When I am an old woman I shall wear rags from my youth
With a sense of pride for my aging memories. And I shall spend my pension on flights that circle the world, boxed wine, And funky Goodwill buys that sit juxtaposed in my ever changing home I shall spoil my grandchildren And witness upright their spends of inheritance on experiences with my warm hand And step back at Christmas to reflect on all that I have molded And when my times is up I shall be pleased with the life I have created And those left behind will weep but soon look up And learn to be comfortable with my ariel view of time.
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Through drought and famine, my hand wavered none,
Alone above my scalp, Held high, one foot in front of the other, I carried her name through snow and rain and sleet. She lies below, Hands crossed over her chest And not a dime toward her title. A title will not change, only its sound, A rose by any other name, No other name, my only Rose. Each day layers to form a sediment of memory.
There is no reorder, Only a continuation of stacking Hours on hours. The layers accrue- paleo light breaks from the center As the clock rotates left, Your kin will remember your fossil, Compressed back in 2003. Each minute compresses the next Until three score pass; The shape of the hour. It's like going to sleep firmly; what had gone on the windowsill--I exposed my hand--perhaps would give it back carefully.
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This page is a patchwork of short stories, one liners, poetic attempts, or allegorical fictions. Archives
February 2018
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