The suns rays pulsated, sending a buzz through the air, reminding me of a summer that was coming to a close. This was the last house. The draw string bag felt heavy on my shoulder. Packets of cookies rustled from within. I tried again.

Knock, knock, knock.

"Hello, do you want some cookies?" I waited, the sun was starting to die, just one more house...

The door creaked.

"Hello?" Came a voice. Locks clicked and revealed a women. Child on her hip, cooeing softly.

"Cookies?" I asked, surely she could grasp from the uniform what I was doing.

"Ah yes!" The lady smiled, eyes glinting. She placed the child on the floor and reached to leaf through my stock, I pulled away.

"Sorry, it's policy that customers don't touch or tamper with the merchandise."

"Oh of course" smiled the women. "You sure sound properly grown up."

"Chocolate or vanilla?" I asked, ignoring the comment.

"How about chocolate." The lady said hand held out.

"$8.95." I replied, bag still held out of reach.

"Right, I'll just get that." She turned, revealing the cream coloured hallway to the rest of the two storey, brick house.

"I can leave these on the table if you want." I stepped in, following her through to the kitchen.

"Here it is dear-" The lady began, turning to face me. I smiled, my kitchen knife now out of the bag, aimed and ready.

no one is home,

no "who's there"

to my "knock knock"

yet i keep tapping

like a woodpecker's beak

on the neighborhood birch

or nails on a coffin.

mommy told me

she'd take me on a drive when i got home.

she looked tired, her eye rimmed with black.

she must have

smudged her makeup this morning.

she told me we would go on a trip,

just her and i,

without daddy.

daddy scared me sometimes,

but i didn't tell her that.

i just hoped she'd get me ice cream.

i knocked one last time.

no one is home.

that can't be right.

mommy said she would be here.

maybe i should

try the door...

big words i do not understand:

"murder-suicide"

"two casualties"

"orphan"

"shit, what do we tell

the kid?"

i can no longer hear them,

stuck in a loop.

even though i am sitting down

in the cool leather seat of a cop car

wrapped in a blanket,

i am still knocking

in my mind.

knocking until my knuckles

bleed and bruise,

knocking until

someone finally opens the door.

if i keep knocking,

surely someone

will answer

eventually.

I knocked again. I hate having to barge into people's homes, but sadly I had a job to do. I turned the knob, surprised that it had easily let me in.

"Hello!" I shouted, looking around. No one responded. "Anyone home?"

I heard a thud above me. I quietly climbed the carpeted stairs, waiting to hear another sound.

At the top of the dark staircase, I waited a moment, before hearing a sob. The second door on the left.

I rushed inside. He was curled into a corner, shaking and pale.

"Oh god!" He screeched, attempting to go further back. "No! Just me alone!"

I walked into the room closing the door behind me. With each step, he was more trapped.

"I'm sorry." I took the knife out of my pocket. "But you know I can't do that."

I'm a man of few words.

But when I speak, I want my words to count.

So, I think deeply about what to say,

How to express my thoughts in the best way.

Then I take out my paintbrush—-the keyboard—

And dip into the well of my heart.

Using the precious pigments of pain, joy, and hope,

I trace an outline of thought.

Combining light and darkness,

I create shades of meaning.

My subject is sometimes obvious.

But, often I use the background

To draw one's eye to the subject.

My subject sometimes lies in rhythm and rhyme,

Sometimes in fantasy and lore,

Sometimes in pontification.

Yet, every pixelated word, every crafted line,

Seeks to inspire, to motivate, to heal.

The madness of reality

with its uncomfortable truths

etched on the walls

of abandoned madhouses

precipitating the rise of

painful self loathing

as logical inconsistencies

and illusions of conscious will

compel me to explore

the plane of delirium

while madness consumes me

through fissures of the mind

I am forced to philosophize

on the hallucinations of reality

thus fully embracing

true decadence

If it wasn’t so hard to be disengaged.

