Phantom Voice

The strength of the red, the caring of the blue.
Are they the sole? No, there’s also the white
of the clouds and of the pure eagle’s flight.
But white is a rainbow of dew (or due?)

Is white due over the red or the blue?
Yes, it is due an explosion of light.
Enlightenment is not ever a fright
unless the red and the blue say it is true.

White is all of the colors working together.
The mother blue and strong red must step down
from soap boxes and untie the tether
and be part of white, part of the ether
that poisons and cures the pink, green, and brown.
White is not the cow, it is the leather.

“Mr. Luclin,” said the little boy. He sat among the other children watching the old man closely.

“Yes, Scotty?”

“Will you tell us a story?”

“Of course, of course,” said Christian Luclin. “But I don’t know if I can remember any right now,” he said as he rubbed his bearded chin.

A sigh could be heard across the gathering of children. Christian Luclin was the best storyteller on the block. Children would gather around him at about this time every day looking for a fantastical story of wizards, witches, dragons, and more. The parents thought the old man to be eccentric. He had moved into this apartment complex only ten years before, and most of his friends were children. The blue sparkle in his eyes was reassuring to them, however. So they let their children listen to the stories. It kept them occupied while the parents prepared dinner. He was supposedly a rich man, which made them wonder why he chose this place to live. It was one of the more rundown apartment buildings in the city.

Christian Luclin started to laugh and the children smiled, knowing he was only teasing them.

“Christian Luclin, not having a story to tell? Bah,” he said as he looked around the room to make sure all of the children were paying attention. Other than Bobby, who was secretly picking his nose, the children were all staring at him, waiting patiently.

“It began long ago, as most of my stories do, when Saphrym, a boy who was soon to become a man, was fighting the trees and the squirrels with his wooden sword…” Read the rest of this entry »

On the white sheets lie shades of peach and crimson.
Her brown eyes see tears rolling through the room.
A framed portrait presents a denied future.
Aching, the pale lids close and absorb peace.

The progeny, cheeks wet, quit to another room.
One remains, trembling and daring to defy,
Fingernails dig into the flesh of numb hands.
His mind’s voice screams to the heavens:

My child will never know her grandmother!
She won’t be held by her anymore,
Kissed by her anymore,
Spoiled by her anymore.
She’ll never be able to sit in her lap,
Say ‘I love you’,
And feel the love returned ten-fold!
You!
You denied them both!
And you denied me!

A sob escapes from his lips as legs buckle.
His eyes close in mourning.
Arms drape across shaking knees.
A beaten soul slouches in defeat.

A light flows over the soft grave.
His wet eyes search out the origin.
From within the now pale husk
The tips of feathers reach upwards.

Pearly wings spread from the carcass,
Followed by radiant robes of white.
The heavens draw the angel to them.
Her smile roots its love in the heart of a son.

He suddenly becomes aware of a spectator.
His eyes turn toward the clueless crowd.
Wrapped in the comfort of a mother’s arms,
His tiny cherub watches with smiling eyes.

Fingers, trembling, touched the glass,
My heart was racing, my eyes were searching,
Searching for that little one.

Breath fogged over the barrier,
My mind was remembering, hours before,
Before the clock turned 7:01.

Tears came welling over the rim,
My smile was breaking, my eyes still searching,
Searching for that little one.

Lips smiled wider, a pride in my eyes.
That time was forgotten, hours before,
Before the clock turned 7:01.

Hands settled on my precious gift,
For they’d found her. My eyes stopped searching,
Searching for that little one.

Arms held tight, tighter than ever,
Protecting the bundle from hours before,
Before the clock turned 7:01.

Ears hear laughter, of a little child,
My beautiful child, so my eyes go searching,
Searching for that little one.

Before the clock turned 7:01,
Searching for that little one,
My eyes find Nicole
Playing in the sun,
Mind and soul,
My little one.

Her fingertips caress the end of the stem.
Petals echo their scent with every breath.
She walks at a slow pace, staring at the windows.
Her reflection smiles beside the open bloom.

Clouds surround her feet as she thinks of the days,
When the world is better because he’s near.
Each glance at another shows only his face.
Only his smile. Only his eyes. Only him.

She moves a little swifter. Her meeting is soon.
She sees the future kiss, standing from afar.
Her lips brush his. Her eyes touch his.
Their souls intertwine in the mist between them.

She glances in a window to view the gift.
That single flower glows brightly,
After having been touched by him.
She envies the rose, but she knows not long.

Beyond the shadow of the rose in the window,
She sees him.
Wrong place.
Another woman.
A passionate kiss.
She squeezes.
The prick.
It hurts.