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 |  a journal with poems written on the fly without much ado |
| .I. “Shut up, Bobby Lee,” The Misfit said. “It’s no real pleasure in life.” Ending of A Good Man Is Hard To Find by Flannery O’Connor Hear the big idea bubble, the lightning flash inside your head? How can you with closed eyes, limp hands, and snores like steam engines? When you wake, the pain will soak in, and you’ll grieve your broken heart, your nightmare’s hints. Being the misfit that you are, you’ll wonder if it’ll be worth it, this struggle to remember what dreams tried to tell. .II. The wake itself remains, etched out across the water’s surface; then it fades as well, although no one is there to see it go. Ending of The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald You pushed too hard, I’d say feeling the weight, as the current took you. Between liquor and youth, you threw it away in a flicker, instead of singing in the sun, just to avoid searching how to awaken and listen to your heart. .III. “Lastly, she pictured to herself how this same little sister of hers would, in the after-time, be herself a grown woman; and how she would keep, through all her riper years, the simple and loving heart of her childhood; and how she would gather about her other little children, and make their eyes bright and eager with many a strange tale, perhaps even with the dream of Wonderland of long ago; and how she would feel with all their simple sorrows, and find a pleasure in all their simple joys, remembering her own child-life, and the happy summer days.” Ending of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll When you and I shared midnight giggles in our kiddie pajamas, who’d know we’d soon leave our magic funhouse in the wonderland of lands and omit looking through time’s telescope into future… Later on, we perched on verandas with babes on our laps to forget the other side of the moon so dark, and today, we still smile together at grandkids at play. Awesome, isn’t it sipping Earl Grey, spurting the liquid out in a sudden burst of laughter? .IV. “Yes,” I said. “Isn’t it pretty to think so?” Ending of The Sun Also Rises by Hemingway Isn’t it pretty to think so like the boy who believed he could fly then fell off a tree, breaking his arm? I wonder what he thought, at the instant when rotting leaves and damp earth stuck to his face and extremities. Fearing mutilation for life, how he cried in pain two hours later, amidst the cracking sound—crystal-like-- and the stench of medicine when the bone was set. You’d think he’d lose his swagger afterwards, but other illusions strayed in the back of his mind past wisdom or light. Another noise rang in his ears, sending a powerful shudder through my spine, and another omen surfaced from his tectonic plates to quake my calm existence. |
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