Lazarus Jewel Box

The dragon slithered out from its lair
and hissed out, "You have a choice.
To either open this box and view your
end, or gaze in this mirror and see countless
others that will flow from your actions
from this day forth and beyond.
Choose now, or never return to your
hearth and family."
Now this here was a quandary,
for never had Sir Kendrix Meron
made any sort of choice in his privileged life.
From the time he had been but a pink
little bundle, everything had been placed before
him on a silver platter, quite literally. Never had
he wanted for anything, nor even had
to think about which boots to wear or which
jacket would go best with his new neon doublet
(and none of them did, which was why he had
never once worn that particular doublet in
public, but only as pajamas, once the palace
seamstress had altered it fit for a night gown).
In short, to be faced with such a weighty question
when he had had so little experience with questions
and choices and that sort of thing was close to
pushing him over the edge and into a state of
babbling, nervous anxiety (which here was nearly
the case with Sir Kendrix Meron).
Struck almost dumb, Sir Kendrx Meron pondered
over the glittering vermilion dragon's query,
then asked a question in return:
"Might I see you do it first?"

Dear Jane

I'm afraid I've become a hopeless romantic.

When I wake up, the first thought
to enter my head is the question of whether
or not I will meet "the one" today while
I work- perhaps a customer, or a new employee,
or maybe even someone that I pass on the
street will chance to glace up and gaze into my
eyes, and in that instant the both of us will know
absolutely that we are meant for each other,
and a desperate search for one another's names,
phone numbers, e-mails, social media profiles,
will immediately ensue, and we will live happily ever after.

I'm afraid I've become a hopeless romantic.

When I ought to be working diligently at filing papers,
my mind begins to wander and daydream about
the perfect first date, how his eyes will sparkle
in a perfectly pure and happy and loving way in the
romantic candlelight of the Italian restaurant,
under the white lights of a swing dancing studio,
with tiny tan flecks of clay splattered across his cheek
from a malformed vase he jokingly gives to me as
a Christmas gift that sits on my kitchen counter
in all its warped and contorted glory.

I'm afraid I've become a hopeless romantic.

When I read about Elizabeth, Jane, Anne, Fanny,
Catherine, Eleanor, Marianne, Emma-
my heart seems to beat wildly in my chest in
exultation when each of these beloved heroines unites
in matrimony with their undisputably true loves,
and longs, at the same time, for just such a relationship
that will sweep me off my feet in good taste, a sweet
disposition to do good, a perfect sensibility to social relations,
and an enduring love that will bind us together
for as long as we ever shall be here-

Literary Propaganda

At five in the morning my alarm clock buzzed,
jolting me awake to its urgent monotonous call
to rise and seize the day as so many of my ancestors
did long before alarm clocks were even around-
back when only an imperceptible change of light
behind the thick woven window curtains and the faint
call of a rooster summoned them to take up their
brooms, their mops, their rags, their gloves, their buckets
and shovels and go out under the pinprick gazes of the
still-visible stars to do the work appointed unto them
before breakfast in a few hours-
and as it buzzed, my well-trained arm reached over
to pause it in its excitement to start the day that had only
just heard the shot of the gun to begin the race of
today's desperate sprints and hurdles in order to achieve
what the experts call "success," or, in other words,
a perfect job with the perfect salary and perfect freedom
and a perfect house and the perfect wardrobe and
the perfect relationship and the perfect friends and perfect
everything in between.
I know that if I make excuses to stay in the warm comfort
of my sheets I will never make it out of the house on time
to my less-than-perfect job with a less-than-perfect salary
in order to have a somewhat perfect freedom that may
lead me to a semi-perfect relationship that my equally
imperfect acquaintances may not perfectly approve of,
so I resign myself to yet another menial, less-than-perfect day.
The hours tick by slowly, and rush-hour traffic is at its
absolute worst. When I finally make it home to my affordable
apartment, I am sorely tempted to simply collapse on my
bed and sleep the late afternoon and evening away.
But I can't.
Tomorrow a huge business project is due, and I still need
to correspond with someone who is in charge of the main part
of the said project and has not yet fulfilled his share of responsibility.
This done, I plop on the couch, exhausted.
A rather dusty novel sits on the side table, one which had been
my favorite during my youth. Perhaps a quick read wouldn't hurt
before a nap before dinner.
Soon I am lost in the old favorite's prose that had so richly
nourished my adolescent need to know that there was
some sort of order and truth in this world, and not everything
had to be seen through a cynical eye.
My soul is relieved of the heavy burden of routine that had
made it dusty and worn. Now it is neatly polished and shines,
shines like the sun on the summer solstice.
Forget a nap. I'm reading.

A Mother's Hope

The tiny, fleshy thing reaches out,
attempting with all its might to grasp
onto something sure and solid in this
world of infinite uncertainties,
something that will keep it anchored
amidst the storms and whirlwinds
that have yet to reveal themselves.
Such dainty, almost delicate softness
there is to this smooth, dimpled paw,
the nails shining under the soft yellow
lamp light glowing calmly above it.
But this is no weakling- though in
comparison to others, it is the most
vulnerable and defenseless thing to
have ever entered this world- no, it
clings to my finger with a fist of iron,
unwilling and loath to part with its grip
on this one sure thing, this one solid
hold on something that it trusts
wholeheartedly to keep it safe through
the treacherous nights and calescent days.

