Thursday, December 21, 2017
Dangerous Eyes
Friday, August 17, 2012
Humanity
― Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse-Five
Monday, January 16, 2012
Gilded Age
How long should we presume this gilded age
Staring at the wall.
Ever longing…
Sometimes hoping
always longing
Wait now pause --
Silence fills the emptey streetes.
Where lovers met now mother weeps
still crowded silence falls
plastic magic with a switch
how much would you pay for that
what would you give for that
How long should we presume this gilded age?
I just thought of this idea for a poem and quickly came up with this. Consider it a work in progress
Monday, June 27, 2011
eyes
If truth be told I would agree
But-- could a soul match the beauty in your eyes?
Words imperfect fall short to describe.
Feeling the beauty,
knowing the beauty,
Souls caught in a moment of loving embrace--
They say the eyes are the window to the soul
Because of you I would agree
For I have stared deep into your eyes
I have seen your soul
I could never go back
Friday, June 17, 2011
Monday, March 28, 2011
Short Story "The Vase"
She pushed her chair back and got up from the small table next to the wall in her kitchen. She crossed the room and took the apron from where it hung and tied it around her waist. She took the soap and a sponge and washed her dish. She noticed the daisies in the vase above her sink were starting to wilt, so she made a mental note to replace them. She would get them tomorrow. She turned, and took a dish towel from where it hung, dried the dish and placed it in the cupboard. Now, everything was in order, all was in its place. She could rest now. She turned off the kitchen light and slowly walked down the dimly lit hall to where she slept. In the hall there were pictures hanging from the wall but she didn’t look at them. Once In her room she put her nightgown on and turned off the light. She pulled the corner of her blanket from the bed so it would be ready. She tried to kneel, it was getting hard. She had to put her hand on the bed in order to get down. Now on her knees she prayed. She always prayed. She struggled to get up again. Once in bed she closed her eyes, with her eyes closed she let out her breath; she was glad everything was put away. She lay there but didn’t sleep.
She woke to the alarm. It was still dark. The sun would not be up for a few hours. She dressed and walked down the dim lit hall to the kitchen. It was quiet. She took a cup and a saucer and placed them on the small dining table next to the wall. She then took a kettle, filled it with water, and placed it on the stove. She took two pieces of bread and put them in the toaster. She walked to the fridge took out her plum jam and sat at the table. The water boiled and the toast popped. She poured water in her cup, added her tea, spread jelly on her toast, and ate. She only looked at the daisies in the vase above her sink once.
On her way out, leaving for work, she smiled because the kitchen was clean, she took the daisies from the vase, so she could throw them out on her way to the bus station.
As she sat at the bus station, the sun rose and its light began to fall between the buildings, chasing away the spectral shadows of night. Fleeting, the shadows and mist returned to their midnight lairs. She sat quietly at the bus station; she was the only one waiting for the bus at this hour. The bus station was dirty. She noticed new graffiti on the bench and trash in the streets. In the night somebody had knocked over some garbage cans nearby, and the trash had spilled out. She sighed. “It didn’t use to be like this.” She thought, as she waited.
At work she quietly pushed her book cart up and down the aisles returning books to where they belonged. People would come to the bookstore take books from the shelves and forget to put them back. It was her job to put them back in place. She liked her job. She liked order. Order was all she had.
After work she bought some daisies in the market by her house. The owners of the market used to live in her building, but they had moved on. The store had been bought out by a corporation. The new corporation checkers didn’t know her name. The old owners, the couple that lived in her building. They knew her name.
Up in her apartment she put her keys on the table next to the door. With the daisies in her hand she went to the kitchen, and placed them on the table in their plastic wrapping. She took a bowl from the cupboard, took some soup she had previously made from the fridge, filled it and put it in the microwave. She took the vase down from the window ledge, dumped the dirty water out into the sink, and filled it again for her flowers. She was carrying the vase to the small table when it happened. The vase still wet, slipped from her grasp. It shattered on the floor. The old woman began to cry. She cried and cried. Her life was maintained by order, gone now, it shattered with the vase on the floor. Now she had nothing. The flowers sat on the table where she had put them. She didn’t eat. She didn’t clean up the glass. She lay in her bed crying.
The kitchen floor of the small apartment in the big building remained wet from the water in the vase. The flowers stayed on the table in their plastic wrapping. The sun rose, glistened off the broken glass, and set again to darkness.
3/28/2011 -Brian Barton