Tag Archives: imagination

Sparrow Moon

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Sparrow Moon

I dreamt I birthed a beautiful child
and tried to select the perfect name for her
discarding Raven Night  –  too dark and vacuous
choosing  instead, Sparrow Moon –

my dream daughter embraced the reflected light
and knowledge framed her,
she became a wise adult at age two,
but I lost her inside my cavernous mind
lost her to the shadows and wrinkles of beta sleep
and all day her name haunted me,
called to me as I took photo after photo of birds,
none of which was a sparrow.

Where and who was Sparrow moon?
that night I Googled the name,
there was only one person using my dream baby’s moniker,
a psychic named Janet-
pseudo named Sparrow Moon
and I emailed her ‘contact list’
telling her of  my dream, but adding  I had nothing to ask her.
It was only minutes till I received an auto  response —
she would like to have a reading starting at $19.95
or I could call the radio show for free
To which her Twitter statement became so apropos-
on the night of the dream her Twitter read,
“think before you act. There will be some brazen acts of stupidity.”
WHOA! She  was right on, indeed psychic!
Now should she email me back wanting to charge me
for reciting my dream in that email,
she will have to use her ability to read my mind for  my Visa number
after I spam future emails
and if she can do that,
my dreams really pack a punch…
(and I have learned from my “brazen act of stupidity”…)

The Policy – short story

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The Policy

by abbe

Lu Wong nursed her baby, staring into round, shining eyes, the color of water at midnight. A tiny smile caused the infant to stop suckling as she gazed into a face of warm familiarity. Lu Wong smiled back smoothing her hand over the newborn’s silken strands of fine, black hair. As the baby became sated with milk, her small lids grew heavy, with the burden of sleep.

The infant was laid upon the bed, the diaper changed along with warmer clothes for the journey. Lu Wong hummed a melancholy tune, something she remembered hearing her grandmother sing. It was a song about a swan who lost its mate and swam round and round until the fowl grew exhausted and drowned. Somehow Lu Wong felt the same, her own thoughts exhausting and drowning in her head like rocks tossed into  water.

She worked her tired fingers around the small buttons before gently positioning the baby inside the blanket. So pale the infant looked as compared with the red fabric that surrendered her shape. The baby squirmed for a moment, then returned to the blissful slumber reserved for the truly innocent.

Lu Wong peered through the window, the day was encumbered by gray, woolen clouds. Birds had long lifted their wings to the southern winds. The carp in the murky pond were driven to the bottom becoming random muted patterns with sunken autumn leaves. The heavy rains would come soon, cold and penetrating, the rain of a burgeoning, hostile season. Ice too would then form like poised crystal dagger. Everything in nature seemed to be coming apart, disconnected as with each leaf blown loose from its mother tree.

Lu Wong looked at her watch, her son would be back from school in four hours, her husband in five. She must leave now if she were to be back before her boy arrived. The young mother put on her down jacket, positioning the baby cradled close to her heart. She straddled the bicycle, wobbling at first until she found her balance. Would the baby wake? She did not, for the infant was secured, much like a confined butterfly within its cocoon. Even the random bumping into the many ruts along the frayed road did not disengage this genuine slumber.

The temperature had fallen, the cold slapped pink into her cheeks as Lu Wong rode. There were few people about the village, no one she recognized or who recognized her. She peddled hard – finding with the extra weight of the baby, she must walk the bicycle up the larger inclines. There were a few stray dogs on the outskirts of the forest who barked and charged at her, but she out-maneuvered them.

Rain began to spill from the clouds and Lu Wong rounded her shoulders shielding her daughter from this wet intrusion. The path she followed thickened with skeletal trees, cedar and plum. Wind postured the branches to reach forward like empty hands offering nothing.  The rain then whipped into sheets and the mother found a thick cluster of bushes for shelter. The baby began to cry and so did Lu Wong, both wailed in an effort to be comforted. The mother drew her daughter to her bosom to nurse. The rain would bead off a branch and drop onto the mother’s chest in small rivulets, wetting the blanket and clothes, but it did not keep the baby from drinking. Lu Wong wondered if the infant noticed how loud and fast her mother’s heart was beating, if the foreign rhythm would distract and disturb the little one. This was not so, it was only when a few droplets of water came to play upon the newborn’s forehead that it startled her, she stopped to share a joyous smile with her mother before continuing to feed.

Finally, with her tiny one asleep, Lu Wong buttoned up her damp shirt and zipped her coat high on her neck, the cold metal zipper might as well have been a knife cutting her throat. Lu Wong breathed rapidly as if all the oxygen were escaping from her lungs. She looked at the sleeping infant then looked at her watch and knew she must get home. Lu Wong reached down and kissed the tiny cheek, a cheek as delicate as the blossoms of the lotus floating in simple splendor on a summers day along the pond. She reached for a loose end of the blanket and held it tightly against the newborn’s face. Using both hands, Lu Wong pressed down firmly upon the fabric aware of her own rush for breath as she looked away. She counted out loud as a  distraction. When the muffled infant sounds stopped and the tiny waving hands surrender their flight, relinquishing their hold upon this earth, the mother sobbed wildly. Lu Wong reached for the dainty hands – still warm. She stroked the miniature,  lifeless fingers between her own. The job was done, ‘The Policy’ carried through.

