Admonition

 

 

 

The greatest ever admonition -
avoid forever politicians.

 

 

Rejection Review

 

 

 

 

 

DNR

I sit in the shadows
my pen scratches without direction,
searching for a word within a pile
of discarded and broken letters

The stinging scent of sulphur
is a momentary curse
before the candlelight
alters my pupils

As my light puddles into wax
my failure to find
the right word
shines brightly

my thoughts extinguish themselves
quietly disappearing into an old,
almost forgotten missive
just here - under the matches.
.

 

 

The Waiting Room

          It wasn’t even my coffee, it was just someone else’s sitting there in the waiting room, but I suddenly found myself mesmerized by the steam rising up and disappearing.  Perhaps I needed the distraction and that was my way of getting lost for a moment.  It was just a simple mental escape and I knew it, yet I could not pull my gaze away from the steam.   It was funny, I couldn’t smell coffee, but then again I couldn’t even hear the conversations that were going on around me.  I could hear faint murmurs and that was it.

          How could I be so aware of something yet still unable to snap myself out of it?  I wondered where the steam was going, disappearing like that.  Was it blending in with the air we were all breathing - giving us a dose of caffeine?  I don’t think so.  Some new people just came into the waiting room.  Without even looking up I can tell there are two of them.  They are a little more than middle age.  She is heading over to the clipboard to sign in, while he glances around for two chairs together.

          A hand reaches down and picks up the coffee cup.  My eyes follow it up to the face that gingerly sips at it and sets it back down.  My concentration is broken.   I look over at the newcomers that have chosen their seats.  He picks up a Field & Stream, while she still fills out the forms on the clipboard.   I think I will call them Wally and Sarah.

          I can hear a squeaky wheelchair making its way down the hall just outside the room.  I wonder if they are coming in here.  I glance around for a spot they might nestle into, but it is going to be tough.  I don’t remember the room being this full and I begin to wonder if I had been more lost in staring at that coffee than I realized.

          The clipboard woman, Sarah, seems done with filling things in.  She stands and walks back to the sliding window, where the woman behind the glass says something to her that I cannot hear.  Sarah turns and calls out to Wally, who sets the magazine down and walks over to her.  An inside door opens and they both go in.  I see the faces around the waiting room look up.  I am sure they are wondering why they get to just go right in and not have to sit here forever like…

          I look at my watch.  How long have I been here, anyway?  I want to stand, stretch my legs a bit, but I sure do not want to lose my seat, not with this crowd.  I guess the wheelchair person kept going.  I don’t hear it anymore and they never came in.  Maybe it wasn’t a wheelchair at all; maybe it was one of those hospital gurneys.   I look over at the Field & Stream lying on the table.  I can barely make out the words, Frog Noses.   That is odd…  Who could write an article about frog noses?  And why?

          Other people in the room must have noticed it too, for they are all murmuring about frog noses.  Maybe they are arguing, I can’t tell.  I want to giggle but someone across the room is giving me a very serious look, as if they are trying to warn me against giggling.   They are not talking to me but somehow I am getting the message that this is not a good situation.  I begin to think again about the steam from the coffee, rising up but it is different now.  I am rising up with it.  I am floating and rising like the steam from the coffee.  I smell it now.  The smell of fresh coffee is almost overwhelming.  I like the floating feeling, but why aren’t the others floating as well?

          I feel weightless, like I am drifting up from the coffee, swirling and turning around.  I can see the entire waiting room from here, but it does not seem to be a waiting room.  It looks more like an operating room.  Serious people standing around me, some lifting me onto a gurney, covering my body with the sheet.

          I can hear the squeaking wheels again.  I wonder where they are taking me.

         

        

         

         

           

Bits and Pieces

 

Nothing tore at Mary’s’ Heart

as seeing Stanley fall apart

his hair, she says, was first to leave

there was no time to grieve,

 

The British Isles they’d hoped to see

Instead, she says, they bought a knee,

 

His vision flickered near and far

His toothy smile – in a jar

 

Yet still she loved and wore his ring

she cried at night

he heard nothing,

 

What a dreadful plan as time increases –

to have us leave in bits and pieces,

 

Stan tells the story in reverse

Says into Heaven he’ll get there first,

 

His victory, though by December

Was nothing Stanley could remember.

 

 

 

Because the Good Stuff's Inside



Towels at the Birdbath

There are towels at the birdbath
there is whiskey in my tea
There are doctors with opinions
stating what is wrong with me
The winter wind is calling
saying soon I will be cold
For the second hand is showing
it is my turn to be old
I've been outside on the playground
I have worked in factories
I hobnobbed with the middle crust
said gesundheit when they sneezed
There are towels at the birdbath
a gesture somewhat kind
That image and this simple blog
is what I leave behind.

 

 

                                  Zobostic Corwin

 

 

"Representative"

I fell in a recording loop
I had to make a call,
but computer voices questioned
if we should speak at all,
They said I was important
a priority for sure,
to hang a little longer
then commercials I did hear,
They played a scratchy jingle
to help me pass the time,
to keep myself from asking
if this was worth the dime,
Press one if you would rather
and two in case you don't
Your call is quite important
hang-up, we hope you don't.
Pay attention to our menu
for things have moved around
Though it doesn't really matter
your selection won't be found,
We thank you for your patience
as up the cue you rose
In observance of our tech support
our offices are closed.

Press 9 to return to the main menu.

 

 



Just Out of View

There was a real-life bunny in the yard this morning, he wore no vest, I saw no pocket watch, and yet he seemed as though he were late for an appointment. 

I'm thinking this could be a very unusual world to live in if my brain were comprised half of Steven Kings and half of Lewis Carroll’s.   It's all together possible that Zelda Fitzgerald had such a brain.  She was a brilliant writer as well as a talented artist, but as viewed by society, she was diagnosed and labeled insane.  She was locked in a room, treated, using the methods of the times, and died when the hospital burned down.

I expect more than half of those sitting in movie theatres allow themselves to be drawn into the action taking place up on the big screen.  Of those, a good percentage walk away inspired.  They picture themselves as the hero, or as one who would have seen the danger coming ahead of time and would have saved the day.

I am not such a person.  I see the action taking place, but my inward eye also sees the camera man, the boom operator and dozens of crew members standing just out of view.  I believe the majority of my life has taken place just out of view.  Even my personality is off to the side just a little, and that's fine, I'm not complaining.  Under the heading of, Self Discovery, I find that the bigger part of me is locked in a room somewhere, and I'm pacing back and forth smelling for smoke.

I have always had that sense of urgency, which I believe has negatively affected my writing over the years.  I never really had anything to say but felt I better get it said quickly.  Therefore my pieces have been short, perhaps abbreviated to the point of confusing.

I do not compare myself with Zelda's talent, nor do I believe it to be my destiny to die in a locked room, unable to escape the methods of the times.
What does concern me, however, is what is just out of view.