“I had never been summoned to Number 208 [by the park] before; I nervously adjusted my coat . . .” A person could book a pick-up online or by phoning into FedEx but you couldn’t summon a particular delivery person, could you?
“April, it means what I said,” Becky from the warehouse told me on the phone, “I’m not being rude, the lady who lives there wanted you, specifically, at her home.”
The door was open when I arrived. “I’m here,” a frail female voice rasped.
Walking into the house I heard the respirations of a woman on a ventilator. She was all hollows and sallow skin. Her hair was whispy white and thinning. Eyes the color of blue-bells greeted me but they were bloodshot.
The woman grasped a yellow envelope with a trembling hand. She shook the envelope and a key dropped out.
Her shaking fingers held it out, “For me?” I asked.
I took the key staring at it in confusion; it appeared ancient. As I examined it I heard the woman gasp something. I moved closer to her and held her hand attempting to hear her strained voice. She shook her head with a ragged sigh and breathed her last.
“When I first think of something sharp, pain comes to mind but then I think of an A sharp or a B sharp. Of course there are sharp turns, sharp angles and “He’s looking sharp.” and let’s not forget, sharp as a tack and look sharp.”
Not the sharpest knife in the drawer.
Not the brightest crayon in the box.
Boxes need opening with sharp knives.
Boxes, trapped in our boxes, locked.
Lock it up tight.
Lock it or else
Else in the morning you’re to blame
Else, you’ll lose your job, what then
Then you don’t know
Then you can’t tell
Tell nothing because
Tell nothing they say
Say you’re not bright
Say you’re a bit dim
Dim as shadow
Dim as a dark room
Rooms, you’ve not one your own
Rooms are nothing, you’re vagrant
Vagrant wandering needs people
Vagrant wandering seeking close
Close enough, no one will steal
Close enough, no one will think
Think you’re more than homeless
Think you’re more than a mistake
Mistaken once, but you’re capable
Mistaken once, but you’re smart
Smart, can you appear that way
Smart, most people aren’t
Aren’t life smart
Aren’t more than book smart
Smart, who cares when you’ve no food
Smart, who cares when you’re so cold
Cold eyes of people staring
Cold hearts of people cracking
Cracking your bubble
Cracking your safety zone
Zone of space around you
Zone of personal space
Space is all around you
Space, there is too much of it
It, means a place you can stay
It is a place called home
Home, needs a job to pay for
Home, lost because you weren’t sharp
Sharp is the knife that cuts in life.
Sharp is the knife that cuts in life.
The Blitz Poem “The Blitz Poem, a poetry form created by Robert Keim. This form of poetry is a stream of short phrases and images with repetition and rapid flow. Begin with one short phrase, it can be a cliché. Begin the next line with another phrase that begins with the same first word as line 1. The first 48 lines should be short, but at least two words.
The third and fourth lines are phrases that begin with the last word of the 2nd phrase, the 5th and 6th lines begin with the last word of the 4th line, and so on, continuing, with each subsequent pair beginning with the last word of the line above them, which establishes a pattern of repetition.
Continue for 48 total lines with this pattern, And then the last two lines repeat the last word of line 48, then the last word of line 47. The title must be only three words, with some sort of preposition or conjunction joining the first word from the third line to the first word from the 47th line, in that order. There should be no punctuation. When reading a BLITZ, it is read very quickly, pausing only to breathe.”
Please see Shadow Poetry for further information.
Apologies, the whole bolded text above should be indented but my WordPress App is misbehaving.
Matt never talked about the shed in his yard. In the past he’d been rude about it, if I asked him. But I’d never seen the shed door half-open before.
He gazed at me steadily as he often did now. One day five-months ago I caught him staring at me and he blushed.
Now, he’s trying to tame the wisps of hair from my face, but neither of us had made a real move.
“Why is the shed half-open?” I asked.
“The basket in the shed door, it’s for us. We’re going on a fall picnic,” Matt said proudly.
I blushed, “Where are we going to have the picnic Matt?”
“In the shed, Aubrey.”
“But we’re not allowed in there remember? Your Dad said never.” I reminded him.
“It was one of my Dad and my Mom’s favourite places when Mom was alive. I told my Dad I was taking you on a picnic and he told me to clean up the shed for you; Grandma helped with the decore.”
The shed was rustic-sheek, painted in soft ocean-toned colours. There was a loft up top with a queen mattress, thick white cotton sheets, a navy duvet, and several accent pillows.
There was a huge white window with a navy cushion to read on. The shed even had a small kitchen with mini- appliances and a metal and wood island for two, along with a washroom with a matching tiled shower.
I gazed at the ash wood floor as the sun danced across it and back to Matt.”This is amazing! You did all this for me?” I asked overwhelmed, tears slipping down my cheeks.
That’s when Matt took my chin in his hand and kissed me. It was the first of a lifetime of kisses and memories in our unshedlike hideaway.
My apologies. I think this piece is a bit long, but I can’t seem to cut more right now.