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Our Blessings

10/30/2014

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To feel everything so deeply.
The baby's newborn cry
that wales in the freshly
birthed night,
still damp from its mother's womb.
The stranger that shivers
on the streets of despair
from bad choices,
hushed voices
cast out because they dare not
cry out loud.
The young kid who stares
out the bedroom window
feeling alone while the parents downstairs scream and throw punches and pain 
at each other.
The whisp of a spirit
welcoming a brother,
a son, a daughter,
a sister, father, mother...a friend.

The void that is left for the rest.  

Accomplishments and pride
of finally learning to balance and ride on two wheels.
The freedom of running through a
newly mowed field...
kite tails flapping in the cool,
crisp wind.
The mend of friendships
and broken dreams...
and what it means to really love
without measure.

To feel everything so deeply
is life's wealthiest treasure.
It is our blessing,
if we choose to embrace it.
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Death by Corners

10/29/2014

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Boxes.
That is all that we own.
Boxes.
That is all that we fit into.
Boxes spin
the Earth on
her axis.
Boxes are for asses
hats and crayons.
Mahogany red
never looked so dead
until it lined a casket.
Boxes.
It is what we fit into.
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Doc

10/26/2014

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I didn't know him well.
He was a Chiropractor
on Seventh Street, and he
made his rounds,
around the olde town.
He always had a story to tell,
and good bits of
knowledge dripped from
his mouth, if your ears had the time.
He had been around
the world and back,
and he enjoyed art in
all of its forms.
He commissioned a painting
from me once.
It was his idea for the
Smiling Buddha...
the cherry blossoms
lining the sides was my gift
to him.
He grinned from ear to ear
when we unveiled it.
Hung it on his wall and lit it up.
As the days passed,
I would run into him
on Seventh Street,
he always bought me a drink
and we would talk about life,
about Palmer, and future projects.
Colorful is a word that suits
ole Doc...
And we will miss seeing him
walk his rounds about town.
He was a Doc of the people.
He would take a twenty,
a chicken, or a beer for payment,
and leave you well adjusted.
Doc didn't have many judgements
because he understood shit.
He knew folks struggled,
and that they weren't all bad.
Doc Ducey
was a good friend to have.
He will be missed.
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Altitude

10/24/2014

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Plucked from the falling stars,
she rose above heaven.
She rose beyond
what is real on the Earth.
She was able to see
with her own eyes
all of the deceit
given to her
by friendly foes,
and all of the discrepancies
her loved ones were
born with.
She chose to love them anyway.

Maybe they could appreciate
her friendship,
her beauty,
her artistry,
if she chose the road
that rose in altitude.
Ah, but the air it thinned,
Ah, her bleeding heart they skinned,
and tossed her out
to feel the bitterness of
a cold deceptive hand.
She felt it.
Over and over again...
and still chose the road
that rose in altitude.
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Infestation

10/23/2014

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They came at her like a swarm.
What was meant
to be warm and fuzzy
wasn't.
Disjointed apparitions
that shadowed her
every step.
Tugging her denim pant legs,
tugging.
Whispering tattered white lace lies.
Filigree of smoke and mirrors
and she knew it.
But no one else did.
She could only watch
as the others followed the
breadcrumbs of dust
and speckled light.
Gone off into the forest at night.
The swarm followed.
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What Hurts

10/23/2014

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Sometimes,
legs hold the faces of friends.
It hurts when
their feet carry your friends away.
Sometimes,
the bodies should
stay when it matters.
A show of support,
a splattering of acknowledging
your dreams.
But the legs carry on
without thought...
weightless beings
carrying the faces of friends..
and it hurts.
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Hope

10/23/2014

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    Sweat dribbled down his disoriented head. It was scorching hot in the mid-day sun. At least, he thought it was mid-day, it was hard to tell. His eyes were still finding it hard to adjust to the vibrant and blinding light of day. How long had it been? He remembered counting the shadows as they played around the door jamb of that dank, dark room he had been in, and he tried to count the passing days, but the man never let him see any windows. The sweat stung his squinting eyes.

