Purple's Platitudes

nothing but words …

obsolete

25 April 2014

 

 

you hold me too tightly, don’t allow me to breathe,

force me to say what you want, then complain when I bleed,

 

you compare me unfairly, no glitter, no gel,

just black and blue uses, you’ve inflicted so well.

 

I’m dizzy and tired, you twirl me too much,

I feel drained, used, and shrink from your touch.

 

I thought I was cherished, special to you,

but the way that you treat me, that cannot be true.

 

I’m neglected, abandoned, or worse, sometimes shared,

our relationship’s dying, I believed you cared.

 

I’ve listened and been there through your darkest times,

but your attention’s been turned, I’m just tossed aside.

 

I know you expect me to just dry up and die,

I’ve been replaced, you don’t have to lie.

 

Someday you’ll miss the way that it felt,

when we were together, the stories we’d tell.

 

I know it’s the end, but before I’m ignored,

just remember that I am mightier than the sword.

 

 

written for http://kellieelmore.com/2014/04/25/fwf-free-write-friday-personification/

 

 

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25 April, 2014 Posted by | Poetry | , , | Leave a comment

of lists and the old mare’s blanket

05 April 2014

 

 

Oh yeah, I could give you a list, a list a country mile long, a list like grandma crocheting a potholder, which ended up being a blanket for the old mare, out in the barn. Yeah, that kind of a list. A list I have rehearsed and rehashed, memorized, and added to over and over again. A list that defines everything that ever went wrong, is wrong, and will always be wrong about me, about my life, about the world I inhabit. Yeah, exactly, one of those kinds of lists!

But you know what? There is another list, a much shorter, simpler list. It simply says, “Yes, I will love you again.” For now, both lists coexist and life is all about choosing which list I will check off, right now, in this moment. And the next … There will always be things I could add to the longer list. That’s the list of overthinking, of not doing anything. I may never succeed in always choosing the shorter list, the To Do list, but the horse doesn’t need another blanket. Yeah, I choose to love you again, to live … to live.

 

 

written for Kellie Elmore’s FWF

 

 

5 April, 2014 Posted by | Fiction | , | Leave a comment

5th September 1682

28 March 2014

 

 

September 5th, 1682

 

My beloved Mary,

 

It has been a dreadful, terrifying journey, full of evil portents and bad omens. Your letter reached me, my love, just before we sailed from Sicily and I have read it daily, and often nightly before I turn in.

 

We sailed up the eastern coast of Italy, but the gods turned against us, or so the unlearned crew believed. I tolerate their ignorance and try to keep a civil tongue, but they are a superstitious lot. I must admit though, these last two weeks have been quite trying. Near Naples, we lost fair sailing. Contrary winds and turbulent waters soon proved their origins as we encountered ten days of monstrous fire and brimstone, dense black smoke which fouled our vision and our lungs and blotted out the sun. A constant beastly roaring accompanied us day and night. The sailors claimed it was an angry Jove and many, in secret of course, offered all manner of appeasement in deep dark corners of the ship, away from prying eyes and ears.

 

As you may or may not have heard, it was just Vesuvius rearing its temperamental head once again. I would have liked to have seen it erupting, but alas, we were enshrouded in darkness and left to our imaginations.

 

I have heard about the trial and execution, a ghastly affair to be sure. It would seem the crew I sail with are not the only ones who cower in their superstitions and act accordingly. Are we really that naïve to accuse,, try, and hang three young women for witchcraft? Are we not enlightened enough to see beyond such fear and prejudice? Well, my love, on to last night’s vision.

This morning finds me cautious and watchful, almost fearful. Last evening I finally saw it clearly. I have spoken of it many times before, my comet. It appeared, exactly as I had predicted it would, although it is a good thing I spoke so little of it to these pagan minds. It was stunning, beautiful beyond belief as it slowly passed overhead in all its glory. The men panicked and it was all the Captain could do to maintain any control or order over them. At one point, a few even suggested putting me off the ship as if I was somehow responsible for this omen of ill. The Captain had me confined to quarters, locked in, with an armed guard at my door, a prudent, if not unconscionable precaution perhaps.

