Found

I found the love of my life,

but he was far away.

I did not know about earthly gray,

but how I would wander far

upon the earthly day.

Near and far I wander here,

drifting far and drifting near;

together I wander until I am lost,

knowing what it is I have cost.

All the while I swing the breeze,

as the monkeys swim in the trees.

AWARDS.

Awards

I have won all of the awards

in the world

but I have not proven them

to myself.

I find myself itching for freedom

from everything,

including the broken clock

that refuses to tell time.

The reflection in the hour glass

tells all the time in the world,

that I am not old,

that I will not die,

that no one will grieve for me.

Tornadoes spread across the county;

some people die.

Others live.

I am not sure what this means for me,

but awards will do nothing for me

when I die.

I refuse to let that happen.

Found Myself In Nature's Garden.

I found myself in nature's garden

wandering about time's long lost,

everything is hidden in the mist,

nothing is broken.

Time goes on and on.

The world is spinning in its wake.

Things are not mistaken.

Things are bitter in feeling.

I am in the garden of myself,

where this void is mesmerizing and

deep.

I can't take away what I will play;

and nothing conquers the loneliness.

Some days I am happy.

Some days I am sad.

I am nothing but quite unsure of myself,

and the unsettling rays of hope,

listening in the garden of myself,

listening in the forgotten of the rain.

Days spin to nights.

I am gone again.

Found Myself.

I found myself floating on the end of

oblivion,

without having anywhere to go

or to turn to.

I was alone, on the edge of space,

breathing in a mask of oxygen.

Some things are meant to stay

under rocks.

Some things are meant to

be broken.

I have followed my voice,

this way and that;

the darkness has swept me

out to sea.

The night comes down like a void

in the dark,

and everywhere, trees are falling.

I am falling into the void.

There is noise in the void and it

sounds like silence,

but I do not know what silence is,

because someone made up that word,

and other words,

and all the words on this planet.

What is silence?

I am tortured.

CHERRY PIE SABOTAGE: a cozy culinary mystery by Apryl

CHERRY PIE SABOTAGE

Characters:

Janelle Parker, a writer for a prestigious food magazine

Gabriel Lachance, the magazine Editor

Sarah Smalls, writer

Rebekah Lawrence, Janelle’s best friend

Location: Paris, Texas

Janelle was going to write an article about a local bake off when she encounters one of her old best friends, who had become famous.  Now she has disappeared.  Can Janelle find her before the bake-off starts?

Janelle Parker starts off her day at her magazine business.  She gets a little bit tired of all the noise and heads home.  There she cools off and thinks about all the wonderful times she has had with her friends.  Then she eats dinner and goes to bed. 

Most of the story is about mundane, day to day activities until she goes on vacation to the bake-off where she encounters strange characters such as Jasper Justerpen, who has wild hair and bulging eyes and seems to think there is something sinister going on at the bake-off.

Then she meets Melissa Wright, a southern bell who has beautiful red hair and a neck like a swan’s and she is making a wedding cake for the bake-off.  Her entire family is there including her cousins.  She doesn’t seem suspicious at all.

There are other characters she meets that doesn’t seem to impress her until she sees her old friend, Carrie Sheldeon, who says something brisk to her and wanders off.  They used to be really close.  Janelle brushes this aside and turns her attention on her writing because she’s been mingling with the crowd instead of writing. 

Strange things begin to happen.  Someone’s crème bruele catches fire.  Then a tart winds up missing.  Then someone’s barbecue sauce is too spicy for the judges.  Who is doing all these things?

Janelle decides to spruce up her character and becomes a detective.  She wanders around the bake-off, looking for clues, and finally deduces someone is after Carrie.  Carrie is the most important figure at the bake-off.  She is also secretly one of the judges.  Janelle pulls her aside to have a heart to heart and realizes the culprit is none-other than the paparazzi, who sabotaged other people’s cooking so the headlines would make the front page on the Enquire. 

            1

            “Oh, drat,” Janelle Parker muttered, shaking her head. 

            Her paper was fluttering toward the window.  She reached up and grabbed it. 

            Janelle Parker drank a sip of her Diet Pepsi and placed it on the desk. 

