Where Flowers Never Bloom

Do flowers bloom in perdition?

Purgatory grows nothing of beauty.

It must be imported,

But won’t survive for long.

Fire waits to torment,

Every tender blossom,

And every unprepared soul.

Those who withstand the heat,

Come out the other side purified.

As the refiner’s fire burns,

It brings the dross to the top,

Where it can be seen and removed.

The end result is purest gold.

Splendor, quality, and worth,

All these are wrought from suffering.

Lessons have been learned.

Hard victories have been won.

No form of pain seems pleasant,

Yet at the end waits eternal bliss.

 

A Little Northeast of Mars

If I could but embrace the world, I would.

I’d wrap my arms around its wonders,

And hold them to my breast as I should.

Then store them away in dreams at slumber.

 

Small everyday miracles surround me,

With kaleidoscopic rainbows of delight.

When crossing the threshold to the heavenly,

I see the glorious scene shining so bright.

 

The thin veil that must be pulled asunder,

Serves to separate this world from the next.

That this world mirrors its beauty is no wonder.

The similarities are easy to detect.

 

Through the portal I’ll fly on gossamer wings,

From this beautiful yet imperfect land.

With one leap of faith my little heart sings,

As I take in the splendors across the strand.

 

While bubbles bounce from sunbeam to sunbeam,

I’ll dance and spin and soar among the stars.

My life is in the realm of waking dreams,

Just a little to the Northeast of Mars.

 

Some say I’m crazy; some think I’m a fool.

All because I adhere to childhood days,

And fairytales that I learned of in school,

But I care not who mocks my oddball ways.

 

Imagination turns the key in the door,

Flights of fancy cause tedium to flee,

And walking in a dream state is no chore,

To do anything else wouldn’t be me.

 

 

 

 

 

The Artificial Eyeball Salesman

Austin Attleboro lived in Seattle where he worked in a bookstore that sold not only books, but also coffee in all sorts of flavors. The aromas from the many freshly brewed pots of coffee were almost intoxicating to Austin who was a coffee connoisseur. Because of his great knowledge of coffees, he was placed at the coffee bar each day. While he loved the job, especially since he had no qualms about the affordable price, he did get a little bored with it.

His real passion in life was his after-hours job. Every evening after sunset, he left his small apartment to pedal artificial eyeballs to owners of one-eyed cats. He was pleasantly surprised to learn that there was a great demand for them because most one-eyed cats needed another eye. One-eyed cat owners seemed embarrassed by their cat’s problem and were willing to pay exorbitant prices to rectify the situation.

Austin worked every neighborhood going door to door with a suitcase crammed with artificial cat eyeballs. For reasons he had trouble understanding, many doors were slammed in his face. Occasionally people even called the cops because they mistakenly thought the eyeballs were real and that he’d harvested them from live cats. They refused to believe his explanations and professions of innocence. Austin couldn’t understand it, but he always left before the cops arrived.

Usually, though, he found folks more than willing to cough up large sums of dough for these eyeballs and before long he was making so much money that he quit his day job. The eyeballs came with a full three year warranty package. It was a great selling point. Of course, the installation did pose a problem. Austin sold a booklet with instructions for an extra two hundred dollars, but almost no one understood them because they were written in Mandarin Chinese. The sale of these booklets was extremely low even though the illustrations were stunning. Most people opted to take the eyeballs and tape them to their cat’s head because they were only buying them for show anyway.

One fateful evening, Austin Attleboro met his doom. He knocked on the wrong door. It was opened by a large Italian man who had strong ties to the Mafia. When he saw Austin’s suitcase containing his artificial eyeballs, he went berserk. He was convinced that Austin was a hit man sent to rub him out for deeds he’d done against the Mafia boss in Chicago several years earlier. He grabbed Austin’s display case and managed to pop open the latches. Eyeballs flew all over the floor and the big man screamed in horror. He thought they were from other people Austin had been commissioned to kill. He gripped Austin by the neck with his big ham-like hands and began to squeeze. That was the end of Austin.

There were a lot of unhappy one-eyed cats and one-eyed cat owners in Seattle after his demise. As far as I know, no one has ever taken over this position. Maybe this is your dream job. With so many people out of work, I know someone will, no doubt, fill this void. There’s a lot of money to be made in this line of work, if you’re willing to accept the risk.

 

 

Gardening Wars

Bushels of garden fresh red tomatoes,

And delicious new Yukon potatoes,

Along with cucumbers and scarlet beets,

Squash, turnip, carrots, and more tasty treats,

All make the work of planting all the seeds,

And pulling the all pesky little weeds,

As well as all the watering time spent,

And the fights with bugs which are not content,

Until they destroy your entire crop,

So you vowed to battle until you drop.

All of this you find to be of great worth,

When you gather your harvest from the earth,

For nothing ever tastes so good or so sweet,

As homegrown veggies when gardening’s complete.

Summer Sorrow

The late July day sizzles with steamy rays,

As daydreams glitter by on wings that flitter,

And thoughts play in corners of my mind today.