All around is peace and silence, now,
if only for this moment, this passing glance
of eternity, here in the dark blue cushions
of the inherited rocking chair
three generations back.
And she gurgles sleepily, an accepted sign
of weariness so early on in her intrepid days,
for truly, one must possess bravery and courage
to face this world, this earth, alongside others
who would wish to harm, to injure, if only
to the end of self-gain and prideful fulfillment.
Soon, too soon, she will grow into a beautiful
young woman, a lovely budding rose just
beginning to reveal the deep, vibrant color within
and display all her inner charm and grace to
the one who will vow to keep her in comfort,
in poverty, in wellness and illness, until
the very end of eternity itself.

But for now, all is calm and quiet,
as she, my living hope, slumbers serenely in her crib.

Tag!

And here's the adrenaline
pumping through my veins
with a temporary spike to
better urge my sore and tired
muscles past their breaking point
and encourage my heart to
work double time, just to keep up
with the superhuman speed at which
everything seems to pass by
in a blur of color and brightness,
shiny and dull, dull as the sky filled
with gloomy storm clouds that do not
break, but build up with darkness
and tension until it's all too much
and all of it comes bursting out
in small pellets of clear blue and
shining grey streaks pelting everything
within reach, soaking it all in a heartbeat.

And here are the butterflies
flitting around in my stomach,
twisting my nerves in an awful sort of way,
a way that makes me want to cry and laugh
and shout all at the same time,
a way that almost doubles me over for lack
of coherent thought except for the impulsing
signals sent to my brain faster than lightning
or the speed of light across the galaxy
radiating from the cold, blazing stars
in the firmament scattered in a velvet case,
swallowed whole by those empty voids
with no thought or emotion or cares
for thinking, feeling beings that still hope for
something better, something bigger,
something brighter, something at least halfway
decent for survival on another rocky
sphere hurtling around its lifesource,
a star that burns far brighter than any of
those pathetic tiny specs in the far, far distance
with no meaning or memory attached.

And here are the stumblings,
the natural consequences of such
exertions so early on in the game-
and now the very breath in my lungs seems
to work against me, alongside the headwind,
so strong against my pumping arms and legs,
and all around me appears to be flying
ahead of me, and I, I am going backwards,
reeling away from my goal just around
the tall oak tree a hundred years old,
older than me or anyone I know,
older, even, than the city of which it is now
rightful property.

And here, I must stop,
rest,
breathe,
and run again,
slower,
too slow.

You're it!

Mindless Questioning

Why is the sky blue?
What are the primary colors made of?
How does a clock keep ticking
if it has no battery?
What charges a battery, anyway?
If all the world were flat,
than how would we know it
if someone disappeared
off the face of the earth?
Would we remember more
if we kept no written records
but passed everything down orally?
But wouldn't a lot of important
details be left out?
Why are emotions so confusing?
Miss Mary, how does your garden grow?
Do you still have your blue
cockle shells and silver bells?
And what, pray tell, is the purpose
of a flower garden with only
polished rocks around the rim?
Could you still hold your breath
for thirty seconds under water
if thirty seconds were more than a
day of time?
And what if the hours we use to measure
out our days and weeks and months and years
were only a split second,
half of a half second
of time in the eternities?
How long is eternity?
Is it a blink of an eye?
Or the longest day?
Did we get the mail this morning,
or will the mailman come later this afternoon?
Do you think there will ever be
a chance for true love to bloom
and blossom like Miss Mary's cockle shells?
Have you ever read Jane Austen?
Ever been lost in the poetic prose of her writing?
Have you ever fantasized about
jumping off a waterfall
just to rise up and soar among the misty clouds?
What does it take for someone to reach
their breaking point?
How can you stand there, looking on
as if you would wish to join in, but cannot bear
to tear yourself away from the printed wallpaper?

And here ends my thought process for the day.

An Autumn Painting

Can you see all the colors? The colors!

How bright and vibrant they are

against the autumn sky!

Can you see all the colors stretch on
past the round of the world as far
as leaves can fall or drift
down to the soft and fertile ground.
Can you see all the colors dance? Oh, how they dance!
Waving so brilliantly in the waltzing breeze,
tangoing across the bright blue ballroom
in a flurry of grace and spontaneity.
Can you see all the colors fly
past the sentinels of dawn,
painting each a varied shade of pink
and gold and purple, in preparation for
the grand orb's noble entrance from its
journeys around the world.
Can you see all the colors sketch out
the map for those migratory silhouettes
that make their way from their homeland
to their winter quarters in a season
of rushing air traffic and crisp mornings
begun with a crosswind and ruffled feathers
and honks to keep moving forward to the
haven from the chilling white frost.
Can you see all the colors dive?
What nimbleness they all possess!
There, one flips thrice, and look! another
spins 'round its fellow in a gamboling
airborne whirl, accompanied by the ever present draft.
Can you see all the colors in joy,
celebrating this wondrous time
of vivid oranges, wild reds, deep royal violets
and stunning azure blues,
all splattered across the pavement of gold,
glancing off the benevolent gaze of the shining sun,
radiating from the undersides of velvet leaves,
crunching underfoot and tossed into
the welcoming sky, a window stained with
such jubilant glowing embers,
starkly contrasting its own unchanging
electric hues.
Can you see all the colors around you
swirling 'round your face and entangling your hair
in a playful manner so as to tempt your nature
to come and frolic alongside them,
and escape the drudgery of routine and schedule,
calling you to a game of soccer, football, catch,
anything that relieves the gray monotony that so often
takes hold of the working men and women, caught up
in the necessity of making a living.
These all the colors take and show the light
and delight of the life around them that so quickly
passes by in a blur of days and months and years,
the joy that comes from living outside the cubicle and getting out
among the healthy trees and flowers and fresh, brisk air,
and see all the bright color of life.