    He had no idea where he was. He felt the grass under his boney feet and that in and of itself brought some relief to his panic. He tried to run, but the atrophy in his muscles, and the loss of weight made him stumble. Smashing his hands down hard on the ground, he let out a muffled cry. He needed to get away, but he needed help and attention too.  He didn’t want that man to hear him cry, or groan, or say anything. He didn’t want to make a sound, and yet he had to.

    As he lifted his head from the disjointed fall, the clouds cast over the sun and shed some relief on his still focusing eyeballs. As he scrambled for strength to get up, he could just make out a line of parked cars; he was in the city. He was near public buildings, and across the way, he saw what appeared to be a telephone booth. He had never used a pay phone, and he hoped that the one coin he carried in his ripped up pants would be enough. It had to be enough.

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Winter Depression

10/22/2014

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    I drove with her in the trunk for some time. It felt like days, but they tell me it was merely hours. I remember the snow in the ditches as I drove, and how they cascaded and morphed their shape into white misty dunes. I thought about driving into them, but I didn’t want to die that way. I never wanted to freeze to death, I hate the damn winter. Why I chose north as my direction, I do not know.
 
    I remember it was so frigid outside, I could hear the snow squeak under the car tires as I pulled into that abandoned cul-de-sac. There was a small gulley between some heavy pine trees off to the side, and it looked so peaceful. I thought that would be a good place for her. When I stepped out of the car, the air was so sharp it made me cough and lose my breath. The snot in my nose froze instantly, making my sinuses sting. I didn’t think to bring any gloves, so I pulled my shirt sleeves down around my hands. It didn’t do much good cause the air still hurt my fingers.

    Maybe it took me awhile, because I didn’t want to look at her body, but I had to open that trunk. There she was, stiff and blue. Her head was tilted back so I couldn’t see her eyes at first; they were staring up at the white sky, but I had to pick her up. Her body was heavier than before, and I had to use her blanket to hoist her out of the trunk. My nose was burning, and my hands hurt as I drug her from the car to that gulley between the tall snowy pines. It was freezing, and I
wasn’t dressed for it. Damn northern winter. The snow was too deep and I kept falling. Once, I fell on top of her and had to look at her glazed eyes. It was the snow’s fault.

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Expectations

10/20/2014

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She expected everything.
All things consumable,
gifted upon silver platters.
Nothing else mattered you see,
except around,
and exactly
where she be.
It was her spot of Rome.
It was her comfort zone.
No support
would be given
outside of her smudgy
lines that begrudgingly
striped those walls.
This man, that man,
those people...
She took their time
and pocketed what she needed.
A well oiled vacuum.
Sucking ferociously.
Ah, there was only room for one.
Her feet sat prim and proper
as her judgments
flung themselves on the floor.
"It's my age that will
      show you to the door" she'd say.
No one dared ruffle her feathers.
Those freshly shined,
pointy-shoed feet never
stepped outside of
her comfort zone.






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Up Front

10/18/2014

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Knock em dead.
Discuss the shit they dread.
Use words that facilitate.
Underline and appreciate.
Don't sugar coat.
Sugar creates cavities.
Cavities are holes
that weaken our enamel.
Be the beautiful jackal
that feeds upon the
morsels left behind.
Speak your mind.

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My Version

10/17/2014

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My Version

When I am old,
I shall paint with a spatula,
and a barbeque brush,
and I will use my curtains as canvases.

When I am old,
I shall wear Spandex
while I paint-
to keep my creativity
from overflowing.

When I am old,
I will keep my skin glowing
with mayonnaise and cucumber slime
For all I will have is time
to fancy myself
any way I see fit.

When I am old,
I will spit while I can
and drive over the speed limit.
I shall wear Spanx around
my sagging breasts
and Spandex on
my wrinkled ass
if only to perk me up.

When I am old,
I shall dress like I am twelve
and do the Hula in my yard
every Saturday morning
while I screech church hymnals
at the top of
my old lady lungs.