When seeking shade in the orchard fancies fade,

With ominously, dark clouds forming as shrouds,

That sweeps away the glad musings of the day.

Joy vanishes with the sun and sorrow has won.

The rain starts to fall as with tears I recall,

Memories bittersweet trying to defeat,

And steal my song through contemplations of wrongs.

Another stole your heart and tore my world apart.

As the hot sun withdrew, in my heart I knew,

I’d never live quite long enough to forgive.

I should pray for a torrent to wash away,

These recollections causing me dejection.

How can I let go and forget that I know,

I still adore a man evil to the core?

The Rabid Raccoon

It was a sunny day in mid-July with blue skies and big, puffy, white, cumulus clouds. I decided to stretch out on the grass in one of our apple orchards under the shade of one of the more ancient apple trees to rest and either take a brief nap or daydream for a while. It was the first time I’d been quiet all day. I was an exuberant child and at the age of eight couldn’t bear to be motionless for any protracted period.

I looked above me as I reclined under the tree and watched the sun glitter through the leaves. I smiled and began to nod off. I’m not sure how long I slept, but when I awoke I was surprised to see I’d been joined by a friend of sorts. It was a tiny raccoon kit. I had been so still that he hadn’t paid my presence there any mind. I slowly tried to sit up which caused him to come to a complete halt. Then he turned and scampered off to find his mother.

As I sat there watching him, I couldn’t help but come up with an almost limitless supply of stories to tell about my encounter with my small furry friend. I’d heard that raccoons were notorious for carrying rabies, so I planned to make up a tale about being bitten by a rabid raccoon.

I noticed that the blue sky had taken on a more ominous appearance. The formerly white, puffy clouds had turned dark and threatening, so like the raccoon kit, I scurried for home to find my own mother. I didn’t make it in time to avoid the rain. It began coming down in torrents and I ran as fast as I could and reached the gate in the picket fence just as the thunder began. I really didn’t differ much from the kit. I was as anxious as he seemed to reach the safety of my mother’s arms. I hurried through the screen door into the kitchen where my mother was cleaning greens from the garden to go along with our dinner. I always hated Swiss chard and swore uphill and down that it had a bitterish taste that I couldn’t stand. It never did any good to protest. I had to eat them regardless of my pleas for mercy.

Mother noticed that I was out of breath from running and was soaked to the hide. She ordered me to go take a warm bath and get ready for dinner because we were going to have guests. I was thrilled to hear this because I intended to regale them with my tale of the rabid raccoon.

When dinnertime arrived and we were gathered around the table, I smiled a sly smile and waited for my opportunity to begin, but it never came. The adults didn’t stop talking for a single minute.

They chattered endlessly about politics, religion, and other boring topics, until, at last, I blurted, “I was bitten by a rabid raccoon.”

Then I began to wail as though my heart would break. My mother exclaimed, “Why didn’t you say something earlier?!!”

I continued to cry and my father asked, “Where did he bite you, Cynthia?”

“In the orchard under an apple tree,” I answered between sobs.

My father was well accustomed to my habit of telling tall tales, so he smiled. Then he said, “You may be excused. Go to bed now, dear."

A King

A guiding hand through the formative years,

And an abiding love that stills all fears,

A tender heart touched by sorrows and cries,

A listening ear with advice that’s wise,

Knowing when to hang on and when to let go,

He fills each fleeting day with a joyous glow.

He never complains about what I’m not.

He builds his child up through his words and thoughts.

If he seems stern and refrains from a smile,

It’s because worry consumed him a while.

He works hard to give us the best in life,

And struggles to please his children and wife.

He never fails to inspire through all his deeds.

While putting himself last, he meets our needs.

This man of honor may not obtain fame,

Yet to me he’s a king; Dad is his name.

Is It More Than a Kiss?

On a night like this, is a kiss just a kiss?

 As the moon shines brightly down on the lagoon,

I shudder deep inside because I don’t like this.

His charms envelope me, but I am immune.

I should feel safe in his arms and protected,

But I feel like I’m clamped firmly in a vice.

Trapped by some unseen force, I’m dejected.

The screw tightens, and a deep breath would suffice.

What I see in his eyes is control, not love.

If I could get free, I would leave him forever.

With no sense of regret, if push comes to shove,

All ties between his heart and mine I’ll sever.

The stars and the moon beams dancing on the sea,

The palm trees softly swaying in the warm breeze,

And his closeness all serves to suffocate me.

I am afraid this moment in time will freeze.

Deliver me, God, from this dominant man,

And I will thank you in a thousand different ways.

I will find someone who fits into your plan,

And lead a happy life the rest of my days.

Car Wreck

The story below is for a writing challenge from Bluebell Books. The story must not exceed 55 words. When I thought of the number 55, the saying: Stay alive by driving 55, popped into my mind, so I did a short piece about a car wreck.

The dazed, young boy sat in the wrecked car. Blood gushed from a gash in his forehead. He would live, but as he looked at his mother jammed behind the steering wheel; he knew she was dead. She was all he had in this world. He loved her so much. What would he do now?