Her daughter’s spirit was now free while Lu Wong’s heart was shackled: imprisoned by the iron bondage of guilt and shame, torment and time. She lifted the blanket and looked one last time into the empty face, so small and helpless, like that of a broken necked sparrow she once found. Lu Wong covered the baby once again, her tears as chilled as the rain. Her eyes blurred from the combination of weeping and water heaving itself upon her. She tenderly pushed the red bundle under the thickest part of the bushes. Lu Wong grabbed her bicycle and rode erratically – frightened to look back.  She pushed away the thoughts of feral animals and wondered if she could have done as her neighbor, Winnie who dropped her live daughter from the city bridge in the dark.
Lu Wong bumped the sides of tree trunks and lost her balance several times on slippery rocks and mud. Her face scraped against a sharp branch, cutting her cheek. Blood trickled from the gash, she accepted this as punishment, letting this fluid of life run down her face and jacket as a symbol cursed upon her.

Lu Wong suddenly felt no urgency of time as she walked the bicycle along the nearby path ahead that would take her home, back to her village, back to her first born, the only child she was permitted by law to have, back to her husband who would hold her and cry with her, long into the mornings of many tomorrow’s…

*The Policy in China is one child only. Most couples keep the son for he is the one who takes care of the parents in old age. Many women do not opt for adoption and instead, take the lives of their newborns.

Fishcubes

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Photo by Abbe

Fish Cubes –From Tales Beneath The Electric Blanket

Fishcubes Winter 2008

went to bed late last night knowing the frost was coming,
the news said Florida would freeze.
i woke at 7am, it was 30 degrees,
but the windchill made it feel like minus 21
looking out the back, I could see the lake was lumpy,
things were bobbing up and down,
but what?

i bundled up under 3 sweaters and 2 coats,
2 pair of socks
figuring seven was a lucky number to keep me warm,
while accenting the look with
vinyl dishwashing gloves.
even the cold burn of the metal door handle could be felt
through the yellow elastic fingers.

standing by the shore,
i could see by the light of a tepid rising sun
that the bodies of the fish had frozen into cubes
floating atop the lake.
Surely they would die!
so I gathered trash cans onto my small boat
and went about netting bream,
shiners, bass and mudfish into the cans.
when sufficiently satisfied
that all the fishcubes had been harvested,
i rowed back to shore, rushed inside the house
and built a nice fire with a fake log,
then wheeled the trash cans in,
warming the fishcubes before the phony phlames
stirring the scaly swill with metal tongs
and a pinch old bay seasonings.

one by one the fishcubes melted
with utterances of a deep, aquatic nature.
a rather large bass floated to the top of one can
and asked where he was and what date was it?
saying his memory had been impaired by the cold,
“it’s January 3rd 2008”,  i remarked.
when a bream, so excited to be thawed,
jumped from one trash can flopping onto the hearth
with his gills fully expanded,
thanking me profusely
for rescuing his family
i lifted him gently back into the water.

a very mature mudfish leaned forward
telling me his family
had resided there since the Esocene era —
he said his fish ancestors were the
oldest living residents of the lake
to which a shiner called him a liar-
there was a sudden ‘fish-two-cuffs’,
a bass jumped up and pinned the mudfish to the wall of a can
calling the shiner a lowlife carp
– barbs were exchanged.

once the shiner dove back down,
the mudfish seemed to calm
until he spied my fishing pole in the corner of the room.
he pointed a fin toward the pole yelling,
“traitor human, traitor human, we’re all gonna die! ”
while pitching his slimy body out of the can shouting,
“i would rather sacrifice the generations of my family
than become  your trophy–”  he pointed to a deer head
on the wall “look!” he gurgled.
hundreds of fish heads peered over the edges-
mouths agape looking betrayed and fearful.

the bass was the first to raise a dorsal fin and call for anarchy—
suddenly fish and water overturned the trash cans
splashing violently all over the pink carpet,
as scaly, wet bodies crashed about
ruining my antique furniture,
hurling through the glass of the china cabinet,
while 2 gars played catch with my Lalique figures,
delighting in watching them shatter
into glass confetti.
slimy fins slapped open the books off the low shelves
as smudged, black ink stained the water.
there was complete piscine chaos-
heads and tails
heads and tails
flapping about chattering in ‘fishlish’,
one catfish croaking “o sole mio”-

what had i done? i wondered,
what had i done? i didn’t know what to do.

i ran to the garage and put on waders,
got my net,
put on nose plugs and dove
onto the saturated carpet.
fish crammed into my boots
slashing my legs with sharp scales,
i did a hand stand to get them out
and opened the back sliding door
with my feet.
fish and water
gushed out the opening
in an adfluvial advance,
those crazy fish somersaulted
all the way back to the lake.

