Fair-Weather Love

…an adaptation of original poetry by Kaitlyn and Bentli


No words spoken
eyes sprayed in wings of dust
distance between stars growing wider.

The floor littered with signs
ONE WAY
Your way…or no way.
Just a confirmation that you've already left.

No more than a painting
created from destructive strokes.
My body radiates crimson…the blood you drew greedily.
And blue…the memory of clear skies we once touched together.

Why don't you see?
These laughs and smiles are fake.
And when uncovered,
The shattered pieces of my soul spill to the red tainted floor below.

Why don’t you bother to notice?
These tears are more than just random sadness,
…or some childish temper tantrum.
They are a death rattle
of part of a soul,
in the throws of profound loss.

I only wanted to be valued
as a precious piece of artwork.
Not discounted and invisible,
like the cup and spoon
that you throw away
after enjoying the ice cream.

If we can't at least talk about it,
and both of us listen,
then we don't have trust.

Without trust,
We have
Nothing.

Empty Figures on an Empty Stage

Spirits with invisible walls between.
They cannot connect.
Thinly-veiled hatrid is the standard.
Craving intimacy from that which is despised.

Seething just below the surface.
Contempt spills forth like lava.
While smiling.
Sniping.
Pretending.
Grieving.

Destroyers of souls.
Grim reapers.
Black holes.

Portuguese Men of War.
Reaching out long stinging tentacles to capture others.
Consuming what they catch.
To keep satiated and afloat.
In the shallows of the ocean of life.

Holding on with one ancient, weathered, frayed, fragile rope.
Stinging tentacles fray the rope daily.
Until one day nothing remains but a weak, yellowing thread.

Lives get 'super-sized'.
Building bigger and bigger houses.
More room to be mad in.
More stuff more stuff more stuff, please.
To drown out the sounds of fear.
To fill the void.
Chinese food cliche...too soon hungry for more.

Esslin's "Theater of the Absurd" in the flesh.
Observing, Beckett and Ionesco would scribble notes furiously.
Exit the King.
A tragedy of Shakespearean proportions in the making.
Merchants of Venice.


© 2009 Patricia Fletcher.

A Clown on the Towpath

Driving along the towpath.
Mumbling to myself in my head.
Will it take me less time if I shop Oxford Valley or Quakerbridge?

Wait. What’s that?
A clown?
A clown running down the towpath?
Not near any buildings. In the middle of nowhere.
Big red feet. Big red fro. Funny clothes. Big bow tie. The whole smash.
What the…?

Mind runs wild.
Am I going insane?
Is there a party gone awry?
Is there a kid who needs help?
Has he been drinking?
Is this a frat thing?

Clowns are pretty scary.
Remember that Mad Magazine cover in the 70's?
Remember that clown on Married with Children?

Wait. He’s running towards my neighborhood.
Should I be worried?

Hmmm.

© 2009 Patricia Fletcher.

No.

You. Blue.
You want me to be blue too.
If I can be blue
like you -
you love.

You. Angry.
You want me to be angry too.
If I can be angry
like you -
you love.

You. Hateful.
You want me to be hateful too.
If I can be hateful
like you -
you love.

You. Cruel.
You need me to be cruel to
(so you can feel good about you).
If I can let you be cruel -
you love.

No.


© 2009 Patricia Fletcher.