“Oh, drat!” she complained.  She had spilled her pop.  She mopped it up with a piece of paper towel. 

She drummed her fingertips on the desk, thinking about the article she was supposedly supposed to write.  She stared out the window.  Sighed.  She wasn’t getting anywhere.  She might as well go home. 

She rose to her feet, making the swiveling chair swish, and grabbed her bag.  She started to head for the door. 

            Her boss, Mr. Lachance, stopped her in the hallway.  “Where are you going?” he demanded in a gruff voice, even though his mind wasn’t on her.  He was thinking about numbers.  And his wife.  And a whole lot of other things, too. 

            “Home,” she explained, her voice trembling.  She straightened her shoulders firmly and shook her head.  “I’m sorry, Mr. Lachance, but I can’t think about writing in this office.  It’s where…” she stopped and swallowed hard.  She couldn’t finish the sentence.  She waved goodbye and headed out the door.  He shrugged and returned to his labors. 

            She fished her keys out of her bag and went to her car, a red Porsche.  She hopped into it and drove off.  She thought she looked hot, with blonde, bouncy curls and she had just gotten a mud bath the day before.  She wore a pretty red dress.  She pulled in her driveway and rushed up the stairs to her apartment, eager to get home.  It was a high-scale, one bedroom apartment that her daddy paid for with his millions, and it had two bedrooms and a kitchenette.  She didn’t like cooking, but the rent didn’t come with a maid, phooie.  She sighed and kicked off her shoes and sat down on the couch.  Her toes ached.  It took so much pressure to be pretty and popular and she didn’t like it at all but she did it because it made her feel special and important. 

She was ecstatic that her next article was going to be on the front page of Enquire Magazine, that she didn’t know what else to think about besides that.  She thought of little else that entire day.  She was daydreaming.  She couldn’t help it. 

            Janelle pushed herself off the couch with her fists and went over to the kitchen.  She began to get her dinner together, chicken and asparagus with a yummy wine sauce.  It was something she had made up a long time ago, back when she was still a freshman in college.  She fried up the chicken and the asparagus together and poured the sauce over it.  Then she put everything on a plate and sat down to dinner.  She sighed.  Some people might think she was lonely, but she wasn’t.  She was just stressed.  That was it.  Yeah, stress.    

            She had her precious car and her tv and her piles of books she wanted to read.  She had everything she could ever want, including a loving family.  The bake-off was going to be amazing.  She had read in her magazine’s newsletter that a well-known celebrity was going to show up and she wondered who it could be.  She felt a tingle of excitement run along her spine.  She was happy.  Sometimes she felt left out of her friend’s lives, as if they didn’t care about her at all, but she could always find something to do and wait for them to show up in her life again.  She talked to countless people on facebook. 

            She dug into her food then washed off her plate and took a shower and went to bed.  She was going to have to drive all the way to Tulsa to pick up some much needed groceries and maybe browse around for some books tomorrow. 

She loved books. 

They were the closest thing she had to friends right now because everyone was busy.

She hardly ever watched any tv because everything was boring and once she had been on the local news when she was a child and that hadn’t been too exciting in the least.  She wanted adventure.  She wanted excitement.  She wanted money and lots of it. 

            Janelle pulled her covers up to her chin and stared out the window at the moonlit night.  It was very peaceful.  Even though Paris, Texas, was a very busy town, it was peaceful at night, just the way she liked it.

            She drowsily went to sleep, thinking about what she was going to write for her article in the Enquire....

2

            Mr. Lachance didn’t speak to her all afternoon.  He finally cornered her in her office.  “What was that yesterday?” he barked at her, his nostrils flaring.  Janelle studied his face.  He was a good-looking, older man in his mid-fifties and had snowy white hair and had a few whiskers coming out of his nose.  Janelle didn’t mind that, though.  She wasn’t prejudiced. 

            “I’m sorry about that,” she apologized, biting her lip.  “I was just upset about something.  The article and all.  I don’t know who I’m going to meet at the bake-off, and I started to worry about it...” she shook her head and trailed off. 

She was relatively outgoing, but when she met local celebrities, she was unsure of herself.  Very unsure of herself.  She didn’t know how to deal with all the pressure. 