i sloshed my way toward the garage
to get the wet/dry vac,
lighting some candles to get that fishy smell out,
when i noticed a small 3inch bream stuck
to the side of the leather couch
his shiny lungs expanding and contracting.
i slowly peeled him loose as
his bleary eyes looked up,
“water, water” he said in a very puny voice.

i rushed him to the sink and plugged it up,
the little guy was swimming about happily,
a smile on it’s little fishy face.
its’ fishy gaping lips breached the surface of
the stainless steel sink.
“do u mind if i ask u something?” the fish lips flapped.
“feel free,” i reached down and tickled his sides
as he laughed out loud emitting burpy bubbles.
it tilted it’s head, “i have always wanted to be domesticated –
would u let me live here with u?”
i didn’t know how to react,
so i asked if his family wouldn’t miss him?
he said he was orphaned when he was only a fry
and was afraid the other fish would try and eat him.
i told him it would be an honor to have him as a pet
and went into the attic to search for the old fish tank.

When I came inside carrying the tank,
the neighbors cat sat hovering
over the sink
and suddenly pierced it’s canines into the heart of
my new pet fish which was screaming,
it’s anal fin flapping  spasmatically back and forth
as the cat ran off with it.
i held the tank in my arms and
weeped 10 gallons worth of saltwater tears
into it, born from sadness and frustration,
the weight being so heavy it slipped from my hands,
and spilled to the floor.
i was afraid it might take
bringing in a herd of deer when it dried
for a salt-lick-up.

my legs were wet and cold and
plastered with glass and loose scales.
the floors were ‘ichthy’ and wet,
everything reeked of fish and mayhem.
i moved the vacuum to the kitchen
to mop up my tears.
i felt i had learned a lesson that day,
don’t ever be a humanitarian on freezing days
by saving frozen fishcubes,
they will be fine left alone.
and never make big promises
you can’t keep
to small fry…

Top Hat Eulogy

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The Top Hat Eulogy

I woke up and looked outside-
my grandfather stood in the garden
in the form form of Yoda
surrounded by a force field

I opened the doors
the roses were full
and pungent
and made me breathe in fistfuls

I knew that was my Papa
as he wore the familiar collapsible black top hat
the one with his initials inside

The day was pallidly overcast
but a great light shone upon him
and his voice kept repeating

“Shalom Aleichem – Hare Krishna”.

And when he spoke
golden nuggets would drop from his lips
as people hurried by and grabbed them

The masses left Mardi Gras beads at his feet
while he blessed them using galvanized quatrains
and the “sick among them were healed” —
one man in a wheelchair was given an
application for Dancing With The Stars
the hordes looking stunned as he jumped up
and did a Saint Vitus dance off

So I asked a passing titmouse-
“What does my grandfather say?”
And his tuft relaxed as he chirped
“he gives them great hope”

And I wanted this hope and to speak
to my Papa
who has been silently absent
for almost twenty years
so I slowly took my place in the back of the line
hoping he would recognize me
hoping to touch his hand once more
to smell Old Spice and see his smile
but the line kept growing
and people kept cutting in
and I could not progress forward

I ran
and ran
to the front of the crowd
and pushed my way through
but all that sat there was the top hat
atop golden nuggets
and everyone grabbed the nuggets
and I took the top hat and bushed it off
and hugged it as a voice
I recognized as my Papa’s
came from inside the hat—
“my darling, this is why you will never be rich,
the others go for the gold and
you stand behind and hold an old, useless hat”
the hat burst into flames
but did not burn me –
it grew wings and flew off into a blackened night

I watched the flaming hat circle the lake
then passed over the crescent moon
where it perched at the lowest moon tip
illuminating the sky

The small titmouse came by and landed on my shoulder
pointing a wing toward the door
“you must close your eyes, spit three times and run backwards for ten feet” it said
and I did
but when I opened my eyes I was back under my electric blanket
while the sun rudely woke me by casting laser beams
into my face —
I got up to feed the cats and the birds
and when I went outside
the garden was empty

the flowers looked sad
the rose petals had all fallen off
leaving bald and bent stems-
No Papa –
no golden nuggets

when I heard a titmouse singing from
the grapefruit tree
“gulliblegulliblegullible” it chirped-
I threw a rotten grapefruit at it
and the bird flew overhead
leaving a white sticky calling card
dripping off my shoulder

The answer had been revealed
go for the gold
I thought to myself over and over
wondering how to do that
and all that ‘over’ made me overload
and over tire
and over think

I reached for my Papa’s top hat in the closet
and climbed back into bed
under the electric blanket
Putting the hat upon my head

When I woke again
the hat was on the floor
screaming obscenities like a mean drunk –
it struggled to right itself
like flailing turtle upside down on its’ shell

And that was where I left it screaming
as I started my quest for the gold
beginning at the refrigerator
opening the door rather timidly asking
in a voice rather unlike my own
that came out kind of ‘Brooklyn-esqe’
did it know where the ‘gould’ was

there was a profound silence–
the milk soured
the cheese curdled
and a bottle of Guldens mustard popped off the shelf
and wrote my eulogy in dirty yellow…