 

Do not worry my dearest, no harm has come to me and despite the fear the events of this journey have provoked, we have had only fair skies and favorable winds since, easing the men’s dispositions considerably. Through my round cabin window I can see a brilliant sunset, golden against the clouds and waves, so I am going topside for some air. It should be safe enough, no more comets for approximately 74 years if my calculations are correct!

 

I hope to be home with you in Islington before September’s end.

 

Your loving,

Edmund

 

 

(written for Kellie Elmore’s FWF)

You find yourself in the lower level of an old ship. A calendar on the wall says  1682. There is a small window, and the view is nothing but open sea and a setting sun. There is a staircase and you can see daylight at the top…

28 March, 2014 Posted by | Fiction | , | Leave a comment

she was there

08 March 2014

 

 

“Is that it?” Susanne asked incredulously and I nodded silently. From the safety of the car it looked innocent enough, a dilapidated, long since forgotten old house.

 

The yard, if you could call it that, was still peppered with more small boulders and rocky outcroppings than grass. Fallen branches littered the ground, the broken bones of two large trees flanking the house to the front and side. They were dead years ago, bare, leafless, and yet somehow still possessing that sinisterness they always had before.

 

Surprisingly, what grass was still there was green, but not over grown. It had never seemed to grow, even back then.

 

“Do you want to get out and look around?” Susanne asked tentatively, knowing all that I had shared with her about this house, the memories and nightmares I had never escaped from, even after twenty years. This time, I sat silently and didn’t answer her. She touched my arm gently, tenderly, and I shrugged. It was the only answer I could muster at the moment.

 

Everything about the house seemed the same, although time had taken its toll on it. The roof was curling upwards in places, the outside was pockmarked, pieces hanging off or simply missing. The cement front steps leading up to the porch were eroding, while a scattered few potted plants were thriving on both the porch and the balcony directly above it.

 

Most of the windows were still intact, even curtained, all except that one.

 

It had been my room.

 

Susanne opened her door quickly.

 

“What are you doing?” I demanded, more abruptly than I intended.

 

“I want to see if it’s open is all, just to peek inside.”

 

I knew telling her no was pointless, she was far too strong-willed, so reluctantly, I started to follow her.

 

“You sure honey?” she asked without any hint of teasing or challenge. “You don’t have to go with me you know.”

 

Again, words would not come out and I shrugged and nodded simultaneously, probably trying to convince myself more than her.

 

At first, when I initially shared with her my memories of those final days in that house, she playfully chided me, teasing mercilessly. But in time, when the nightmares became something I shared more intimately with her, she became understanding, supportive, even though she remained a skeptic at heart. There were too many unexplained happenings to dismiss, occurrences which she witnessed – it’s always difficult to argue with personal experience.

 

Standing on the front porch she glanced at my face, waited for some sign, permission to proceed perhaps. I gave none, but she reached for the front door and …

 

“That’s all I really remember,” I said, my voice trailing off. The officers looked at one another, then me. I kept expecting the guys in the white coats to come through the door of the interrogation room.

 

“Tell us one more time about the little girl you saw in the window upstairs,” one of them demanded, his voice hardly disguising his suspicious disbelief.

 

I suddenly remembered. Everything happened so fast, but I ran, terrified, back to the car, jumped in, locked the doors, started the car, threw it into reverse, and floored it.

 

She was there, peering out my bedroom window, the eyes that stared at me, that face that haunted my troubled sleep, that smile, usually the last detail I remembered before I woke up screaming. She was there! Maybe I am going crazy, maybe I have always been slightly mad, but I know one indisputable fact. She was there and now Susanne is not.

 

 

(written for Kellie Elmore’s FWF)

 

 

8 March, 2014 Posted by | Fiction | , , | Leave a comment