once i buried some of my pain but years after after i thought it was long decayed it broke the surface & stretched into a tree of pain each blossom a bouquet of bayonets w/ boughs full of razor-blade leaves & on many a sleepless night i hear its poignant pointed music beneath my skin this terrible tree my twin skeleton swaying & jangling like murderous wind-chimes
one for mrs. t.
in second grade i used to imitate arnold horschack from the tv show “welcome back kotter” when the teacher asked a question i’d stab my hand up thru air & yell , ohh! ohh ohh! ohh! it was a brief period of acting out i was usually quiet it probably had to do w/ my grandmother dying in my room while i was moved up to the unfinished attic full of exposed insulation & incoming nails & a third-hand bed from one of my cousins & my brother getting arrested for burglary & all the fighting & screaming but anyway mrs. t. always sent me to “the timeout nook” where there were big soft pillows a shelf full of books & colourful curtains around the whole thing my classmates thought it was a punishment being away from others but i felt like a prince we didn’t have books at home so i read & lay on pillows i didn’t feel the need to be in the group or answer questions or imitate tv show characters i was my true self & i miss that nook today & mrs. t.’s kind punishment
snouts
i don’t get writer’s block b/c each cell in my shape is a bloody screaming wound a misfit achilles heel chorus of haemorrhaging snouts that i translate one-by-one into the blackest of ink
my wish
i want my deathbed to be a far off forest floor no walls or roof no voices or hands just a whippoorwill song while across my upward palms the light of the milky way
‘I never thought I could meet you again like this,’ Lu said to Mr. Ray. Her voice tried to control her agitation.
They both continued walking on a cemented pathway, heading to the community park. At a distance the Gumamela flowers greeted them in their full blooms in red and pink rooted on the side of the benches. It was the blossoming season.
‘At a certain point before this moment, I thought I must not see you,’ Mr. Ray replied. ‘I mean, as much as possible, I was of the opinion we must refrain from any crossing of our paths,’ his voice was steady.
‘I understand,’ Lu said with a sigh, ‘but at least let me tell you this. I’d like to express my deepest gratitude in favor of the people and the children you helped in my community. In the end, you stood beside them,’ her voice near to breaking point. Mr. Ray looked up at her intently.
‘You owe me nothing and the community. I just did what I needed to do,’ Mr. Ray replied firmly.
She continued, ‘I thought you were one of them. Those despicable business owners who only care for their greedy interests.’
Lu’s eyes, expressing humility, fixed on Mr. Ray.
They reached the benches and sat on one of them, silently for a moment. A huge Talisay tree provided a magnificent shade as the sun basked them at ten in the morning. A soft wind roused the leaves and the twigs to stir lightly.
‘I could have done that a long time ago, Lu. If that was what I call for and if I only pay attention to my interest.’
He paused for a moment.
‘Our family owns this place from way back in the Spanish era. And we have all the papers to back it up. Fortunately, I grew up in this place too,’ Mr. Ray said in a clear, light voice.’
‘Yes, you did,’ she said pensively. She stared at the Gumamela blossoms. Her memories flew back when Mr. Ray would fancy giving them to her when they were young.
‘I had a charming childhood in the community. I loved the neighbourhood, the people, the children, and the camaraderie,’ Mr. Ray recalled. His face was shining.
‘And I respect their tenure in this place. Most of all, I love your vision with them. That library and the little park. A little ideal Eden of yours, but I share with your vision, Lu.’
Mr. Ray smiled at her. Lu smiled back.
‘I thought your company already sold them to a new investor. That is why there was a threat of demolition against the community. And you were one of them. A notion I had before your cousin confronted me and urged me to encourage you to take your side with them. If not, the future of the community and my family will be most unfavorable,’ her voice rose mildly. She sighed and stared evenly at Mr. Ray.
Mr. Ray stood up and took a step from the bench.
‘It was the workings of other greedy relatives,’ he continued, ‘My cousin told me about your meeting with them. They said you were firm against your views on the community conversion into a highly commercialized area.’
His eyes were gleaming with admiration as he gazed at her.
‘Yet, instead of a feeling of displeasure with you, my other relatives became impressed and saw a refreshing and meaningful perspective about your vision,’ he expounded.