College Poetry Night

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photo credit: Abbe Arenson

Poetry night November 2009

thought it might be good to roost on college campus
for poetry night,
the night of the new moon,
listening to fresh voices for inspiration
something to assault my elder brain with key words
to give my dulled senses new food
I was hungry to write again

about thirty students and their professor assembled
I was the oldest one in that room
absorbing their ages and innocence
watching their squirming angst as
the professor told them to come up and read,
read something they wrote,
read something by someone else,
he began the evening by reading his own work
I don’t remember one word

the first young man stood right up
macho, tanned, firm arms ablaze with colored inks
and clingy shirt to compliment,
he reminded me of Michael Fitzsimmons
in “Peggy Sue Got Married” –  his words curt and forceful,
trying for hardedge reflection,
the girls whispered and smiled
this was the one Peggy Sue would crave

the white girls came up one by one
shiny haired, nervous and generic
despair, depression, break ups, near  suicides,
the pattern was set for every designer jeaned one of them
except for one who mumbled something at a Nascar pace
about trying to understand her two year old cousin,
while a petite blond peeped in a high overture to
Dickinson’s, “I heard a Fly Buzz”

Then a beaded and braided, “player” swaggered to the mike
silky smooth in his Barry White delivey
the voice overrode what he was saying
he will be a DJ or radio host
the velvety voice will net its’ lions’ share
of female prey

I do remember the bespectacled student
I do remember his serious rap, his ramrod vibe
his righteous tangent on hope and God
and Jesus being the light – the way
he spoke with clarity and passion,
I pictured a stern mother
delivering  Biblical justice with a firm hand

my eyes wandered through the herd
scoped out  ‘boys’ through ‘cougar’  eyes,
I liked the dirty blond with goatee –
found myself still  drawn to the same ‘type’
that appealed to me in high school  4 decades ago,
my mind buzzed back to days of mad crushes,
learning what the word cunnilingus meant,
French kissing and copping feels  under bleachers and
of course rejection
ah, the ‘60’s, the best times ever,
but back to poetry

the rest of the poems seemed like fine silicate
loose words slipping off pages
kids read, then were rewarded with light, polite clapping for all,
one woman in her forties held worn sheets of paper,
pieces  about cancer, death and killing
I would call it melancholy “schmaltz”  at best
go look it up, gentiles

when time finally lapsed between readers
the Professor got up and read another of his poems
which was funny to the ear
as the young crowd all laughed at the staged lines,
but I heard the undertones ,
of wanting fame and reverence for self
for wishing that swooning college females would hive
at his honeyed words and experience,
it was obvious  mid-life was imploding,
the balding pate, the soft body looked computer chained
the humor was truth doused in itching powder
tickling him without mercy
about all that had been denied

when he finished, the professor looked around-
was about to call it a night
when from the back stood a skinny, dark haired guy ,
looked about twenty,
he slinked up to the podium on tall khaki legs
standing silent for a moment-
no notes, no books, no laptop in attendance
we waited as he took in a breath
and began to recite
and recite he did,
stanza after compelling stanza
a poem not his own, but so impacting in its’ delivery
it should have been,
the subject was about going back to rehab,
it cut gashes into my psyche
my blood took to splashing hard against the arteries,
he made me shiver in his sincerity,
I saw scenery and visions raped by knowledge too sage
for one so young to know,
but he spoke with eloquence –
with the fullness of living behind thick shadows,
of speaking a churchyard elegy to a corpse still alive
this was the moment worth waiting for,
this was ‘The One’ worth hearing,
the one who was calm, yet dangerous,
the one reeking of undigested fumaroles waiting for a shunt
the audience silenced by his chainsaw reality –
the poet he memorized should sweat him

there was silence for a second or two after he finished –
words like scorching rain were still wetting
and burning the audience
and then came the clapping
hands reddened by hard smacking
for the savior of poetry night, the true artist among us,
or rather a true actor who walked past all of us
walked right out of the room before the accolades finished –
more of an exile than an exit

the veneer of the night finally peeled  –
I walked out to my truck under the dark new moon,
slipped the key into the ignition
but didn’t turn it,
I closed my eyes
waiting for the moment of impact…

Porn for Piece or Peace?

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100_6506re

Porn for piece and peace

Saleh al Jalaheen should have left the movie theater –
should not have stayed so long –
he had an easy fifty dollars in his pocket,
big money to make in Syria in 1994
all he had to do was the legwork –
a quick dropoff,
but the legwork consumed him
time and dreams all became forged
by the showing that day
inside the Salwa Cinema

Even though it was a film from Turkey,
Saleh didn’t need to know the foreign language
he had entered a theater bathed in soft-porn
featuring, ‘delights of the flesh’
the things the Holy Book told him were forbidden-
advised him to avoid

Suddenly up front and bluntly before him
in size and detail
big engaging sex-
womens unclothed bodies-
Saleh became the lion stalking it’s prey in the dark,
his pupils expanded with visions of pleasure
his ears attune to the soft moans,
his brain locked into the secret moments
his tongue salivating for the taste of ambrosia,
of shapely naked breasts and stiffened nipples,
of positions and fetishes he never imagined –
his apterous body could not abandon its’ nest

