Toss and....©

Just a story - nothing more.

Ker-chunk. Two points. Kurchunk: another two points.

Crackling sound of a small fire. Shingle sheets of paper made into dry snowballs. Kerchunk – wall rebound. OOPS- missed that one.

OK. Decision time. Get my sorry stiff butt out off my creaky office chair; or not. Should I economize and wait until I have more on the floor or pick up each miss?

Distinct green apple smell, even stronger with the passing hours. Half eaten, it's turning brown with the wait. Mustard and vinegar from the pickles in my old sandwich are calling me.

I’m supposed to be writing a briefing note on why I disagree with my collegue’s ideas. Well I could just explain in person, but I need to clarify my ideas.

It’s after 7 PM and my office light is a lonely beacon on the floor. I really think better on my feet. Let’s walk around the hall – well at least stroll, carefully, the 10 feet around my desk – pad in hand.

Rip, Crinkle, crinkle. Kerrrr chunk – Two points…. ©

Paper Storm©

a little snowstorm
on the subway platform
love letter torn
into confetti
scattered by the oncoming train.©

Circus Man©

The circus man said,
“I’ll set myself on fire,
You can watch me burn.
If my light gets low,
Let me know,
I’ll take a drink
And stoke it up again.©

In Memory of My Friend©

Your frame sometimes lean sometimes not,
Your presence at times languid, at times taut,
Sometimes you’re oh so far away,
And other times in our face,
With that Cheshire smile and knowing eyes.

You were born with a mouth to smile,
And a voice to ring,
Peeling all sides of the truth,
Dark, Light,… In Between.

Your magnificent hands,
Compressed the black hard coal of life,
You wore the diamond with
Serenity and grace,
Your fingers made Nature sing
Paint brush, pen or strings.

Now Nature has you back again,
I hear you in the blazing leaves,
Whispering in the wind.©

January 14, 2009 Bitterly Cold©

So… bitterly cold. Hmmm how bitter?
Three-lemon bitter, six-lemon bitter,
Ammonia or sulfur bitter?
Nose running, brass-monkey cold?
No smiles. Winter of our discontent?
Drivers’ thin-lipped determination,
Eyes locked on the short to mid range.
Potential streetcar passengers,
Shoulders involuntarily at ear level,
Breathing into scarves, sleeves and gloves,
So covered up they would not be allowed in some places,
Terrorists or tired…. of this?
How many have rumbled by so far?
Couldn’t get on.
Air so frigid it tastes like steel,
Air so frigid it smells like aluminum.
Too cold for jokes,
They drop to the sidewalk and splinters into a hundred shards,
A laugh turns into a cough.
Where’s the bright spot?
Tiny kid bundled up into a balloon figure,
Big wool tuque on top,
Giant wool mitts at the end of the blown up arms.
Cheerfully oblivious, never the less,
Bending at an available joint, steadying the big boots,
Scoops up a big chunk of freshly scraped sidewalk ice,
Slowly claims his prize,
“Hey mom. Look what I got?”
Is it my imagination?
Is it colder downtown?
Is it the city itself or just the weather?
Whatever.
Chicken and egg.
Forget it.
Omelet and soup is the thing right now!

©

Drunken Drummer©

Sand. In the mouth, hair, eyes. Each breath number 8 sandpaper. That wind is a drunken drummer. Tiny playful gusts of sand whack the metal sides of the mobile home with short buzz rolls. RRRRRRRR. Then quiet again.

The trailers, with their gap toothed porches, are lined up as straight as loose change thrown into a panhandlers hat. It’s the casual way of life. A job here and a job there mixed in with a generous helping of social assistance and illicit pleasure sales.

Two young kids, probably a brother and sister, amuse themselves by exploring, unconcerned with the older folks goings-on. They came upon an apparition. A row-boat in this tumble weed trailer town. Sitting on a lonely dune, abandoned. Squint and the long course grass is the missing water, slapping the sides; reminiscent of the garbage bag waves in a cheap theater production.

©

Deep Fall and the Penguin March©

Air is a wet sweater, dripping and hanging, weighing everyone down. The steam-ironed sky is the low tent over head. Don’t dare to stand up straight. Might hit the top.

Nature’s giant rotor fans crank up the breeze, giving a static shock of cool.

Crack of blue elbows its way in.

Hip carrier bag looped over the opposite shoulder. Narrow jeans tucked into her high leather boots. She looks ahead. Left hand is gripping the insulated coffee mug. Without changing her gaze, waiting for the light to change, the cup deliberately comes up to deliver. Inverted lips in distracted concentration.

It’s hot chocolate - the love drug. The muscular bittersweet takes her back to the night. Wrapped up in the duvet of her lover’s full body. His rhythmic relaxed breath is the hammock that lulls her into the stars. Drunk on the vibe and hormones she is reeling through the galaxy, into all knowledge. Chirp! Chirp! Chirp! Cross walk signal rudely brings her back. Get a butt moving across the street before the light changes again.

Multi-colored penguins parade off the shallow sidewalk bank into the sea of traffic - momentarily parted. Shoulder to shoulder, not daring to look sideways. It’s bad manners for proper penguins to be interested in a neighbor; no matter how attractive. Maybe sneak a peek as far as the peripheral will take.

©