            Mr. Lachance patted her shoulder reassuringly.  “I understand,” he said soothingly.  “It’s hard to be around a lot of people.  I hate people myself.  That’s why I became an Editor, so I won’t have to talk to people.  Most people don’t want to deal with Editors, I’ve found.”  He let out a bark of laughter, it was bitter laughter, she thought, one from a man who had seen too much in his life and was dealing with a lot of pain. 

Janelle tried to hold his sentiment, but she couldn’t.  He still didn’t understand how difficult it was for her to participate in everyday life where people were concerned.  Alone, she was fine, but being around other people was a whole different story.  She nodded instead, hoping he would go away so she could be alone with her thoughts. 

            “Thank you,” she said sincerely.  “I appreciate it.  If you would like, I can get to work now.  I have to do the article on the wedding cake right now, so...” she gestured to her desk.  Maybe he would take the hint and fuck off.  That would be the best thing for him to do. 

            He looked startled then laughed a little.  “You were always one to do your work first instead of chatting,” he told her.  “Keep up the good work, Jan.  You’re one of the best writers we have here.”  With a nod and a wave, he exited her petite little office that overlooked acres and acres of land.  She was getting hungry now. 

Her tomato bisque was waiting in the magazine business’s kitchen.

AFRAID OF PEOPLE.

Afraid of People

The face of the gentle robin washes

Away the sorrow that I feel.

As I look at the forest around me,

I know this is where I feel the most home.

Sometimes I want to move far away

From the city, where the animals and trees

Are, and call it home, but I have food to

Eat and bills to pay and I am stuck

At an apartment, afraid of everything.

I am even afraid of turning on the light

If my back isn’t turned towards the window,

So no one can see me. 

I am afraid of crowds and little children

Running through the streets. 

I am afraid of different things, but

Especially people, with their wide eyes

And their bony knees, and especially their

Expressions of hatred, as I walk down the aisle

Of a grocery store, looking for my can

Of beets that is only .59 cents per pound. 

Predator and Prey.

Predator and Prey

In the darkness, I am waiting for you

To come, so I can have my supper.

It is very cold.

I am shivering.

You come on all fours, waddling,

Your nose bent close to the ground.

I crouch, ready to spring, as if my species

Could crouch anyway. 

Then I attack, tearing into flesh and bone,

Dragging my prey into hiding as it

Thrashes and squeals.

I have gotten my supper.

I will have my fill.

It is dinner.

THE BITTER FISHERMAN'S MEMORIES.

The Bitter Fisherman’s Memories

I am a bitter memory that is

Constantly fighting with myself.

I am a poor river flowing.

I am a torrent river moving.

To the east, and to the west,

A gentle wind blows. 

Overcast in all of its shadows,

The mountains lead to the river.

I found my home into myself.

And gentle winds blow.

Softly the gentle waters run

Straight to the mountain,

And everything is satisfied in it.

The ducks are satisfied because they

Get their fish.  The geese are satisfied.

Even the deer. 

Everyone is satisfied but the fisherman,

Because they run or fly when he is coming,

And animals are terrified of man. 

MY LIFE.

My Life

I am disconcerting in the covering of the crowd.
Some people say I am a little too harsh,
others say I am a bit too winded,
but still I rise like the wind that is mourning,
still I rise several years after death. 
I am fighting for my morality,
and the height of justice which glimmers
and glows like a ripening lava lamp.
Everyone shudders in the darkness,
like a rippling tide. 
Freedom reigns like dragons coming
on all fours. 
Happiness is a warm tongue that drolls
on and on about happy things,
tick-tock of the clock on the wall is incongruent
with your revelations. 
I participate in the mass reduction of the
destruction of the lamb,
and focus on a more feasible future.
Unbeknown, unproud, unforgiving.
This is my life.

On Puppies.

On Puppies

The puppies climb stairs.

I climb as if I would never climb again.

You said you were not coming,

That you were going outside of the house.

How the puppies climb the stairs is

Beyond me, because I don’t know how they

Are able to do it.  It forces me to

Take deep, calming breaths as if I could

Never breathe again, or never breathe

Outward, anyway, whichever comes first.