When they paid him,
he thought he followed directions
but no one warned him about the movie
poor Saleh did not heed his employer’s instruction
after placing the bomb beneath his chair
he forgot his culture
forgot The Koran
forgot all about the evils of voyeurism
but mostly, he forgot the mission

That fifty dollars was to be coveted in vane
it could not cover the loss of his legs
blown off because those appendages
were fixed like mafia cement to the floor
Saleh didn’t even think about moving to another seat
where he might have been spared

Saleh became a casualty to sex
lost both his legs without getting any of the pleasure
from either the sex act nor the terror act
he became condemned as a terrorist failure
he does not qualify for the virgins promised him in heaven
and most likely, that was the only sex he will know…
The destruction he was going to impose upon others,
imposed itself upon him

Some people just aren’t meant to be bombers for a cause,
they should forget doing favors for easy money
which itself is seduction
How is it that being mesmorized by ‘piece’
could bring about both pleasure and horror –
And yet by the sheer act
of sitting there in the Salwa theatre
surrounded by soft female images
on the big screen,
it erased all thought of Jihad
all thought of hate and
of planting bombs for money.

Imagine that… ‘piece’  for peace
the sheer idiosyncrasy of it;
piece for peace–
Well… it kept Saleh, the bomber
occupied and thinking more about glorious sex acts
than the act of committing terror didn’t it…

Catching “The Kraken”

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100_1618re 32609wtB-1re

Apalone Ferox – Soft shelled Turtle

The myth of the Kraken

Twelve months of moon phases have passed
since I began fishing this lake of Lethe,
each day the circadian rhythm suspends
and I am granted 2 hours for fishing
in my Zen dimension.

I stand like a Moses poised over the lake,
commanding with a mighty rod –
I WILL change the dynamics today
by interrupting fish schedules,
all catches to be released
and no ill will between the species.

Even a slow fishing day
does not diminish the essence of clean mind absorption
of taking in the saturation of the lake,
birds coasting overhead,
and even the red belly of Flyglobespan
leaving Sanford and traveling due north to Scotland at 6pm
is only one more pair of beautiful wings over the horizon.

Mysterious forces swirl just beneath the sheath of water
a magnified-mottled softshell skirting the depths
like an armed floating leather shield.
“The Kracken”, I dubbed it –
Avatar with largess guarding over this territory –
turtle of intimidation,
respecting that we both have a purpose here.

I cast my bait away from it,
watching for the hooded head with
two circular orbs revealing its’ position.
Sometimes obvious masses of  bubbles surfaced,
expelled by both ends of it’s reptile alimentary canal.
Cretaceous ‘Kracken’ and its’ ilk
belonging to this planet millions of years prior to man,
still in basic uniform adapting better than most.
The dark waters mysteriously stifle the pattern
of brown and olive
all monochromatic and symbiotic as one unit –
it is the red and white bobber that’s grossly out of place here.

Suddenly two winking eyes
and massive soft plastron breaks the water
neck extending,
attached to a thick body breaching two diverse worlds
of wet and dry.

These are the largest soft shell turtles in the New World,
sea monsters scanning the lakes from their secret aquatic depths,
making the neighbor children squirm and shout
when the swift-pattern shell passes by.
Many times I was startled by it’s sudden appearance
and I did not want to hook it,
did not want its’ hissing and snapping mouth near my
fingers and toes.
This liquid warrior,
soft frigate fighting vigorously for it’s space,
and it was me who was the invader,
the unwelcomed ‘occupier’

On land there is no faster turtle
and in the lake it’s wet lightning,
I continued to see him as more than a simple species
this turtle was the embodiment of MY modern myth,
voiding the edges of reality to become
a leviathan we all feared would latch onto our lines,
chase us down and eat us whole.

Bringing in bream or shiners too slowly was always a risk,
the Kracken sometimes trailed my catch.
This reptile has a nose made for sniffing death and
is quick to nab anything moving erratic,
like wounded fish or even small ducks-
bottoms up!

This day there was an edgy wind
and wide rippling of the lake.
It was late afternoon,
the sun had been sacked by a wall of gray clouds,
the tannin water did not have the clarity of
sunlight illuminating behind it,
preventing my normal aquatic acuity
from reaching its sight into
the water’s most intimate wet spaces.

I cast out and felt the pull-
just from that tug my adrenalin spilled,
I had hooked something large!
Turtles jerk at a hook differently than fish
and suddenly my line was heading out toward the weeds,
but not sharply down as with a hooked bass.

There was a struggle coming,
from a risky looking sky above
and the waves and reptile fighting against me,
I fought with an invisible power upon the line
as it thrust against the pain of impalement
from a new, sharp hook.

I let it have more line hoping maybe it would loosen,
maybe free itself and swim away,
only to reel and find it still fighting-
fighting against the hook,
fighting against domination,
fighting to preserve its’ turtle dignity.

