Tag: #Prose

Cold Moon

Thanksgiving still hung in the crisp cold air. Voices escaped from behind closed doors, chimneys puffed into the night sky. Macaroni and cheese, yams, something a little burnt—stuffing maybe. The aromas struck his nose as familiar, minus the burnt tinge affectingthe air. A warm feeling flooded his soul as he thought of the joy each home must have been filled with the day prior. He wondered if each dwelling was packed tight like sardines.

His footsteps fell hard on cold concrete—it felt different than in the summer. Not that it was any softer, but maybe, slightly quieter. A few other unfamiliar faces were out milling about; he was just glad to be out on this crisp night, even if he was only walking to the supermarket down the street. Hands shoved in coat pockets, keenly alert of all around him, he took in the beauty of the moon, her fullness and intensity.

-SpKn

Axed

I am finally alone and in my head. Like looking around a room with familiar walls but unfamiliar furnishings. I do not know these thoughts. This is my space, I should feel at home instead of a lost voyager drowning in a sea of unspoken creativity.
It is a stuffy place to be, with no mirrors to show reflections of me, no windows to let in what I need to breathe. How can this be? Who took an ax to the root(s) of my tree—I had named her Life and Longevity.
I want to tell you world, that I turned 32 today, but no leaves of reflection can fall, this breeze sneaking through my window, tickling my toes, melodies cascading through my headphones—yeah I am 32 today, and for the first time in quite a while I am in my dome, reshuffling, reclaiming it as my own.

Clocking in

Here I am, fourteen minutes before my shift starts. The hum of soda machines envelope me in sweet noise. I turned off the blasted blaring TV just to have a few moments to write… I have had so many creative ideas these last few weeks but I have been preoccupied. These glaring florescent lights irritate me… but they are on some some sort of a motion detector. This morning’s breakfast consists of scrapple, donuts, scrambled eggs, and oatmeal. Lunch is bbq chicken potato salad, and I don’t know what else.

As I write my mind keeps traveling to my wife. She is so beautiful. We had a baby free weekend last week and it was the best feeling in the world to laugh and just be our old crazy selves again. I cant get the sensation of caressing her brown skin out of my mind… I sure hope today goes by quickly, her soft lips have me even more distracted.

Its 5:23, technically I can clock in and start my day. Should I? Or should I write for another seven minutes. Sometimes (as much as I hate it) I’ll post from my phone just for the sake of placing meaningful words together(also to put a post up if it’s been a while). I usually write my poems down in a composition book, then type them up, proofread them and such, then post. Now all I’m thinking about is the lady of my life and that sexy outfit she had on yesterday.

It is almost that time-four more minutes until I am a slave once again to the demands of the man(not necessarily any white pereon, just the boss). Three more until I begin to sweat and my mind checks out of the Warm and Fuzzy Hotel and into madness… cooking can be that way sometimes. I cook for over 100 residents… It is 5:29, I must go now. Tell my wife I love her, I’ll be thinking of her and tell…..