when all we ever do is watch the clock, waiting becomes a national sport. where life seems suspended in anticipation for something, anything to happen. lives haunted by the figments of the people we thought we'd someday become only to be disappointed by the sheer mundanity of it all like an endless race to the bottom, forever wishing for something better.
Camp Lullaby
Cinder-block to the bottom.
The rope unravels portside.
Even young ones plunge deep,
but they die differently.
Scared kids make undoubtable sounds.
and I inhale the melodious harmony in their fear.
Each sings a lullaby.
The kind read to them each night in bed.
Maybe it comforts them
because soon they’ll fall asleep,
but every child does it the same way.
They recite a few words just as I push them over,
And their lungs swallow the lake.
At first, they kick and thrash.
They even grab at the skiff’s edge.
Water wings are a day late for these angels.
I pull at their fingers until they break or let go.
Cries send ripples across glass,
but nothing is ever heard this vast.
Thirty-Six Acres private and pristine.
The concrete anchor tugs hard at their feet.
Down the drain, they go.
Their screams drown with them.
Muffled becomes quiet,
but not for a silent night,
as I can hear them singing their bedtime stories of silt.
A perpetual rhyme that is soothing,
I let it play on repeat until I too fall asleep.
All my little children
live at the bottom of Tremont Lake.
What was once a summer camp of excitement,
is now a promise fulfilled,
but one they cannot escape.
© 2023 Chris Sadhill
Falcon on Fire
Out of the desecrated rubble,
through the impenetrable smoke,
emerges a figure.
A fiery trail of ash and ember cascade in its wake,
and a perfect sun burns at its core.
A flaming light, a brilliant beacon.
The Phoenix.
A raptor with unmistakable talons,
grabbing its prey with deliberacy and precision.
Don’t be so quick to set aside the feat,
because it wasn’t always this way.
It had to die to get here.
An entire forest burnt to the ground to nourish it.
A path of bodies lay crumbled in its aftermath.
And it wears their shoes to commemorate their suffering,
never to forget how it was created,
never to forget the agony it sustained,
and never to forget what it felt like to burn alive.
© 2023 Chris Sadhill
Silly Little Family
I’m sitting in this auditorium
waiting for my daughter to sing
but I don’t feel like a parent.
I feel like a lost little kid
looking at the happy little couples
with their happy little families
living in their cozy little cottages
with their little mini vans out front.
And the hole in my chest
aches with loneliness.
But then my daughter comes in
walking like a silly penguin
and I chuckle
at our silly little broken family
full of silly little lunatics
who are gonna grow up
to change the world.
The Mystical Number
9
stands
as the final man
on the diving
board
Poised
when everything
has had its fill
and its negative!
take any number
Times the lonely figure
and it all returns in
the affirmative
Regard:
9 x 1 = 0+9 = 9
9 x 2 = 1+8 = 9
9 x 3 = 2+7 = 9
9 x 4 = 3+6 = 9
9 x 5 ..and on on!
Add a little something
to the back bone
and see what
forms in the
mind and belly
of the beast:
9 + 1 = 1+0 = 1
9 + 2 = 1+1 = 2
9 + 3 = 1+2 = 3
9 + 4 = 1+3 = 4
and more see..?
subtracting/dividing
never cool in
operation....
so no sense
in wading
that deathly
pool
9
is
already
diving
into 10thcycle
- - - - - - - - - -
always
ALIVE
Keepsake For The Wicked
Smoke traces the curves of my steering wheel.
I watch her undress through the sheer, curtains flowing.
Engine hushed; Every whisper becomes profound.
Waiting for the cover of darkness, and for her to drift asleep.
Then she sleeps.
Door latch opens, Security breached.
Stairwell.
Hallway.
Bedroom.
I inhale her hair while she dreams, don’t mind me.
The crisp fragrance of a clipped keepsake,
fills my pocket for another day.
Back to business I must go.
A cocktail on a rag leads to a drowsy drag.
Car ride out of town, tied and bound.
A shovel
A pit.
Wiping the sweat as I spit.
I break for a swig, then draw a puff from my cig.
A key turned; my trunk exposed.
Hello Gorgeous—She squirms as she wakes.
She wiggles and shakes; Biting at her tape.
A shoulder ride, then she’s tossed inside.
Dirt piled on, six feet under.
“I lay you to rest my love.”
Minutes of air.
How will she use it,
to breath, to cry, or yell for help?
But they won’t hear her scream.
Not in these woods.
Not as I drive away.
They won’t hear her muffled shrieks.
Maybe now, she’ll remember me.
Watching.
*This is not about me*
I used to wonder what thrill bird watchers got. I used to think them crazy for sitting still for hours looking at birds.
But I get it now. The rush of staying hidden, the awe of watching. Now, of course, I still think bird-watching is ludicrous.
But people watching.
That's a whole new ballpark.
I know you. Everything about you. The state of your room, how many hours you sleep, the way you cover your computer camera because, believe me, I've tried, I know the way smile when you're texting them. The way your clothes are organized. Your quirk you think no one knows about. I do.
I know. Because I've watched and I've waited.
For the perfect time to take you.
A few words to be shared.
I was born; happily, I am here, still alive to write for you, fellow Readers.
I live in Ukraine. We struggle, and I must assure you, this is not going to stop. Fighting for freedom is too much in human nature, it seems, to stop in the middle of fighting.
Now a few more words about me. I write for challenges only, being too idle to challenge myself; that means I must thank fellows who post challeges for introducing my into the world of writing.
Thus, thank you, everybody!