For a while the line stretched taut,
the rod bending in contortions I didn’t think possible
until finally it was exhausted
as I pulled it closer to shore –
tangling through massive thick hydrilla,
water cutting against it slowing its surrender.

I knew his temper would be ill
his mouth tender and injured
and susceptible to infections-
that hook could prove as lethal as a wounding bullet
to both of us,
one stick and the smallest of deadly bacteria
takes precedent over the largest of beings.

We both struggled for control,
the weeds thickened around him,
the rain began beating down,
but I could not abandon the fight-
my line was still jerking.
I jumped down from the sea wall
to the waters sandy shore
anticipating the worst
thinking how using needle nose pliers,
would be like tackling a minotaur with a safety pin.

As I reeled while standing braced on the shore,
rain saturating my every fiber from head to toe,
the massive beast came into view,
but,
it was not the behemoth I had so imagined
the carapace about 2 feet long — not 5 or greater-
as magnified by the mocking water,
it certainly lacked in Karken proportions.
It’s long neck and legs flailing-
a hook swallowed – the line inside the mouth
it bled red – it’s agony and instinct intact.

My Kracken –
myth of the lake,
myth of my mind –
swimming against the storm tide,
struggling against the pain,
bubbles trailing a route to panic-
animal brought down to scale.

I reached out to try and net him,
but he jerked and pulled
there was no restraining
a very mad, agitated turtle.

As I pulled to get it closer to shore,
it’s feet gave one last thrust of traction
breaking the weakened line then lurching down,
the bobber floating up
riding long the choppy waves.
I watched as a torpedo hurled back to the deep
past the weeds,
past the thick walled and banging water,
past the now fractured tale.

I worried my hook would cost Kracken it’s life,
would it bleed to death, infect and rot?
Sadly, I looked at my pole with dangling,
worn 12 lb. test line,
my head down and battered by rain,
I picked up the wet tackle box and left.

The rain yelled at me,
I had clearly violated the tenets of the lake –
lightning forked above my head,
bent branches whipped me hard with water
as I passed beneath them.
The storm screamed and cried and moaned
for it’s loss,
I listened to it’s anger that whole night,
and thought of nothing else except
how it would feel to be hooked and reeled in,
skin pierced and ripped as vessels burst,
I too cried along with the howling storm…

Green and Slimy The turtles Revenge

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2779608425_0fcb5a793erewor Photo Credit: Paul Rackman/Abbe edited

These poems are based on the fact I love to fish and feel extremely guilt ridden when I catch anything. I release them, but sometimes I hook a turtle which is worse than hooking a fish. I have written some “Lewis Carrol”, nonsense type poetry devoted to my angst and guilt. And I still fish almost nightly, with those two feelings latched to my side. This is one of my stories from  Tales Beneath the Electric Blanket.

Green and Slimy – Turtles Revenge

Green and Slimy,
the turtles wobbled up from the lake,
dripping a trail of seaweed in the letters S O S behind them.
Arms locked, tails sharpened,
hurling canasta cards and dice,
“Down with the human” the turtles shouted in unison,
disguising their voices using a pig Latin oink,
which seemed quite odd seeing as they wore
the pinstripe suits of white collar terrapins.

There were eight in all–
more than the fingers on one hand,
more than the toes on a Hemingway cat.
Large, small, long snouts, wide mouths, accusing eyes.
A cadence of edgy anger as they marched
like militants with shields on their backs
up to my back door.

The largest of the group gripped my arm with a savage intensity
demanding I surrender my devices and potions.
Leaning back on a carapace paved with algae, he spoke,
“We have come”, he said with pupils blacker and meaner than octopus ink,
“To remove from you the things that fault your human character.”
to which I said nothing afraid perjury might froth from my lips.
“You see,” he took my head into his long, manicured claws
forcing my eyes to look upon the hoards chanting in Hebrew, or maybe Farsi?
Neither of which I spoke, but somehow understood by the captions
magically circling the words above their craggy heads.
“You see,” he continued,  “how you have complicated our lives?”
I looked up his nostrils and two yellow snails winked at me.
“Whatever do you mean?” I asked.
He grabbed my fishing poles and broke them in half.
“Those are responsible for this,”
he turned a curvy profile to show me a hole in his cheek plugged with
old, chewed up Bazooka gum.

“Oh my,” I said as remorse trickled from my mouth like melted butter.
“Our blood is upon your hands,” and each turtle smacked a wet, red clawprint across my cheek.
“I never intended my hooks for you.” I stated.
He shook his wrinkled head, “It is not so much the hooks
as it is about the alchemy of white flour,
“Your human food has created an obesity crisis among the turtles. ”
I took notice that each protesting reptile was pot bellied.
“You bait the hook with soft, white puffs and expect only dumb fish,
but your magic food has all of us fighting and longing for more.”
Every one of their heads nodded in choreographed agreement.
“Not only have you made us fight each other for the bait,
the methane structure of the lake is different now,”
They all turned and lifted their tails,
a grueling chorus commenced sounding of hunters blowing duck calls.
Massive green bubbles emerged and burst mid-air
reeking of broccoli and seaweed with a touch of feculent fish.