When I am old,
I shall paint with a spatula
and a barbeque brush.
I will use toilet seats as canvases
and put them up for sale in my yard…
if only to drive the neighbors nuts.

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The Parts

10/14/2014

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Divided,
like a graded rift
in the ocean floor.
They didn't know
each other anymore.
Swimming through life,
fluid in their movements
but broken in
their feelings...
allowing the depth
and meaning
to swift away
in the currents.
What was it?
What was the adhesive
that connected soulful
fibers together?
Was it too far gone?
Washed away and
eroded in the flooded
gravel road of life?
Two jobs, no job,
husband, kids and wife...
torn in half.
Divided
like an ocean rift.
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Discombobulated

10/9/2014

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The migraine maniac
muscled in on me.
That asshole took my
evening away.
Strong armed into unconsciousness.
Nightmares of people in white
marching on the neighborhood.
It wasn't good.
They stole my van,
and left an old man
yodeling The Gambler on
my lawn with my children.
My garage furniture
tumbled in to the alley
and was smashed to bits by
an old lady riding a piano.
Poor tables, desks and dressers
never asked for such punishment.
The fireman showed up
and took my stolen vehicle report.
There is irony in that.
My kids were chased by
a litter of black striped cats
and old Kenny Rogers
outstayed his welcome.
Curse you, Migraine Maniac!

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No Return Policy

10/6/2014

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I love you all.
This is my unadulterated fault
in this world.
It belongs to me.
My foot stamp of unknown
watery depths.
I love you all.
With all of your unadulterated faults,
your quagmires of lonely luggage
lined up in the hall.
With your cup that overfloweth
from your brain to your mouth
unfiltered in spectral colors
that drip like
opinionated wrinkles.
Never glossed over, touched up
or covered.
Never pilfered from who you are.
I love you all.
Even with your nicks and chips,
dents and scratches,
pristine and gleamy,
Full of Me,
-never doubted you for a second-
-what can I get-
outlook on life.
I love you all.
This is my unadulterated fault
in this world.
No apologies given, none accepted.
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The Drifter

10/4/2014

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Part I

The drifter rumbled into town with the thunder.
An oblong sack slumped over his shoulder,
    Just waiting to seize the moment...
    The moment of contact.
Shuffling down the gutters,
counting the open shutters and coughing
up his slime along the way.
    Someone was going to die.
    There needn't be a reason why
    'cept to stave off an insatiable appetite.
Thunder rumbled into town with the drifter
and pelted the blackened streets
with sheets of an evil, melancholy rain.
    That oblong sack screamed of timing.
    It was hungry, and thunder was
    the perfect cover to stifle the last gasps of its prey.

Part II

With every soul shattering clack,
the drifter clenched his sack...
whispering patience as he peered in
through the slats of unsuspecting panes.
    Months had passed from his last feeding
    and his nefarious urges were seething
    causing his fingers to clench.
He had been here before,
and could smell the stench of live blood
in the dripping, stormy air.
    Finding the perfect specimen
    was a force to be reckoned with for sure.
    There could be no mistakes.
In a sudden slice of 2 A.M. light
his eyes lay upon the tonic;
the fleshy nectar needed for his shakes.

Part III

Then the early morning sky cracked open
and he attacked his chance to enter
the home of some forgetful woman...
    God-fearing unbeknownst to the killer
    that he was. She slept with silver daggers
    and crosses forged from willow bark.
The drifter dropped his duffel at the door,
for the first time in a thousand years
fear filled his cavern more than ever before...
as she fooled him.
    She didn't forget to lock that door...
    she baited it, beckoning for the return
    of the lover that turned her away from God.
She got him, oh she got him good.
A severed head thudded to the floor,
leaking its slime...
cold, dead, dark eyes blinked one time more
    then turned to ashes at her scorned, forlorn feet.
    Her revenge of the blood-lustful drifter
    made her feel complete, and washed over her in sheets
    like the streets full of melancholy rain.
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    Author

    Molly Roland is a writer by nature, and she enjoys stepping over the invisible lines society loves to draw.

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