still travelling in the wires
turning the words inside out
nowhere is this more evident
than on that quiet, dusty stretch of road
the balance is rarely upset
except when too many birds try to land
the wires shake and shimmy in the wind
like someone trying not to laugh at a funeral
or running uphill both ways
like in the old days
when everything was gilded
and smoky and magical
or at least that’s how the past is packaged
looking so much better
attainable, earthier
than today’s fast-paced, plastic world
with endless smiles and ever-growing pharmaceuticals
to light our way
when we replete our natural reserves
looking for new ways
to voice old arguments
hoping to connect
when we isolate ourselves more
is tougher
when the messages we want to send
can’t be carried on the wires
brain battles
ensconced (entombed) in an easy chair
in the corner of the living room
watching so much life pass me by
it occurs to me I should join in
if only it wasn’t so much effort
they don’t know
how I can feel the strain
of each chemical
warring in my brain
I felt it before I saw the wave
they never saw a thing
but endure the storm they must
there’s nowhere else to go
and I’m so, so sorry
again
for any trouble
it will pass
I’ll be forgiven
but with my softer side off for the night
I won’t forget
Dirty Jazz story guest post
I shared my story “Dirty Jazz” with friend Lance Manion who’s featuring guest writers this month.
Visit http://www.lancemanion.com/guest-post-andira-dodge/ and read mine as well as some other really interesting pieces.
the world tilts
right now she’s thinking of where he is
she can still taste him on her tears
hear his last words to her
telling her she would be back
and though it was a sunny day
she had an unshakable chill
right now he’s still sitting where she left him
he can still see her hair flipping, hips swaying
hear her say goodbye
even while in disbelief
and though he was naked
he was burning up from the inside
right now nobody knows or cares about two small stories
they can fill in their own tales of woes
after reading other eyes
hearing other cries
and though not much can stop the spinning of the world
it sure as hell feels like it’s tilted on its axis anyway
scream to the trees
clearing her throat before screaming to the trees
the moss buffering her cries
nowhere else did she feel so free
to sit and laugh and roll in the leaves
not a nymph or a sprite but a real human girl
finding solace in the forest all the same
on her own despite having some place in the world
but she never felt connections like this or felt heard
she reveled in the seasons and how she changed too
how vibrant then faded they all became
stalwart her tree friends, they listened, it’s true
closer she felt to the earth as they grew
The Word Rummager 