I put one hand across my nose and the other to shield my eyes.
“I am truly sorry for this,” I apologized.
“Keep your white flour and hooks for your own twisted politics, maam, I
assure you, we do not share the same fetishes and fantasies.”
He signaled to the others by tapping his plastron
then kicked the remains of my fishing rods out of his way.
The others followed him back into the lake
leaving behind seaweed,
and the distinct smell of a German restaurant
while a swastika remained stamped into the grass where they had goose-stepped.

I took my bread and tackle box
and threw it all into the trash,
then went inside.
No more bribing the fish at the lake,
No more barbs through cheeks,
they were right, the pure ecology of lake creatures
was being corrupted by me,
toxic white flour and curved steel.

I picked up the broken pieces of rods
and walked back to the trash.
A single, red-eared cooter emerged from a downed can.
He was shoving what remained of the loaf of bread into his plastron.
We looked at each other with vague acknowledgment,
I turned to leave and he cleared his throat,
“I’m sorry to bother, but would you happen to have
any mayo and lettuce to go?” He inquired.
I ignored his question and walked back inside the house,
I had created a generation of reptilian carb addicts
all because I enjoyed fishing.

No longer can I tolerate the smell of cooking broccoli…

The Bloodletting of Erzsebet Bathory

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Erzsebet

When dissecting the events coloring  history,
it is hard not to judge royalty –
so consumed with inbreeding,
inbreeding as a result of greed for keeping
treasures and power within select families
for political gains.

Sometimes these alliances of power and land holdings
grow genetically flawed and
proved themselves a recipe for self-immolation,
an amalgam that sparks legends and myths to be generated.
And in the case of Countess Eresebet’s, a reality so harsh,
an ‘Act’ of Parliament resulted,
declaring the mention of  her name a criminal act.

This niece of the King of Poland was scarred
at the moment of conception,
the maleficence of genes dividing within the zygote
became cells dividing into sects of evil compounding evil,
spliced between layers of schizophrenia and insanity.

Her head crowned into a dynasty of the arcane,
the richest most powerful Protestant family in Hungary.
1560 welcomed Erzsebet Bathory into a rich life
below the shadows of the Carpathian mountains.

By the age of five, they called her Elizabeth,
epilepsy  rocked the delicate, porcelain skinned child.
She was beautiful, spoiled  and catered to,
better educated than most men.
Elizabeth knew her standing was different,
she saw it the day when a gypsy was held for a crime.
Brought outside the castle,
Elizabeth’s young ears heard  the screams
and she loosed herself from a nanny to watch justice:
the gypsy’s horse sliced open and eviscerated while still alive
the condemned man then sewn inside to die
this impression became a raw infusion of dark portentous thought
latching forever into Elizabeth’s psyche.

By age eleven, raven haired Elizabeth was sent to her fiancee’s Castle ,
where she was groomed for marriage,
to prepare for the raping
and taking of all childhood innocence, a custom carried forward.
Her marriage deemed a political allegiance,
her husband a soldier eleven years her senior,
Ferenc Nadasdy, gave his gift to her, Castle Csejte,
a new home for her pleasures and pain.

While he busied himself with fighting the Turks,
The engaged 13 year old, Elizabeth gave birth by a male servant,
the baby was removed along with the hushed secrets
always dulled within castle walls.

At 15 she married as highest royalty,
her husband took from her, the last name of Bathory,
a  more socially prominent name.
Her new mother-in-law tended to dominate and criticize,
her new husband was busy on distant battle fields as
Elizabeth was living a life of boredom
and a recognition that she needed attention.

True bliss came only on her visits to Aunt Karla
and pleasuring themselves with indulgent, all female orgies
and extravagant flagellation.
The newlywed  Countess,  preferred buxom women, hot wax,
and hot branding irons.
Ferenc specialized in his own devices of torture for the enemy.

Elizabeth became absorbed by the occult
taught by her servant, Dorka.
With her nurse and several ‘witches’, Elizabeth had a new hobby;
beating  female servants for her sexual delight,
inserting pins into their lips and fingernails,
hot metal spikes for girl’s tender body parts,
cutting them with scissors,
shoving oiled papers between their tender
toes and setting the papers on fire.

Elizabeth delighted in having a servant taken into the freezing snow,
to have water poured upon the girl until she froze.
If the weather was fair,
Elizabeth poured honey on her victim
waiting  for the fleas and rats and wild animals to consume the body alive.
Heaven and lust found at the fringes of mutilation and
bloodied female corpses.

In between the torture, She bred spawns for legacy,
a daughter, then two children died. She produced two more heirs,
but heirs to what?
Did they suffer from her sicknesses?
Did they desire their parent’s predilection of pain as pleasure?
Where were the children when they mother was having her orgies
and killing sprees?
Did they hear the screams, did they peek as Erzsebet had done
with the gypsy’s horse?

