Poetry
by Carol Lynn Grellas
Lovely
Ribbons
I'd let these ribbons fly away;
although there's some balloons attached
right along the grosgrains end,
the knotted parts that holds them back,
disturbs the flow like fingers would
while catching bubbles in the wind,
dissecting perfect symmetry,
implosion from a gentle tap.
And yet these ribbons couldn't fly
without their clouds of helium,
they'd rise and fall through gusts of air
neither here nor anywhere.
Garlands with an empty fate,
long streamers that would undulate
freeing moments in the breeze-
spectacular the vision is
to watch them soaring through the trees,
soon tangled on electric wire
I watch them tear and catch on fire.
Anchored by a trapped balloon
Lovely ribbons all marooned
top
Greenhouses
My husband waits in denim blue for the
day
he can return to where it was he started.
The life he knew of simple chores and eating
oatmeal
with his father at the kitchen table.
I wash tomatoes for the evening salad
throwing out the undesirables.
I've gathered children like the sepals
of a flower,
my petals full ringed around the hub of him.
'Here," I say, 'these ones are the
most sweet,
the most red, they explode when you bite their delicate skin."
He takes one wholly in his mouth releasing
the scent
of summer slicing, into their cherry casing-
and I wonder if he's eating oatmeal again,
hearing his father instead of me.
top
I
Wake You in the Morning Old Dog
I wake you every morning
to walk a blinded path
seeing your way with feet,
an eyeless journey of
endless lawns that twist and turn.
Roses line mossy trails
holding our destination.
Once your tiny head rested
in the nape of my neck,
there we slept, dreaming
of nothing together.
Words are never given
breath, though we speak
in quiet hours.
Now, I gather your flotsam
soul and carry you there,
wishing I could offer
more. You turn with an odd
innocence, as I scoop you up,
we make our way again.
Someday you'll be free
and I will miss your
downy face forever.
top
Memoirs
from a Divorcee
She'd had a nasty split. Her ex
wrote leach money on every check.
She wore a red hat to the bank,
tipped back covering her peach scented
hair.
The tellers whispered with every
deposit. A thief converting years
of hell into cash. She thought of schemes
to ruin him, erase the sociopath grin
from his face. Just a small glass of tonic
with a dash of laxative, or maybe a shot
of ipecac, planned for their next encounter
to interrupt soirees, hosted each evening
inside his new home and manicured yard.
None could know the hellfire he'd caused her.
And so it came, revenge in the name
of her Gardner, Jose Valencia;
a horticulture expert beyond compare.
He wore golden sheers around his waist,
tips pointed to the ground for safety.
With a Masters Degree in Botanicals
and Plant Sculpting the word Bastard.
He could spin those scissors
like a cowboy's gun. It was an art.
top
Carol Lynn Grellas is a Northern
California-based writer. She has been widely published in literary
journals including most recently, Chanterelle's Notebook, Dogzplot
and Moondance. She has poems forthcoming in Flutter, The Hiss
Quarterly and Up The Staircase and many more. Her
chapbook, Litany of Finger Prayers will be released in
2008 from Pudding House Press. Her second chapbook, Object
of Desire was recently accepted for publication and will
be forthcoming from Finishing Line Press.
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