He audits life with his mother
And plays cards with his father
He leaned in for a kiss
On the cheek, a crossette
To seal her answer
He never imagined they would become
Like his father and his mother
Forsake me, but I shall keep
A cameo onyx and silver
Nestled among sheets
In my oaken chest
Then your shadow will not stray
From the foot of my bed, you
With your white face
And golden brow
Only remember me in donning
Your gown like a night river
And whisper in passing
A word for me
Such cheerful rags; much my maker made of me
And yet more in fortune gave, until time’s fickle Chanticleer
Called his third of a vernal April’s day, upon the dew still glistening
So I contend – no matter the hour, I went with the dawn
Betwixt her red clouds scudding
Elizabeth Cook, 2017
Painting by Thomas Kinkade
It felt like an age had passed while I was in the restroom. Yet it hadn’t been long enough. The older I get the less these conditional holidays seem like holidays at all, and more like work in disguise.
Reluctantly, I turned towards the voice and the mountains. Either it was my imagination or the twilight on that side of the plaza was deepening; shadows darkening the flowers among the scrub, and far above them, the pines and the crags. Someone had seen fit to leave a stone table on the grass not far from me, and its weathered scrollwork, and cracked surface, managed to convey forlornness amid the rest of this zytocoke1-fueled fantasy.
Mavind was sitting there, waiting for me with her cream self perched upon the faded grey, feet off the ground and legs swaying slightly. The table might as well have been placed for her. A creeper was growing up one leg. (more…)
I forged a path toward the washroom through the thinner bits of the crowd, conscious that my newfound powers in clearing away knots of people were 100% due to the Junoesque figure following me. And this, I realized, was one of the most exciting things that had happened on any of our CLPFC days; the expressions around us were awash with curiosity, shock, and delight. Everyone here would know that Ibrander’s date had jumped ship to Lalantree before lunch was served.
Trying to scan as many faces as possible without making eye contact (now this is a true art) I almost bumped into Loddi’s mum. This in spite of her neon floral mumu. “Oh, hello Lalantree. Loddi isn’t with you?”
“No…” Mavind had come up close behind me, and Loddi’s mum did a double take. (more…)
Nonchalant and all that, I waited until the last moment to look up at the welcome interlopers.
“Ibrander,” said a poised, throaty, laughing voice, “won’t you introduce me?”
They stopped in front of the bench, my third cousin Ibrander1 (who detests Loddi, making me instantly suspicious of his coming over) and a tall, glossy person who was all rich brown hair and expressive mouth and hand gestures. One hand was on Ibrander’s arm but she still managed to be gesturing with it. Her clothes were nothing less than dashing – a wide hat and a one-piece dress suit in cream, its tailored A-line skirt skewing physics by ending in a sway. This was one case where I didn’t have to worry about the polite game that people played of trying to guess-without-guessing whether someone was visiting in-holo only. She was most definitely in person. (more…)
Creative Writing, Nature, & Liberation
my day to day life and poetry
The beautiful picture of angels makes you happy.
Unequivocally, unabashedly, me.
a place for creative experiments in prose and poetry