My grandmother's gardenDeep within the heart of Richmond, mingled within the
grape vines and trusses of suburban life, lay a jewel in the heart of my memory.
My grandmother's garden.
It was only a plot of land that covered half of the small,
pavement covered,fenced-in back yard. It was a small space surrendered to
mint and parsley, and pretty flowers. A carrot here and there, maybe an
onion .very rarely a potato.
But what I remember best is caring for that little plot of
ground-pulling the weeds, putting fertilizer down, planting the seeds for a
new generation of future begonias and seeing my grandmother smile when a
flower bloomed.Her smile was very much like the garden itself-fresh,
full of life and kind, as nature usually is. But I also remember the times when
things weren't so good.When winter came early, the cold, creeping winter
stalked and claimed its victims among my precious childhood garden. When winter
came early and blighted most of the vegetables and when the early morning frost
AgainThe stars were especially pretty tonight. Blotched bright
specs with carious names hung astray in the midnight azul sky. There was Linda-
and to the left a little,Rosa-and in the handle of what her mother told her
was the big dipper-was Susan Gray.
The soft brown carpet hung underneath her was her only
bed-and the flowers above on the ceiling were her only comforting curtain
that shaded her eyes from the heat of the sun, and the saddening gazes of the
people looking down from above. The flowers blocked the tears from melding with
her own. She'd cried enough for herself-and for her family. Many, many
years ago. Elly moaned a little as she turned to her side. Had it been so long?
She remembers long before-the day before, actually, in
the pantry. The room smelled of warm chocolate cake and spray starch. She
espied the red round script "A" on her shirt and the plaid straight pleated skirt-red
plaid-all newly starched and pretty lying on the ironing board. The floor was
newly waxed and glis
The Lone StrangerGeneva Angela Forrester, dressed in her newly starched,
blue flowered and pink striped day robe, awoke to a morning that was not at all
expected. She awoke and lived her life day-to-day as others, except her days were
not as bright as her other,younger ones.
Her actions, the way she went from day to day in a state
of passive drear-became so much a part of her life and her soul
that depression became inseparable from the sunrise-almost as if there was no
light in day at all. Strong depression moves people to pity and causes one to
wonder why things like this happen. The answers to these questions perhaps you
will find inside of her life.
Or, perhaps you shall find her, wrapped within.
She lived in a world different than the world we live in:and antiquated,
almost fragile world of mothballs and memories. The memories seemed to haunt
the corners of the small house and often seemed to arouse pathos and sentiment
in the heart of her family-when they seldom came to visit. An absent thought
The Diary of OpheliaPurple and red flowers dotted the path through the forest
to the old woman's house.
I had been forewarned by my father, not my real father,
for I was borne of a wealthy family-not to traverse here-for weird things creep
and crawl in the forest and seek to steal little children like me.
But I did not listen to these headings-for children have a
mind of their own. It is when they become women that they must give them
up and relinquish everything to another, more powerful beast called man.
In that forest glad, I, Ophelia, met the old woman by the
stream, singing. I was six years old then, still a child.
I am now fourteen.
And that woman, that strange woman, for she had no
real name-taught me of life, and of the flowers and the trees.
I shall remember.
The pathway was well lit. The grove hid most of the
trappings she had laid for the unwary. The belladonna had signaled me here.
(What strange growth is this in the forest?) I followed the trail. The green called me.
The forest floor was bede
And SummerThe bag looked blue and rumpled on the kitchen table.
She hated cheez puffs.
And she was on a diet.
Her aunt beamed at her from across the table.
"Marie? I bought those for you-"
The girl winced out a smile.
"To show you how much I love you-I love you Marie".
A warm sickness crawled into her stomach. She reached
out towards the blue lump-tore it open-and hastily
crunched down a mouthful.
Her aunt had cancer.
And now she was dead.
Memories, like butterflies-flitted into her head.
The picture in front of the car. The grey, flipped under
hair, the soft brown glasses-streaked with fingerprints.
Fifty minutes was all it took. And she was in New York.
The plane ride over was pure pain.
-A rush of fear and laughter overfilled her as she flew
into the clouds.
Puffy white fingers reached out to stroke her dull hair
and a wave or urgency overtook her.
Would she cry?
She did not know.
She never cried-except once. When her grandfather
die-and that was only three months later. At a fri
EtchingsSlumped over the work desk-papers littering the
floor and cluttering the desk with inkblots of purple and
blue, Kelil raises her head from her arms and fixes her
eyes upon the doorway before her. Has it been so long
now? Since the time first began and we mortals walked
the earth? No-it seems no more than an eye blink-
since yesterday. When the world was new and innocent,
and things were much simpler -
She remembers sitting at a table-filled with glass jars
and cryptic letters on papers that screwed her vision into
tight, frustrated knots of ink scribble.
Sheath stood before her-hands balled up in front of her
chin-pacing in her mind-guessing at which organic
element could be combined with another to form gold.
Her lips quivered as she suddenly pivoted on the ball of
one foot and halted abruptly, head still resting on the
matted gnarl of hands-and walked towards the cabinet.
Enormous, dark wood shined with a hidden secret. Rich
cherry-red mahogany bark beckoned her with its
BecomingForced into the present by commitments of the past
I rail against the inequality surrounding me.
This journey separates me from comfort,
and despair visits me in my seclusion,
fighting for my sanity as I choke back the
bile of resentment.
My spirit longs for the freedom of my gifts,
Only now coming to fruition
despite restraints placed upon me.
I close my eyes and dream of the future,
where I am free to dance with the artists and authors
and flirt shamelessly with the written word.
I will play in snow and see mountains fade
into clouded towers,
And revel in the joy of life.
I raise my glass in tribute to the trials,
for they make the harvest sweeter
and victory more full,
As I await the dawn
WhateverThe smoke escapes
from my parched lips
as it slithers
across my tongue
a cool blue Grey.
I sip on dark blood
encapsulated in a tomb of glass
and liquored into brandy
just for show
like an oddly misused whore.
I wanted you
if only for that moment
of triumph over
but I lost the fame-
and my beauty
in a topless dance
and as I swung out over a pole
hung to dry
in the wind of male ignorance
Behind the wallTimes will never come again
When words and hearts
did sometimes blend.
When magic roamed
and ruled the sky-
When people knew-
and didn't care why
Sometimes I think
Beyond this core-
that life will ever after
be something more-
Than broken dreams
and promises all-
A shattered world
Behind the Wall.