Tagged: rights

Knight Approaches Softly 1

Sweet petals tossed on the marble
Broken and torn, they belie gentle dreams
Of failed promise and changed circumstance, the affronted deems

The vase lies shattered, broken, and cracked
A rose flows outward, its leaves bleed red
Thorns of deceit, the relationship dead

St. Valentine’s knight bends prostrate to reach
And seeks to recover the spilled flower breach
Smoothing each petal he positions each flower
Gently arranges each stem to lighten the anger
Erasing the tautness and softening the mood
A song of tenderness gifted, a faith in affection renewed

A flourish, a gesture, a new paramour’s kiss
Sweet release and dark pleasure, our lovers reminisce.

Copyright 2015, Michael S. Sommermeyer. All Rights Reserved.

That’s a Wrap 0

His knee slipped and he hit the door frame hard.

“Son of a bitch!”

The unbalanced bag of dog food pulled him around the frame and into the stucco wall. The dogs bounced below his feet threatening to entangle him further. His knee and this new bump on his head each provided an equal measure of pain.

He let out a sigh.

Unfortunately, the abuse returned in the shower with the knee giving out again slamming his body into the wall. Another bump on his forehead.

“This getting old sucks,” he shouted through the glass panels.

Two more near slips and he was done. He climbed out of the shower wet, went back to bed, and called it a day.

Copyright 2015, Michael S. Sommermeyer. All Rights Reserved.

A Kenning Ramble 0

kenning ramble

Deadline horror
Original thinker
Metaphor drifter

Word shaper
Keyboard charmer
Alphabet wrangler
Paragraph plodder

Plot maker
Scene creator
Tension builder
Page burner

On the path to becoming
an author.

A Simple Mistake 0

It had happened again. And he feared the result. A near miss or a slip up and the entire room was questioning his ability. More than 30 years doing this job. And yet, he wondered if he really understood how to do it.

The mistake had happened almost as soon as he made the decision to move forward. A reaction timed wrongly, and if it had not been noticed, he might have been able to correct it. Unfortunately, he was no longer as young as he was once was and others now seemed to be quicker and better able to do the job. They pounced on the mistake faster than a lioness. He was dead before he hit the ground.

“Let me just try this again,” he said sheepishly.

“It’s really nothing,” she said.

“Just give me a minute.”

“No need. We’ll take it from here,” she finalized.

(more…)

On the Path from Small to Large 0

Small.
Brownie Cottage.
300 square feet.
Enough room to sit.
And maybe spin all around.
The size of a gingerbread doghouse.
If the dog was a small mastiff.
A big dog with a very large appetite.
With no place to store the dog food bags.
The minimalists say we all could stand to slim down.
That our mega mansions, stuff, and stacks of books signify waste.
But the very thought of living in a one-room cabin frightens me:
Like Thoreau living in an urban forest with no solitude or private pond.
The stacks of books, hand selected, some with gold leaf edges are precious friends.
Even if they spill off the shelves and pile up in towers on the floor.
“You’re a hoarder,” say visitors who look down in disdain at my collection of wordy excess.
And although I attempt to purge, sort, and reduce the pages, it is hard to part company.
They all contain dreams, fantastic journeys, ginormous thoughts, hidden truths, ineffable fruit, obsolete wisdom, scientific hypotheses, and farce.
Put them on a Kindle, they say, yet most are out-of-print, esoteric, or hand-me-down treasures.
Which makes it all the more difficult to release them to a better place; a Goodwill, or a book sale.
So they stand stacked like beleaguered sentries circled in spindly towers keeping silent watch over words cluttering the floor.
They wait and watch with dread wondering when they will be released into the world and set free.
Each knows I haven’t the courage to sort, pick, or drop any of them into a box.
A certain belief none of them will be downsized to shoehorn them into a tiny house.
Or are they mistaken to express this joyful expectation that they are so highly regarded?
Unfortunately some must be labeled, screened, and stacked for certain delivery to the curb.
The house must shrink from 3,500 to 1,700 squares, albeit not a one-room schoolhouse.
It is still smaller than the library where the sentries now stand guard.
The childhood adventures remain and the college texts with inspired margin notes.
Each is carefully stacked next to the poems and dime-store mysteries.
The free classics will find a home electronic and portable.
Words stacked neatly alphabetical in my library virtual.
I will sneak in some Steinbeck or Holmes.
The rest will be donated for free.
To give others pleasure or pain.
The words will worm inward.
To plant a seed.
An inspirational spark.
To think.
Large.

Copyright 2015, Michael S. Sommermeyer. All Rights Reserved.

[plain]This shape poem works from one to 20 words and then back to a single word. Pick a topic and write your own shape poem. Add it to the comments below.[/plain]

Make The Rain. Stop. 0

Years ago in the American southwest, there was an apprentice rainmaker. He learned everything he could from his mentor, a Great Chief, who could taste the wind, read the sky, and cause it to rain in the very spot he picked.

This Great Chief was known throughout the four corners for his rainmaking and he was often called upon by farmers and ranchers when their crops or their cattle were suffering. They would send a messenger or a telegram and the Great Chief would make it rain.

The apprentice took note of everything his mentor would do. He tasted the sky. He stared up at the clouds. And he watched as the Great Chief honored the four winds and paid tribute to the spirits.

One day after all of the long study and practice he believed he was ready to make his own rain.

(more…)

The Devil Knows You’re There 1

Tom was stuck and hanging 100 feet above Fremont Street, angled like Superman, and tethered only to the narrow ribbon of wire in a harness. Unable to twist and look up at why he was stuck, he looked down at the street instead. A sea of tourists moved below him as if he was just another attraction. A small boy let go of a smiley-face balloon and started to cry. A bald dude stared at him in a peewee muscle shirt. A ragged homeless man bumped the crowd begging for a dollar. A topless brunette in a devil’s costume waved at everyone while holding a red fan over her exposed breasts.

Mark had promised fame and fortune at the end of the zip line. He failed to mention this.

(more…)

A Ghost Story – Ghosts Wished People Believed 0

ghost story, creative writing, short story, ghosts, haunted house, football, magic, fantasy

Some people swore the house was haunted. To the ghosts, it seemed unlikely anyone believed. They bumped into the living without the slightest notice. Sometimes they made a sudden movement to remind each other they were still around. Mostly they bounced among the residents coloring happy memories or darkening deep regrets. Never had they sparked passion in the hearts of the living. The ghosts wished people believed.

Tommy woke slowly from an afternoon nap. He rubbed his eyes, stretched up his arms and locked his fingers together crunching his knuckles. A ghost bounced around the cracking fingers before disappearing. Tommy smiled at a sudden thought.

This time he would do it. Weighing only 98 pounds, more or less, his mother had told him he was too small to play football. “You’re better suited to chess,” she would say. But he wanted to grind his toe in the grass and scuff up his shoes until they were green. He yearned to slip the shoulder pads on, bury his head in the helmet, and chew on the mouthpiece. Today he would race down the field and catch the winning pass. This was going to be his year; he would not be too short, too skinny, too uncoordinated. He was playing football, no matter what.

(more…)

Feel Better, Already? 0

Letter to the editor of the Las Vegas Sun, December 2005

What are they really looking for at Hoover Dam?

Coming home from Texas after Thanksgiving with a small trailer load of furniture I left Kingman wondering if I should drive through Laughlin or cross Hoover Dam. The signs and the radio messages in Kingman made it clear my trailer would be inspected. Since past inspections were cursory I decided we could move across the dam as usual and put an end to our 1,100 mile journey.

(more…)