Lu recalled the engagement with his relatives. It was indeed intense. Yet, it unfurled her significant discovery and realization of the true character of Mr. Ray.
‘I never thought of that. I just wanted to say what I had to say. That very moment there was a great realization I discovered about you,’ Lu said. Her eyes bared with wonder as she glanced at him.
‘Yes, it gave me hope, Lu. I thought if you had turned down my interest with you, you could have told them about your disinterest in me. Told them you do not care about whose side I was with.’
He beamed and sat comfortably beside Lu.
They were a picturesque image of two contented souls.
Children came to the park.
Lu and Mr. Ray were jovial as they watched the children about to play hide and seek.
Lu envisaged the kids’ laughter seemed to revive the congenial wind to budge the branches of the trees and enthralled the Gumamela blooms surrounding the park to dance gently by trailing the rhythm of the wind.
Zea Perez lives in the Philippines. She writes children’s stories. But only now did she dare to share some of her writings. She has some pieces published at Flash Fiction North, Literary Yard, and soon at TEA. She also writes reviews for Booktasters and Goodreads.
Yu can find more of Zea’s work here on Ink Pantry.
In a thunder storm, the skies slowly darken. Thunder explosions fill the sound waves, first from a distance then closer and louder; closer and louder. Flashes of lightning paint jagged danger signs on the moving horizon. There is a drying sun coming if we can just be patient.
Anonymous Confidential
You permeate my heart like infectious nuclear pheromones. When you glisten from the sun, my olfactory balance overloads in knee bending compliance. Your arduous tease glances trigger kaleidoscope pulse sensations that shiver shake nerve endings. And as of this date, I don’t even know your name.
A Climatic Courtesan
whose cumulus cerulean eyes can scan simple calculated lies like soaking rain swept skies establish immediate sighs allows the moment to crystallize.
Her breath like the pace of sunrise arrives as a bold chromatic surprise. Her kiss, a sweetened dew disguise, holds my pursuit with no need for replies.
R. Gerry Fabian is a poet and novelist. He has published four books of his published poems, Parallels, Coming Out Of The Atlantic, Electronic Forecasts, and Ball On The Mound.
You can find more of Gerry’s work here on Ink Pantry.
Despite his friends’ warnings, he fell in love with a red-haired girl. He took his feelings outside in the open, beat up a kid who said she had cooties. And was suspended from high school for his troubles.
The red-haired girl is in tears is at the funeral of her grandmother. The old woman’s hair was also red before it went white. A kid was sent home for defending her honour. But the news hasn’t reached her yet. Besides, she’s moved beyond the awkward years. She’s staring at the end of life.
She Was Eighty Seven When She Died
There’s a walk-in closet It’s empty within. Stale perfume flutters out like the wings of a moth.
The four-poster bed leans to one side. The comforter is faded. The pillow cases yellowed.
A small cameo with a rusty pin rests on a lace doily atop a dressing table.
It’s watched over by a black and white photograph of a young woman in theatrical dress, her face half-bleached.
The room struggles to be who she was but the hug, the kiss on the cheek, are missing.
And more than that, it doesn’t even know I’m here.
Whatever Happened To Freeform Radio
Driving through the Midwest, I’m struggling to find a radio station that isn’t talkback, or isn’t programmed by accountants or country or religion or doesn’t play the same songs over and over.
But, on a straight road, across a flat land, every station is straight and flat.
On a Stretch of Arizona Highway
Behind the wheel, straight ahead, sixty miles an hour, I see myself there in the distance, as far as the heat haze that blurs the foot of the mountains, until, somewhere in that purple crag, I disappear completely.
The Carved Giraffe
Should I buy the carved giraffe? It will impress the folks back home that we have indeed been to Africa. And the workmanship is adequate.
Sure everyone in the marketplace is selling the same rhinos, elephants, buffalo and zebras.
But I don’t see the words ‘Made In China’ anywhere. And I did look. This really is African wood. So should I buy the carved giraffe? Two continents await my answer.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Poetry Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. Latest books, Leaves On Pages and Memory Outside The Head, and Guest of Myself are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Ellipsis, Blueline and International Poetry Review.
You can find more of John’s work here on Ink Pantry.