I’d find your purpose comically ironic.

But your owner left a daughter raged,

And her mother catatonic.

You're built to repair,

not tear things apart.

Yet your owner decided

He needed a fresh start.

Your useless self collects dust

In a busted piece of tin.

Is that how it works without a death?

Belongings still go to next of kin?

He hadn’t wanted you either,

Without your silvery shine.

You’re no good to him with all that rust.

I get why he left you behind.

Your cheap and simple,

Bunch of replacements around.

I wonder if he put a new crib together,

With his new rebound.

Maybe if you fit every nut and bolt,

You would’ve been enough.

He would only need you,

Forget the other stuff.

You only get one Phillips Head Screw,

Unless it’s a new case,

Then you get a new family, too.

Make the old version erase.

There won't be any rust or dust around.

Just a new screw,

In a new house,

In his fancy new town.

Piercing wind whispers lowly,

Too scared to make a sound.

Tip-toeing feet move slowly,

Silence growing too loud.

The wooden door creaks open,

Bunch of bodies gather ’round.

Making out murmurs spoken,

“Missing Person: Found”

Weaving through the masses,

To approach the fallen chair.

On the floor rests a lasses,

Same eyes, same nose, same hair.

Rope dangles from the ceiling,

Someone had to put it there.

Such an event to be revealing,

Of all who truly care.

There seems to only be a minute left,

Before it comes time to depart.

Plentiful faces all bereft,

Longing for a restart.

Perhaps if I’d known before,

I’d have a change of heart.

But now I lie on the floor,

Forever torn apart.

If only the clocks would reset,

This could be a dream.

Having saw my loved ones wept,

My actions appear extreme.

“Give me one more chance”

But it’s too late

For them

To hear

my screams

Perhaps the first time she heard the words “I love you,” they were pure. They weren’t connected to a raised hand or unfaithful lips. They carried warmth every part of her had trusted. Love had meant something beautifully desirable to her ears.

Perhaps the first time she received a gift, it was a celebration, not an apology. The item reflected how well someone understood her, how much someone cared. It wasn’t a bribe to excuse her pain. Someone showed her how grateful they were just to have her in their life.

Perhaps the first time she let someone do something for her, they enjoyed being helpful. They didn’t expect a claim over her innocence in return. They relieved her of a burden, because someone loved her enough to do so.

Perhaps the first time she was held it was comforting. It wasn’t a restraint holding her back. It wasn’t a mark she had to cover up. It was affection. There was safety and security at the beginning. Someone dried her tears and held her hand like she was the most precious thing they could have touched.

Perhaps that is why she needs time. She needs someone to keep showing up, giving her undivided, positive attention. She needs dates, even if they’re talking on a blanket under the stars. The only love she can trust is the one that grows in time. The one she can see, hear, feel, know time and time again. The one without room for deceit. They are either there, or they are not.

There once was a farmer named John Lepperd III. He had added on the "III" part because it sounded fancy. His father had been called Dave, and his grandfather was Timothy.

But John didn't tell anyone that.

What John did do was run a pathetic little farm on the wrong side of town, where nobody noticed when the wells ran dry and the chickens went hungry. No one cared when the geese laid eggs with yolks lighter than straw.

John was sick of it. He wanted a big, extravagant house with a garden and servants. Oh, and a proper bathtub. One of those ones with clawed feet.

But those things cost money. Money John Lepperd III did not have.

Something else John didn't have– patience. He stood in line to buy cheap bread and beans, and the lady in front was taking forever.

"...and do you have salt? With the beans..."

"No, ma'am. Just beans."

"Alright. Then I'll have bread with butter."

John scowled. Where did this lady think she was? The royal palace? No one could afford butter around here. When on occasion his cow would produce a cup of milk, it was dark and had mysterious chunks floating on top.

The vendor explained to the woman that no, they did not have salt or butter, and if she could just buy either beans or bread and get on with her life that would be great. Or something. That's what John would have said.

