Finnan
Wan they shew me thee inkbluts, I like to pretend I dunt recognize em. It pisses them uf methinks, but eats thee only way twe get me jollys ere. Not give em too much powr. Yeah. Thataways they'll nevr be able twe take away me sowle. The one that luks like a vagina…I tell em luks like a butterfly. I tell em they all luk like butterflies when we both know they aint no butterflies left on this ere earth. They all flew away thru that big ole in the the North Pole twe be wit God in evn. One of thee inkbluts came alive on thee paper while they were testin me, but nvr wood I say not a thing. I tried twe tell em once the prepaid turns on the tele on in me room and they hurt me. I wunt be makin that same mistake twice. For breakfast ever morn we get powdered eggs. I wish I knew the bloke invented powdered eggs. I'd ask im wut theys really made of. When I lived in Devon I worked on a chicken farm. They'd keep thee lights on night and day to keep thee hens a-layin. So, they's lots and lots of eggs and no need for make believe eggs. I slather em with ketchup remembering delicious steaks I use to make wit fried onions until I came ere. And gravy too. The blood…it nvr needed a lick a salt for flavorin.I guess I'll just stay ere until the butterflies metamorphasize and come back ome.
poem by Sara Fielder
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Ode to Diana
'Let's flee the slip' Diana said
I long to leave this dreary bed
My mooring lines strain me to tears
By keeping me a prisoner here
I looked at her and she at me
Her frame was tugging to get free
And without second thought or crew
We headed toward the cobalt blue
When out the channel we'd decide
A dangerous sail or leisure ride
But either way a smile would come
Soft heartbeat or adrenaline
Once channel marker we had passed
Her voice exclaimed, 'At last! At last! '
And all and both our deepest needs
Were quenched as she increased her speed
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poem by Sara Fielder
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The Veil
Her spirit floats above the ground
Whispering in his ear
He hasn't lost what he had found
It's just that he can't hear
But every night inside his dreams
They have a rendezvous
The veil's pulled back, there is no screen
And they travel toward the Throne Room
It's many, many timelines away
She tells him it's millions of miles
But the only reality for him right then
Is her dazzlingly pure white smile
Her hair is blown in wilderness waves
And it smells like tuberose
Her gown's aglow with glittering light
And he wonders what all that she Knows
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poem by Sara Fielder
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Jane Jenkins
Jane Jenkins was just barely ten
When her father's beatings had begun
The year was nineteen twenty nine
As they waited together in the free bread line
Her little face wore such sweet repose
Her cheeks the color of the old fashioned rose
That grew on the trellis by the house on the hill
Where the voice of her mother was stoic and still
He'd always worn a Black Irish frown
Since the day he arrived from Dublin Town,
With the immigrant groups who then here came
To dodge it's poverty and shame
It had never really been that bad
Before that Tuesday that the stock market crashed
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poem by Sara Fielder
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The Bottle
I swam out to an island once
It wasn't that far off
A mile, perhaps a little more
For sure it twas enough
I went to see if I could find
A place upon the sand
Where I might sit in silence
And seek out the great I Am
And all the blues and all the greens
Began to come together
I wanted to take hold of it
And no not leave, not ever
For there are spaces in our lives
When doubt is held at bay
And just for half one second
Understanding comes our way
When He is me and I am Him
And heavens in our lungs
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poem by Sara Fielder
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The Shipwrights
Each morning on the docks I'd rise
At dawn 'round six-fifteen
Throw on some clothes and splash my face
And brush my teeth real clean
With aching bones
I'd bend and stretch
My muscles stiff and sore
From nailing planks and pounding seams
I'd caulked the day before
The bicycle was rusty
Locked inside the parking lot
And as I rode to work I'd think
Of tools I had forgot
A putty knife for scraping
Sharpened chisel or the plane?
But weariness prevented me
From turning round again
The auger, level, or the saw
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poem by Sara Fielder
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Eighteen
Beads of perspiration sweated out of the air we shared inside your Chevrolet.
I loved that car.
A Chevelle. Fast.
Super-fast.
Whenever we were together in it you'd drive like you were headed to put out a house fire.
What a thrill.
Pure adrenaline. I just knew that you were going to kill us both someday. But, on that particular July afternoon you slowed down because it was raining...
not the kind of drizzle that teases the plants to
stick out their tongues because they are too afraid to die.
No, this was a bona fide downpour...
the kind of rain that floats trees and turns roads into rivers, and causes the sewers to back up.
And I knew,
I just knew,
that I was gonna need to start a diary to
mark it all down with,
the same way that parents chart their children's growth each year on the inside of the door jam.
When water began pouring in over the floorboards you pulled off onto a gravel road a mile from the highway.
It was in that moment I lost all of my highly trained
self-control.
I was going to give in.
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poem by Sara Fielder
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Cemetery Yard
It takes me fifteen minutes walking fast, but not that far
Three rights, a left, then straight ahead to Cemetery Yard
It sits upon the corner of Macarthur and Fleet Streets
I go there every Wednesday to see ghosts I like to meet
The entry is medieval with it's gated ironwork bars
But there hasn’t been a gatekeeper for many, many years
So I walk right in and I can have a conversation with
The Captain Robert Cunningham or wife of Mister Smith
And who these dried up people were back then God only knows
For their tombstones only have their names and some don't even show
But I speak to them like they’re alive or maybe I am dead?
But either way I'm speaking to them all within my head
Captain Robert Cunningham says 'Thanks for coming here
'Cause back in eighteen sixty five it was the very year
I was in a bluish uniform when under an attack
I was aiming for confederates when shot straight in the back'
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poem by Sara Fielder
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The Spillway
I drove down to the lake today
Where the water flowed in through the old spillway
Lazy and bored I figured I'd just sit
Drink a beer or two and daydream a bit
I parked right next to a gnarled oak tree
In solitude where I wanted to be
Eighty eight point five played my favorite songs
I couldn't help myself so I sang along
Till I had a fancy to explore
I opened up the rusty blue Dodge Ram door
All bundled tight in my wool poncho
I stepped out the truck into ten below
Where the Permian red mud squished beneath my boots
Onto the flat full of geese and coots
The sky was depressing, dark and grey
Like you'd expect it to be on a funeral day
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poem by Sara Fielder
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Seventeen
One day I met you at the fair
You wore a leather jacket and your Viking hair
Was blown into tangles by the autumn wind
And you looked at me with a sexy grin
As usual you had come alone
You smelled like musk and your Doc's Marten's shone
Then you greeted me with a lustful kiss
Saying 'Be right back, I gotta piss'
So I shrugged my shoulders and I breathed a sigh
You were always too honest and I was shy
Thinking 'Man, oh man, opposites DO attract'
Wishing you'd hurry up and be right back
And the dim lights flashed on the carnival rides
And the smell of food was strong and fried
Returning, you pinched me on the butt
Then you nuggied my head like a crazy nut
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poem by Sara Fielder
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