DISCARDS

July 5, 2023March 23, 2023 ~ Marge Simon ~ 3 Comments

I. Composer

Wracked with problems of the bowels,

sick and damned with tinnitus,

Ludwig tore up his tenth symphony.

When Gerta came to clean his room,

finding shreds of notes beneath his bed,

she swept them up to fuel the kitchen fires.

II. Artist

Behind five months in rent payments,

an artist in Arles gave his landlord a painting.

In the long cold winter months that followed,

the landlord’s wife used it for kindling;

“Still another picture of sunflowers!” she said.

“Such a waste of his brother Theo’s money!”

III. Author

Hans Schmidt is a dour man, grown old before his time.

He fidgets behind his desk, uniformed and pretentious.

In the last two years, he’s lost most of his hair.

His wife wants out. Frowning, Schmidt dispatches a group

of Jews to the showers. Among them is a frail teenager

with huge eyes. Her name is Anne.

∼ Marge Simon

Fractured

April 6, 2022April 5, 2022 ~ Charles Gramlich ~ 15 Comments

Sun bright.

Autumn cool.

Cul-de-sac road.

Two story colonial home.

White.

Pine forest all around.

Pickup truck in driveway.

Driver’s door open.

Engine running.

Cell phone on seat.

One text message.

“He’s with her now!”

House’s front door thrown wide.

Entrance foyer.

Pine wood floor.

Shotgun shell.

Empty.

Dining room to the right.

Chair shattered.

Tabletop scored by lead pellets.

Doorway into kitchen.

Droplet of red on tile floor.

Granite counter tops.

Neat and tidy.

Wood block knife holder.

One slot empty.

Through the house toward the back.

Crimson petals the floor.

Bottom of stairs.

A woman’s house shoe.

Empty shotgun shell.

Stairway railing shattered.

Top of stairs.

Bedroom on right.

Door open.

Room empty.

Hallway.

Photos on the wall.

Blond man, blond woman, blond children.

Bathroom on right.

Broken door hanging on frame.

Shotgun shell.

Still smoking.

Shower curtain shredded.

Red splatters everything.

Man face down in tub.

Dark hair.

Partially dressed.

Not asleep.

Empty hallway.

Master bedroom on left.

Door open.

Floor carpeted in brown.

Dropped shotgun.

Shell jammed in the breech.

Dead woman on bed.

Blond.

Eyes staring.

Neck and face, purple and bloated.

Satin sleeping robe in disarray.

Blood drenches it.

Not the woman.

Master bathroom.

Gouts of scarlet.

Blond man on floor.

Breathing in rasps.

Wedding ring on finger.

Woman’s wedding ring in hand.

Steak knife between shoulders.

Other knife wounds dribble red.

Rasping stops.

Through the window.

Sun bright.

Autumn cool.

Dark haired woman by truck.

Gloved hands pick up cell phone.

Message erased.

Trees swallow her.

Along nearest highway.

School bus sighs to a stop.

Two blond children disembark.

Laughing.

∼ Charles Gramlich

Beneath the Tree

December 10, 2013December 9, 2013 ~ moondustwriter ~ 33 Comments

December

a month of hopefuls

romance fragrant like a rose

dreams from the sky blow

lacy snowflakes danced

gracing eyelashes

kissed away

in a magical embrace

beneath the living Christmas Tree

The new year passes

“will you” and “I will”

sung in a wonderland of snow

gifts elegantly circled with red satin bows

8 knives for carving

1 rope for climbing

bridal silk embellished with white seed pearls

promises of forever

beneath the flocked Christmas Tree

Time passes

trying to pull out good memories

“they must be there”

rummaging through the box of Christmas ribbon

I caress an eight inch lamp-post

to it we raised a toast

once there glowed

declaration of love

beneath our barren Christmas tree

The seasons and the gifts got stranger

oddly shaped sweater

a perfect fit

for your octopus arms

wrapped around others

untying their bows

repackaged promises

the lamp shone green

beneath the scrawny Christmas tree

Each year’s end, always hoping

for the gold-edged red ribbon

magic sparked from its edges

hiding in fresh pine needles

tied around a ring

that hung shiny and bright

for me

beneath the tinsel Christmas Tree

I looked for years

the ribbon it seemed

confirmer of dreams

the magic it held

would imbibe our love

restart the music

light the lamp

beneath the leaning Christmas Tree

Eons has my search

been in vain

the tree was old

no glitter nor gold

my hands reached for the ribbon

teasing, it hung in brown branches

I grasped it

the lamp-post guided the way

beneath the dead Christmas Tree

Triumphant moment

willing the magic to work

pricking my finger on a needle

drawing rusty

rather than satiny red colored blood

drops fell

I saw knives, a rope

beneath the artificial Christmas Tree

The gold-edged ribbon

tightly unforgiven

about the neck of an eight inch doll

dressed in white silk

embellished with red seed pearls

that fell

an eery light flickered

beneath the strung up Christmas tree

The years of “wasted away”

I looked up eyes agape

death’s eyes dilate

no longer could they focus

all there had ever been

strangulated

the light shone

on a lifeless form

beneath the fresh-cut Christmas Tree

This year a celebration

four boxes with satiny bows

covering brown stain

romantic starry-eyed blur

arms encircled her

she picked up eight seed pearls

“red, oh how festive”

“Yes,” sinister was the light in his eyes

beneath the re-gifted Christmas Tree

~ Leslie Moon

Return to the grave

April 24, 2012February 8, 2013 ~ jlwallen ~ 2 Comments

Dance with me, my love
Upon this grave we’ve dug together
Deep within the heart of midnight
Among the ghouls, ghosts, and gloom

We’ll share a twirl and a spin
Caught up in a cobwebbed lace of spider-silk down
With the sound of harpsichord and howling wind
A music of passion for our tomb

Above the ground, on the outside in
Lovers of the dark fantastic will twirl and spit
On graves freshly dug and souls put to new rest
Aloud they live, to die too soon

Give unto me, your threads of desire
While life succumbs to death and hope grows cold
I’ll ravish your remains and suckle your meat
And retreat back inside your womb

Take me, dearest death
Underneath your blanket of sorrow
So that I may live again with my darling first love
To wrap my bones around her morbid corpse
A posthumous blossom to bloom

~ Jack Wallen