Sheila's Dribs 'n Drabs

Music in his ears, he stomped the beat, oblivious to traffic’s roar. Stars in his eyes, he read the text; dreaming of other places, hit reply. Thoughts in his mind of flowers drove out the stench of everyday; fingers hit keys. Cars tried and failed—can’t stop. Today he died. I just heard from a friend about a young man who died where she works; he walked straight into busy traffic while listening to headphones and texting. It kind of puts that youtube video of the woman walking into the fountain into perspective. If you're reading this, please warn your family and friends.

They have a hundred words for rain: Storm-soaked and cold as pain; showered, drenched with blessings; ground needs it; ground’s falling away; drizzle on mist-wreathed trees; Scotch mist we used to say, when unrelenting puddles drooled from skies all dull and gray. A hundred words to turn the forests green.

Mist of secrets hides the blemished valley. Chemical steam, wreathed soft, melts onto trees of green. Sweet water flows like silk under the gold where sun breaks through. And you? Mists of secrets hide your eyes from me, while smoky dreams are tossed to flowing streams; love sets us free.

Cold outside; the promised sun is high but gray mist here. We drive through forests looming out of doom where bright inverted sunshine turns the sky to rain’s reflection splashing dry. It’s cold outside but in the car the mystery and joy will travel far. There’s hope inside and fun.

Little kit through shadows creeping Snatches mouse through narrows sneaking Sleek, delicious, cleans her whiskers Yum. Bluebird high in tall tree flitting Down on squirrel never quitting Sitting watching feeding birdseed Yum. Kitten’s oft-inspiring treks now Rest in dreams in comfort’s house, how Vanished hopes are banished, canned, still Yum.

The spider stalked across the grass. Except this green was carpet, and small boy screamed. “No problem,” said Mum, capturing errant beast with card-capped cup. She told the child to open the door then freed her ancient foe into the wild. “He’s okay now.” Child hurried out and squished it.

Shall we stay? Shall we go? Promised sun threads feeble rays through growing nests of clouds. But trips are planned. Time rests on our command. We make our way. So, stay or go? Standing atop a mist-wreathed cliff, looking down on painted river under sky, Sunday’s sun-fire. A glorious trip!

It’s the books’ fault. She dreamed the honey of love on his lips but tasted garlic. She dreamed the touch of silk and he wore jeans. It’s the movies’ fault. He imagined music and breathless enticement and images blurred at the seams. It’s the truth; electricity fades but love keeps.

One day they went to a tourist trap, flies drawn to food. She watched couples hold hands and wished he’d make some sign for her. If he’d just press her shoulder—better, take her in his arms; kiss her perhaps… She fell in love but all he did was smile.

Dreaming butterflies in shadows Curtains flutter and the hallowed sky Reflects on specks of dust. Dreaming squirrels in the trees He sees that patterns of the breezes fly Like rainbows into rust. Dreaming mystery and magic See the kitten and the puppy fly like Clouds of summer dancing winter’s fire.

In dreams, she flies through times gone by. Remember when… her child comes to her bed; she pats his head. In dreams child smiles and she’s at peace. Nurse leaves the room. “She’s good today.” Son visits and she dreams her spouse, sets table in their house. “She smiled today.”

Boy dreams a wide computer screen where scheming aliens bleed. Girl dreams a valiant princess setting plans that win the war. Boy dreams the princess rescued from a ship of awesome hoods. Girl dreams her rescuer’s blood and saves his life. Boy dreams of mighty power. Girl wins the hour.

Small boy dreamed fields of green then worked with money. Small girl dreamed fields of gold, then tended bees and worked with honey. Boy met and married girl, combining dreams and scenes. She keeps a honey farm; he keeps the books; and bees keep fields arrayed in gold and green.

The sun came out, surprising so dark into winter; girl played in the yard, hard stones pretending fancy fields of green. The smell of gasoline like flowers blew restless past the gate; a car backfired. Girl ran in crying, found her Mom in sobs and on TV a stranger dying.

