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Showmanship September 30, 2013

Posted by findingherforte in poetry.
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Everything is dying
piles and piles of
colorful, crunchy corpses
litter the streets
It’s chaos
In the dark, when
dead things are hard
to forget
they are washed away,
pushed aside so that we may get on
with our daily routines
death lingering only in
our peripheral
and easily ignored

But if you ask me,
the pinks and blues
to come
are nothing compared
to a last minute attempt
at showmanship

Hush February 19, 2013

Posted by findingherforte in poetry, Uncategorized, writing.
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1 comment so far

I.

She squeezed her lover’s hand. It seemed an innocent enough gesture to those around. But they knew the secret to keeping it all hush, hush.
Three squeezes meant “I love you”
Four squeezes meant “I love you, too”
One long squeeze meant “Please don’t leave me”
This message was lost to the second lover as they picked up their bag and waved goodbye, feigning happiness to the lover left behind. To the unconvinced Brena.

It was then that she remembered the first time she said those 3 beautiful words.
“I love you”
“Hush!” her lover laughed, “someone may hear you.
“Let them hear!” Brena retorted, firmly but lovingly
“I wish I were as brave as you”

II.

Brena sat on the cliff overlooking the quiet sea, waiting. It had been months since her lover left. She took a pebble in her hand and squeezed it thrice.

She feared for her beloved, out to sea. She shook as the wind blew but not from the cold. Rather, she shook from the quick air penetrating the growing hole in her chest. The waves swelled and hit the rocks below as her heart, too, swelled, sure that her lover was already on her way back.

She had to be.

III.

Brena wasn’t sleeping well. Nightmares of hungry men having their way with her love, holding her down and muffling her screams kept her awake.

The images had her tossing and turning in the bed she used to share.
She told herself that no matter what she would put her back together again. She would brush the sea air out of her hair and rebuild her from the ground up.

IV.

The ship came back but her lover did not. The men ignored her worried, persistent questions. She went to the cliff again and told herself she would jump.

But the sea told her “No.”

V.

Brena was visited by officials a couple of days after the ship came back, without her lover. With no other family, her beloved’s belongings were returned to her.  A scarf, a leather bag, and a pair of work boots.

“What of her emerald? She never took it off.” Brena inquired.

“Hush, do not speak out of turn woman,” the man of God raised a hand, “We are truly sorry for your loss. Your sister was a magnificent sailor.”

Brena did not correct him and he said nothing of the emerald.

VI.

In the dirty hands of the sailors, drinking in the local tavern, was the emerald in question. A raven landed on the window sill, and eyed the jewel with curiosity.
“Didn’t take much to obtain it, stupid girl didn’t put up much of a fight,” said a drunken sailor.
“Hush! Drink makes you loud and foolish,” his friends warned.
The raven flew toward the sea.

They stumbled back to their wives, no worry of the morning’s repercussions in their mind, only the present merriment.
They were spared the harsh, judging light of day for none would wake with the sun.
Their blood drained from their throats,
Their tongues cut from their mouths,
Their bodies covered in black feathers.
The last sound they heard before death took them hung in the air, more than a promise. More than a threat.

“Hush”

Static Cling July 29, 2010

Posted by findingherforte in poetry.
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This was not written based on true events. Just true fears.

Where you no longer
linger, in body and mind,
your scent still
clings
like an autumn leaf
in denial of spring

Desperately tugging
at the tattered
corners of my
memory
Though faded, they
light up a life
amidst dark hours

Performing the role
of a simple reminder
conjuring weak smiles
Innocent enough
until night falls and
it only emphasizes
your absence

Once sleep overcomes me,
a dreaming fool,
my senses allude to illusion
of a world where
you roam
And, like your aura,
I cling to the pillow
that your head no longer
falls upon

An era ended swiftly
a history never fading
how cruel a fate
for a widow to keep reliving
what’s dead