When the woman finally bought her goods and moved along, John saw something shiny and gold slip out of her purse. So rare was this color that he immediately stepped out of line to get a closer look. Could it be real, solid gold? Was this woman royalty?

He picked it up, wiping mud off the surface. It was a small cylinder made of metal, with a glass top. John peered inside and saw what appeared to be liquid gold. He almost jumped for joy until he opened the lid and held the container to his face– and smelled the acrid scent of paint.

It was paint! Gold paint, granted, but paint nonetheless.

Disappointed, John replaced the lid and slipped the container into his pocket. He turned and was annoyed to find that the bread and beans line had doubled in size.

“Forget it,” he muttered, and started the trek home.

And forget he did. John only recalled the strange cylinder after he sat down and felt a sharp pain in his leg. Cursing, he pulled the pain-inducing thing out of his pocket and eyed it suspiciously. Who carried golden paint around?

Just then, there was a loud screech from the doorway. John turned around to see his only goose staring at him intensely.

“What do you want, huh?” John asked, then remembered that the goose hadn’t been fed for a few days. It was looking rather scrawny.

“You’d get better food if you started laying golden eggs,” John muttered bitterly. As soon as the words left his mouth, his eyes widened. He looked down at the container of paint. And he smiled deviously.

Who could have known how far this scam would get him?

John Lepperd III was raking in the cash. For once in his life, he had more than enough money.

It had been easy enough to paint the eggs. Once they looked good, John laid them out to dry, taking care to leave the eggs in the goose pen for a few hours so they naturally collected bits of goose fluff. More authentic.

And people lined up to buy John’s golden goose eggs.

John couldn’t believe people were actually this gullible. He had figured he’d sell one, maybe two. But he was actually running low on paint.

He wasn’t worried, though. So far, he had more than enough money to buy a claw-foot tub.

“Golden goose eggs! Get your own golden egg, right here!” John boasted loudly. He continued handing eggs to customers and stuffing money in his bag. It was already fat and heavy with coins.

John looked up to see that his next customer was the very woman from whom he had taken the paint. She did not look happy.

“Listen up,” she said, speaking quickly and quietly. “I know all about your little con. And I’m willing to let it continue– but I demand exactly half the profits. That’s more than fair.”

John was stunned. He scrambled for words: “But– I don’t–”

The woman cut him off. “Half. Fifty percent. Count it, right now.”

John ran through the possibilities in his head. If he refused, the woman would reveal his scheme. If he gave her the money– well, he’d be half as rich. It was a lose-lose.

He decided to take his chances.

“No. You’re not getting anything,” he sneered.

The woman nodded as if this was what she expected, then turned to face the people lined up to buy the eggs.

“This man has cheated me of my money!” She yelled, her voice uncannily loud. The chatter immediately ceased. “These eggs are not gold. They are just painted eggs. You have wasted your money!”

There was a well-timed crack as someone’s egg dropped to the ground, revealing nothing more than yolk and gooey whites. It was at that moment that John knew he had outstayed his welcome.

So he made a break for it.

John found himself running faster than he ever had. Perhaps this had something to do with the angry mob following him.

Suddenly, John found himself in the mud, flat on his face. He’d tripped over something– but what?

He sat up and saw his goose glaring at him, feathers rumpled. The last things John Lepperd III saw before the crowd overtook him were the goose’s golden eyes.

Again we enter the season of rain

Pittering and pattering upon the roofs

Ribbons of water stream down my windows

In a calm shower of spring

Lovely early flowers are decorated with raindrops

So much rain that the earth turns to mud

How the smell of the wet earth calms me

Oh so cozy, wrapped in a blanket with a cup of tea

Watching the raindrops fall with a book in my lap

Everything seems so serene during these small showers

Rain falls gently onto the cold earth, readying it for

Spring. After all, April showers bring May flowers.

~An attempt at poetry by a not-so-poetic Moki-Mori.~