My thoughts come in fast as lightning.

I am dreaming beyond a realm of thinking,

When puppies climb on stairs, they are

So fucking gosh darn cute,

That I can’t help but think about anything else.

I wish I were a puppy.

I wish I were cute and cuddly.

I wish I were a lot of things, especially calm

And happy, when inside I am screaming and screaming

To be heard,

And then there is a space in the darkness

Where I can breathe in through my nose,

And the puppies are climbing stairs,

And I am climbing, too.

THINKING ABOUT GRANDMOTHER ON THE WAY TO THE FUNERAL.

Thinking About Grandmother On the Way to the Funeral

The car is stifling with heat. 

I hear the noise of its engine roaring.

An airplane flies over head, spewing

Carbon dioxide.  I am not settled.

The mood in the car is bitter,

Because we have to attend a funeral

For our grandmother,

Who died while kayaking on a river.

Sometimes I think I wish life would go

Faster than the blink of an eye,

But sometimes it goes slow as a

Merry go round, spinning, constantly spinning,

And everything is spinning around it.

I am not fascinated by death,

But I wonder what death would be like.

Some things are shrouded in doubt,

While others are not,

And each and everything in particular

Is random,

Thrown about in the dark. 

Sometimes I wonder what would happen if

We survived death,

Or nothing would happen at all,

Or our souls would be crushed at the end of time,

Or we went to Heaven, which sounds better.

My grandmother’s funeral is in a half an hour,

And I have eaten most of the pie. 

Shadows of Myself.

Shadows Of Myself.

The shadows of myself are

Torn of grief,

That is better than the age that is slowing,

That is better than the tides

Running.

All alone, in myself, I seek the darkness

In the dark,

And the moon glitters like a cloud.

All around me, the wind mourns,

And time spins like a clock.

I am going, I am going,

Everything is hard against the light.

Sometimes I write until dawn breaks;

Sometimes I write until the shadows

Turn, and the animals come out to play,

Like the jackrabbit and the skunk,

Sniffing its trail of tears. 

All along the darkness, things tire,

Things awaken, and nothing is burnt of

Ashes, things are lit with stone.

I am a tired old man who cannot sing

A tune,

I am a tired old man who is on the radio,

Like a darning needle that has lost

Its shine. 

This thought is upon me, that I am waking,

And shadows fade;

Then light is thrust in the dark.

Homeless Man In Need of Home.

Homeless Man In Need of Home

A man sits on a train track smoking

Cigars.

He is looking up at the night sky,

Wishing he were at home.

He is a man of many means,

And cannot escape the things of his past,

That ache in his chest like old vines growing.

Morning comes and he wakes, rise and shine,

And he is a mask of reasons untaking;

He is the river that is flowing in the north,

And good things come, and yet there is the bad,

Wrapped in shrouds.

I am a good man, he says, patting himself on the

Shoulder as if he couldn’t stand what he was going

Through on a daily basis,

Sometimes people give him money on side streets,

Sometimes there are things that make him whole

Again,

Like good money and good beer.

He needs a job but no one will hire him,

He has a degree in communications,

He has a method of transportation, but this is where he lives,

On train tracks or in his car.

Someone said once he is sick in the head and spat in his

Face, and he didn’t call for an ambulance because he has

A kind soul.

In the distance, the darkness doesn’t seem so great;

Because he is homeless and doesn’t know where he is going

To live the next day, maybe a motel, maybe a place

That requires an id and then the next day comes and the next

And the next and still he is not whole.

O the Wandering Poet.

O the Wandering Poet

The master poet lives in countless sorrow,

In soaring drought, the master explains;

How he bought and sold himself for

Food to eat, how he wandered the heavens

And the moors.

Countless times he wandered like great things

Waking,

And the deepest dark, and hearts unfurling.

Shadows wave like forgotten things,

And I am here, but not again.

I am the master poet, and I am gone;

Interspersed with sorrow and wandering loner,

I eat my fill but I am not fulfilled.

Time is waning, like a child,

And justice and education are not bitter in coming.

Sometimes I eat soup just to please my belly,

But in my mind, there is none.

The master poet goes to the shadows of yore,

And the marks of angels are upon me.