I beckon to lilt
creek in retreat and sniffle my courageous breath forward, up. Buck under and sideways to the bleacher seats. stripes of cold popsicles melt at my haunches. undoing what may be double crossed a deterrent for pleasure a warrant for pleasure not enough teaching on pleasure war curriculum, however, is a plenty. jarring gymnastics, they run up against themselves midday when the crows are jostling treetops, casting their caws below as parade candy cascades with forceful amusement into the pockets of sam, tommy, Charles, and jones. they finger the sweets, wrappers and all. gold nuggets less appealing now. Why do we run from ourselves when we could simply shake our hands and go deeper? why do we go deeper when we could tragically run? tragedy is a heavy word on the tongue. nothing is equal. repetitive dissonance surely unmaking that which holds and positions uncertainty. where in the world is stardust? when you reach it, is it magnificent? Do the light particles dance together and apart? Wherever did she go, the shooting star? would she wonder where we are? if we cannon-fired into a galaxy off in the yonder, if we compelled our matter to dare transform beyond and beyond and beyond and on? how to hold someone dear and hold oneself dearly too. this is love. Love. Love. —b.p.d. 10/12/21
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“Big day huh? Well kid, you can be as big or as small as you want to be or imagine, but the day? Well, ya know, the days keep going no matter what. No matter what.”
A bigger fella, hat snug—sweat streaks rippling snowy horizon across the cherry cap. The cap he got on a whim at his annual fishing trip with his old man. “I’m not an old man,” he insists, his right hand continuing to gesture a fist pump while the exclamation’s echo finds a beat of pause, an unknowing, an empty space. The father loved to say what he was not. Who he could never see himself to be. A clown at friends’ parties, a pastor at family meals, he knew precisely how to crack a smile and thwack a nuance of wisdom about love. ~ —b.p.d. 10/19/21 When the misty
dance rolls down the fog Mountains slope a sigh. Relief shakes the shoreline. Moon water bubbles to steam and we all rise. —b.p.d. 12/31/21 |
Brittany DelanyExpressing myself through poetry, song lyrics, musings, prose, playwriting, questions, spiritual learnings, journal entry shares, and storytelling. Archives
August 2022
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