Six Sentences

Wooo Hooo! One of my prose poems was published at Six Sentences! Check it out - it a really cool blog. http://sixsentences.blogspot.com/2008/09/gardener.html

Meadows such as this

There will come a day when meadows such as this will be locked behind pre-cast concrete walls. Only sanctioned artists and licensed poets will be allowed to wander - quickly though. “Please be quick” the uniformed guard will say as the others pass through the barbed wire gates. “Please, get your inspiration and leave – quickly - before anyone takes notice.”
No time to waste. No time to linger, lollygag or dawdle. No time to hum the sibilant symphony of birds and insects. Nor nibble sour grass and bramble berries. No time to watch the trees sway and notice how the leaves sparkle like a disco ball as the sun bounces off ever changing surfaces. Nor admire, with ardent intensity, the structure of Queen Anne’s lace. No time to lie on the grass and float with clouds and sparrows until the backs of knees begin to itch. No time to crush aromatic leaves between the fingers and sprinkle them like breadcrumbs on the path.
No, absolutely no time for nothingness! There are charts to compose, time lines to be drawn, assignments to be written. And this poem is due at the Ministry of Humanity in precisely 18 minutes.

Forget-Me-Nots

She walked down the shadowed hall into the kitchen and flipped the switch. “Why did I come in here again?” she muttered as the fluorescent light flickered, then glowed, illuminating the worn Formica counter tops. “Funny how you forget the simplest things between the living room and kitchen…” What was it she came in here for? Tea? That did sound good; it was a bit chilly tonight. She filled the kettle with tap water and turned on the burner. “But that’s not what I came here for…” she said as she opened the cabinet and took down her grandmother’s tea cup.

The cup was decorated with fine gold tracery and clusters of hand painted forget-me-nots. Its creamy porcelain was so thin it was translucent. It was priceless. In 1917, as the Tsar and Tsarina were being forced into exile they bestowed gifts -objects from the royal household- to their loyal servants. Grandmother had been the Tsarina’s chamber maid for most of her young life. Later that year when the Bolsheviks returned to the city to round up the remaining Tsarist sympathizers, she bravely smuggled the precious tea cup out of Russia hidden in her valise.

Sophie’s tattered slippers scuffed along the vinyl floor as she headed for the kitchen table and sat down. She poured the hot water into the cup. Inhaling the spicy orange bergamot steam, she was reminded of sitting on her grandmother’s lap. “Never…” The old woman had said in a thick Slavic accent, “never, never forget, Sofochka, you are princess … here.” Even now, Sophie could still feel Baba’s knobbled parchment fingers softly tapping her chest.

Sophie looked down at her own aging hands, now cradling the tea cup. Her spidery veins and liver spots seemed to mock the cup’s delicate design. She never understood Baba’s comment about being a princess. Just the babbling of a broken old woman she guessed. But the warmth from the tea cup eased her arthritis and the romantic vision of High Tea with the Tsarina made her life seem a little less ordinary.

When she was finished, she carefully washed and dried the cup, returning it to the cabinet. She re-entered the living room and spied the cold fireplace - kindling and logs at the ready. “Matches!” she exclaimed. She walked down the shadowed hall into the kitchen and flipped the switch.