Dreaming sometimes made him cry, seeing how long, wondering why the world would never change. He waved his hands up high, forgot to remember why it seemed strange. Would the world ever hear? Dreaming sometimes made him cry. A stranger made the dreamer bleed and die; red tears black streaming.

“The sky’s crying,” said the little boy, plucking a broken bird’s egg from the ground. They buried the shell under leaf-mold and weeds; and rain kept falling down. “The sky’s dripping,” said little boy’s sister, shaking the wet from her hair. “Sky’s splashy,” laughed the baby with never a care.

In a moment I’ll wash the pots—smell lemon, fingers bubble-soaked in suds. In a moment I’ll tidy the mail—ice-cold with the gray outdoors. In a moment we’ll go for a walk, where green grass covers mud with seeds of life. In a moment, she says—mother and wife.

Dreaming rivers flow To open seas where winds of Change and reason blow. Dreaming spires will fall When blooms of spring all turn to Memories and dust. Dreaming birds awake; Shaken feathers fall like rust Burning snow’s shadow. Dreaming hope reflect On promises and end of Trust that seasons spent.

Open it. It’s blank. Read it. It’s blank. Think about it… and slowly the writing appears. The picture… See what you’re thinking of? No? Tell me who. Have you guessed that I’ve sent you this card. Think of me. Picture me. Open it. I’m reading your thoughts on my machine.

When they replaced me with robo-mom I thought it’d turn out okay. Looking back, I suspect I wasn’t so sure beforehand, but I didn’t have much choice. So here I am, up to my elbows in suds one moment; flat on the floor throwing sparks from my wiring the next.

Station platform is cold, rain like snow, skies like stone, while whistling rails atone for ice and time. Woman shivers, gloved fingers grasping her cane; she, tight-folded, statue-still with frozen eyes. Train pulls in, hobbled lady, “Sit here.” Tunnel looms, engine zooms. Blue skies are bright as woman’s warming gaze.

Child tries to run. “No,” says Mama. Child stops. Child tries to climb. “No,” says Mama. Child drops. Child tries to sing. “No,” says Mama, before Child tries to cry. “No,” says Mama. Closed door. Child tries and Mama cries. Wait. In the end Mama’s bending to child’s trying love.

They’ll change the world with their words, with their recital of others’ words, with their endless urge like tides to make more words. They’ll change if they can ever agree, or nothing changes, like waves washed under the sea. Change it; change everything; keep it the same. Time’s changing too.

Like kings crowned with wisdom, irrelevant degrees held as scepters under their arms, naysayers fill their words with ink-spilled blood, telling all what to think. Newspaper prints what’s heard, what sells, till reader, thinking stilled, believes what the writing tells… till acid rain destroys again, and warming births its pain.

Recycling goes in the yellow bin. Recycled dreams turn yellow with age, like sepia photographs bent in brittle frames. Recycled hopes are yellow-green where envy’s weeds seep in. Recycling goes in the yellow bin, but New Year promises smell sweet. Don’t have to recycle. Repeated resolutions are good to keep.

Fear tastes like copper, or blood. It sounds like too many voices, like noise on the line. It tingles your nose; feels like cotton-wool over your eyes; looks like a TV screen when the signal’s gone bad, out of sync, out of time. “Next please”—the dentist’s chair awaiting me.

The girl climbed the gate, wood splintering under fingernails, knees scraping against paint. She hooked a leg over the bar then settled safely down, queen of her castle, monarch of all she surveyed—street, town, a passing bird, puddles and sky. “Look Davey, here’s how you climb.” Big brother sighed.

Becky couldn’t do math. The numbers wouldn’t stay still—just skittered sideways in her mind. One and one, she thought—but one of what? And why? –then all too soon forgot what was required. Becky couldn’t do it, till Mom said, “Use your fingers.” Now she’s counting all the time.

“Climb down,” said Dad. The girl was scared. Climbing up was easy but now she seemed so far above the ground, and couldn’t fly. “Climb down,” said Dad. “I’ll help.” “But it’s too hard.” “Baby’s can’t use climbing-frames,” her older brother sighed. Girl jumped and landed safe in father’s arms.