her hair

Frantically trying to recall

His words, his look, his touch

Memories are all that’s left

Dependent on her crutch

Thoughts of days so long ago

Two lovers in the sand

Running, climbing, laughing, smiling

Walking hand in hand

Her troubles momentarily forgotten

Giving rest to her weary soul

Reality returns too quickly

A reminder she is not whole

Standing at the waters’ edge

Where dreams disappeared

Waiting for her lovers’ return

Silent prayers tinged with fear

The image of the lonely girl

Pacing to and fro

Hesitant to leave her post

In case her lover showed

The angel girl as she was known

Was said to call his name

If you listen very closely

You may hear it once again

The faintest whisper of her words

Carried forth by whipping winds

Tell a story of long ago

Of a love that will not end

The angel with her viking hair

Standing guard along the coast

Will wait until her days are done

Eternally a ghost

She is doomed to roam the earth

A sad and lonely fate

Unless she gains the will to see

Our Lord above awaits

Birds chirping in the trees,

Trees moving in the breeze,

Cold grass under me.

The sun on my back,

Calming, relaxing.

Motorcycle in the distance,

Revving fierce and loud.

Lawn mower in a yard,

Cutting grass,

For that fresh-cut smell.

With my senses (on high),

I hear:

The birds chirping in the trees.

I see:

The trees moving in the breeze.

I feel:

The cold grass under me.

I at first just noticed a bit of swirling dust and wondered at the activity that would be causing such a cloud, for there was only a slight breeze.  It was that interest that pulled me closer, enough to see the miniature gnomes that bustled about on the meadow floor.  Then I, not having anywhere of great importance to be, or anything of utmost importance to do, decided to stay and observe this bit of life that I had not known before.

I studied first the gnomes themselves, not what they were doing but how they were.  At first it appeared that some were more aged and frail, and others young and spry.  However, and I cannot identify exactly how, it soon became apparent that none were smaller or younger than any other, it was as if they existed eternal to time at varying stages of physical well being.  This puzzled me, but I did not dwell on the idea as their appearance became of particular interest to me.  Every one of them had a beard, a pointed cone hat and a tunic.  Each one had, what I can only call, “noticeably full” cheeks and a rotund nose.   My interest, though, settled not on their similarities, but their differences.  Many of the tunics seemed dull and grayish as if made from the same piece of old dirty muslin.  I noticed more than a few gnomes were rubbing dust into there tunics as a sort of starch to press out the wrinkles.  I saw one spit angrily on the ground and continue to rub his tunic vigorously with the mud it created, he stopped to look at his red raw hands, huffed and continued to rub.  His tunic was particularly crisp void of any wrinkles but also particularly drab.

DANIEL’S STORY

The electronic ambiance surpassed volumes that have seen only the likes of mid-eighties rock gods. It was a four-car garage bleeding teal cement blocks that I remembered from those unfinished basements where I once played hide and go seek in the dark with children wrapped in Catholicism like myself. Murals; painted by the sober and appreciated by the belligerent, surrounded these machines of fascination. The tile floor welcomed dropped coins and dust mites of all sizes. Looking back on that raspy arcade I guess it was all in all begging for a makeover. Yet the one thing I learned through my seven year run at the arcade was that all the games in the arcade accepted change but the owners sure as hell didn’t embrace it. You see, consistency was the key to this quaint establishment that sat a block from the ocean where I last saw her. The ocean that I was once so privileged to kiss her well-glossed lips, the ocean where I held her hand as she wore the most brilliant red dress I have ever seen at dusk, and the ocean where I left her…indeed the ocean where I left her. Yet, putting current star-crossed casualties aside; perhaps I should go back to the start. The summer of 2005 was when waves seemed to of crashed as fast as crushes would last. Time would prove that this was not a crush; no this would grow into something much more meaningful, something that I still struggle to define and accept.

Trick or Treat

‘I’m going to be a naughty nurse.’ The entire flock, which had been positioned around a diminutive coffee table, erupted with laughter and amusement as they persistent to hear their friend talk about the adventures of Halloween. That is all but one, Wynter.  She was a naive and unpretentious girl who had just moved away from her over protective parents a few days ago. She was seated outside of the social ring as she whispered under her breath the lyrics to songs even her grandparents hadn’t heard of.

‘What ya gonna be?’ quizzed one of the more alluring girls. She gawked at Wynter for a riposte, perplexed when she didn’t get one, she just moved on.

‘I heard once that there’s a way to find out about your one true love.’ She essentially aimed this towards Wynter, not in a malicious manner but as a polite friendly gesture.

‘What do ya need a boyfriend for?’ The girl’s boyfriend, Timmy strutted out.

‘Ya gots me ain’t ya.’ He was slumped in his chair, in a gangster like way, legs pulled wide apart, head afloat, soaring high in the sky and arms draping loosely by his side.

‘And as much as a perfect catch you are, I was actually thinking that Wynter could do with a boyfriend, at least a date for the Halloween party tonight. She can’t go alone.’

Somewhere, in a fearful thick forest, a voice of a child erupted in a sharp and loud tone, and then died out at once.
The country-side beautiful hills with their singing green trees hummed a cool wave – so cool that it slowly spread to the rest of Mapipa village in a simultaneous sweet chorus.
Natives at the left ridge could think the cool breeze that came with the wave was the harbinger of a wizard they had known for long to do errands in Mapipa during the evenings.
The dream of a little matador he had seen at a cultural ceremony came to Boy’s head quickly, so quickly that it gave a sharp pain that spread like hot larva from his ears, to the rest of his head. The little matador was Boy’s hero — and on this day the hero was not there to save him.
He remembered and cried.
His heart thumped with fear for what could be its last time — and he felt a sharp knife enter his heart. He kicked his tied legs strongly — and he cried again.
The stories of child sacrifice were the last Boy wanted to hear his teacher untie Mega talk about in class. He loved writing prose for his teacher, talk to friends, and sing ‘we are God’s doves, so innocent and happy in Jesus…’