Don’t you wonder what the bedroom chambers held
between two people so thriving on hurt and suffering
and hungering for perverse attention?
Frenec was recognized as “The Black Hero of Hungary” –
one of  “The Unholy Quintet’ known for his ravaging cruel nature.
But even the Count became repulsed by his wife’s insatiable capacity
for overt sadism.

1604 brought death into Castle Csejte as Ferenc died,
a war injury had spoiled the blood.
Finally, after 29 years of marriage,
the mother-in-law was removed,
Elizabeth now had complete domination,
a new meaning to home sweet home.

The countess was aware of her age, her faded beauty
and one day after a release of blood from striking a servant,
she welcomed a warm rush of red fluid against her aging body,
a vitality unrecognized before.
She demanded a servant girl be drained of blood
so Elizabeth could bath and drink in this resource of eternal youth,
revitalizing herself by the lives she would sacrifice.
After that Elizabeth got greedy,  setting up cages in the dungeon
hoisted high metal bars with perforated bottoms –
spikes penetrated the flesh of the victims for draining blood.
These cages provided Elizabeth the showers of rejuvenation.

Needing more ‘available help’,
in 1609 she advertised her castle
as a ‘finishing’ school,  which it literally became.
Elizabeth was grateful for so many virginal girls
and their rich blood source.
She saw to it they each received a Christian burial for their sacrifice –
even though the priest wondered how so many died mysteriously.

Elizabeth grew sloppy in her obsessions,
a victim escaped,  bodies were reported thrown out of the castle in
laziness.
The King ordered Elizabeth’s cousin,
Count Gyorgy, governor of the providence to raid the castle.
Gyorgy waited for Christmas, and sent his men in –
They found victims scattered about,
50 bodies had been buried  beneath  the castle,
one victim was being drained, but still alive.

The trial was political,
they wanted no scandal,
and no royalty to be put to death.
Elizabeth did not plead anything,  nor did she make an appearance.
The jury heard from those who had suffered for sometimes months of unrelenting vile servitude for Elizabeth’s bloodthirsty fetishes.

The ‘cache’ of ‘ritualists’ assisting the Countess
were sentenced in ‘Biblical’, Christian justice;
their fingers torn off with hot metal pinchers,
their tortured bodies then tossed into a pyre.
A few lessor criminals were simply beheaded.
Proving religion was just as guilty of
having its’ own vicious, fetish perversion
in their desire for retribution.

Elizabeth was ordered sealed inside a small room at the castle,
no windows or doors,
only a small opening for food and ventilation.

Her remaining in residence at the castle assured that her children
kept their royal inheritance.
Assured the good name of Bathory was unspoiled,
even with those who claimed she was a victim of a conspiracy.
By the time she died in 1614, she had tortured almost  650 girls,
keeping  hand written lists of incrimination,
possibly taking pleasure from the sheer numbers
or the remembrances themselves.

Mostly they were virgins,
mostly poor or lower peasant class –
They all served the Countess and country beyond the call of duty.
The records were sealed; no one was to speak her name for a century,
for fear the words themselves would release a dark force
or spell bringing her deeds back in spirit form.

What became of her children?
her Castle Csejte fell into ruins –
Bram Stoker wrote Dracula, the  fictional account
of similar events of psychosis living among the mountain.
Stories spread throughout the world.

Was it was due to simple inbreeding?
To the people talking inside Erezsbet’s brain?
Or maybe it breaks down to spoiled, bored  ‘titled people’
with too much time
on their bloodied, royal hands.
Perhaps there were too many tantalizing tales of perversion
on the battlefield and from the Church.
Too many twisted opportunities with little respect for human life.
Elizabeth Bathory’s life will not be remembered for her
duty as loving wife or mother,
but as a bloodthirsty dominatrix who needed to inflict pain
to satisfy her own.
These are the secrets still lingering today,
still whispered in the Carpethian mist
and read off the stains from castle dungeon walls…

Night At Sea

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Night At Sea

Night approaches starboard from the east
porous and liquid as the sea below
they merge embraced like engaging lovers
swaying gently in their exchange of rapture

The thrust of the boat
carves white slits into the wave-veins
they bleed through the heart of the water
vessel upon vessel

The world looking neither flat nor round
but ‘catacombed’ in between
the chemical flux of hydrogen and oxygen and
I, mere mortal, lost in the balance
at the mercy of esoteric nature
on a sea-faring man made invention

Watching the world through a veil
of hazy ink blotting up time and destination –
Galileos’s stars the only lucid oracle
mesmerized by the cradled rhythm
from the parting labial waters –
I close my eyes as the engine chants
a droning diesel mantra

Salinity aerates through the resolute wind –
my skin glistens like that of a neophytes
wet and thick with the juices of rebirth
bonding me to our great Matriarch
and gravity, the physical umbilicus
chains my body while
all vagary of thought ruffles leeward

How grand it is to feast
upon this epicurean night
tacking along an aqueous avenue
turning a blind eye to convention
fed by the unfurling of winds,
Mariner of this liquid cosmos
sovereign at the helm of Neptune’s meridians…