Writes With Pencils

fiction, memoir, essays and poetry

Anniversary Chairs

Today it would have been six years of life together. Remembering my Sweet William.

Writes With Pencils

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As I sit up straight
and raise my fork to my blushed lips,
eyes and lashes freshly lined
my hair brushed out
down across my shoulders,
I look across the table
wanting to look into your eyes
so that you can see
how happy you made me,
how grateful I am for our
three years together.
But my table in the window
is only set for one,
across from me
where you should be
sits only an empty chair
as I remember and celebrate
the fourth anniversary
of our first date.

The day I opened my front door
and saw you standing there
in a jacket of fine tweed wool
dress trousers and shirt
open at the collar
holding a small bouquet
of summer flowers.

The day I welcomed you
into my cozy apartment
where we sat on the sofa
and talked, then held hands.

You were trembling.

I found…

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Memorial Day

Remembering my brother today, and all those who have died in the service of others; may we deserve their sacrifice.

Writes With Pencils

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Flags were waved
at his memorial service
he was hailed a hero
who died for his country
the ultimate sacrifice.

Flags were waved
as his young widow cried
as his mother cried
and his father stood stoic in shock
at this unnatural order of things.

Flags were waved
as the color guard marched
speeches were made
and 21 guns
were fired in salute.

Flags were waved
as planes flew by,
five in formation,
until one banked right
and flew off alone.

I waved no flag
as I stood there in anger
listening to platitudes
one dimensional, false
and incomplete.

Where were the stories
of teenage drunkenness,
cockiness, violence,
and bullying abuse?
The slamming of doors,
so hard it once broke
the stained glass window
my mother had made?
The yelling, the screaming,
the holes punched in walls?
The bumps, the bruises
the bloody noses he gave me
the ones no…

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Getaway Bus

She stands erect at the bus stop,
with a small suitcase
sitting on the sidewalk
next to her
and a tightness stretched
across her lips and brow

two parallel lines
that lead nowhere in particular,
but map
the trail back to
where she left

for good this time.

Remembering Camelot

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Every fly
is a dragon
when
you are a knight
righting wrongs
with a cattail lance,
standing guard
with a lily pad
shield.

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