Compromise

To what extent
can the howling internal
be superimposed onto
a perfunctory mask

to make
a believable image
of the whole?

© Zelda Reville


 

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Somke

Baby security gates aгe typically made use of on staircases, entrances and somke uneven openings in thе residence.

—Zane

The baby stared
at the steps,

as his young brain
tried to grapple
with this strange,
spindly complication

that blocked
his VIP access
to the pots and pans
in the kitchen.

Sitting on his
blooming botty,
he started to wonder
and wrack his 3-year old brain.

Maybe it was Mummy?
But Mummy’s rack
or spandexed body
wasn’t this skinny…

Perhaps this was Daddy?
But Daddy was exceedingly spray-tanned –
it would have been an offence
to be a death’s shade of white.

Ah! It had to be a tree!
Just like the great, big oak in their yard.
But it wasn’t brown –
neither was it leaf-worthy!

The baby narrowed its
eyes as it ransacked
its narrow vocabulary…

Then, suddenly
remembering,
a smile split his frustration
and he whooped in glee –

“Zoo! Zoo!” He screamed,
as he quickly crawled over
and gripped the bars with his tiny hands.

“Monkey! Want monkey!”

The baby security gates
with a huge “Somke”
emblazoned across the bars

certainly complied
for once…

© Zelda Reville


A quickie that tips its bowler hat to this satirical piece from Unbolt Me’s spam series. I wish my spam was as entertaining (and tasty) as theirs! 😂

Daily Prompt – Adrift

Earphones go in,
music pipes out.
As the adage goes:
Tune in, then drop out.

These shapes and colours contained
a puzzling joy in their configuration.
At once familiar, but yet foreign –
the tune mesmerized, but failed to stick.

Was that a vaguely human scream?
Or a brash, chittery violin?
The gentle guitar continues its bravado,
and the bassist simply goes on.

Cast adrift in this sea of wealth
and a growing sense of humour,
she leans back in the chair
to see where this will take her…

© Zelda Reville


On-Again, Off-Again

A word a minute. Then the
slightest glint of light. Yes!

A cascading waterfall.
We do not expect it to end.

Rolling into gold,
we ascend the peak.
Laughter, a beautiful sky,
great scenery –

yes, we are glorious!

RING!!! Is it from your mum?
Oh, don’t you worry.
You gotta pick it up before it stops.

Footsteps crunch to a halt.
The other stops, uncertain of the direction,
starts fiddling with her smartphone,
not preferring to converse
with the gods of boredom.

“Um, yes, mum. No, mum. Okay.”

He bites his lips.

We regain our footing,
but struggle to recall.

“Oh, where were we…?”

Then the first stutter of “um”
punctures the first hole
into this newly created blankness;
scattering hurriedly groped words
and fracturing half-swallowed reasons,

leaving not even the slightest inch
of an escape route
from a crumbling mountain.

Grasping at a piece of rock,
she tries to cling to the peak.

The light is a pinprick,
but this pinprick still has the ability
to burn its purple shadow
into her retinas.

A last, desperate moment
could turn this all around –

“Oh…yeah! How’s your mum, by the way?”

His face breaks
into a cheerful, apologetic smile.
She sighs with relief. Then, she
notices the wrinkles that pull
at the corner of his eyes.
Cheerful blue wildflowers
that sprang in the deep grass.

They definitely weren’t there last week.

Or had she not looked closely enough?

She winces.

“I’m so sorry, I gotta leave right now…
I can’t leave her like this…
well, you know how she is, don’t you?

His eyes start to make the quick detour.
She bites her lips. This had to happen again.
Weren’t they supposed to get off together?

She keeps a steady glance
on the route of his eyes,
noting their mercurial steps
that land on bus number ‘49’.

His eyes quickly look up, sensing
her pervasive presence. Eyes meet.
Bright cornflower blue, middling arabica coffee.
Why won’t you wait for me?

She opens her left hand.
A piece of rock sits in her palm.

“Jackie, when will you ever have enough time for me?”

His smile falters.
A baby boy, all tear-streaked face
and chocolate smeared fingers
smiles back at him.
The mother, bearing the brunt
of flesh, nods curtly back in return.

I turn back, to look at the boy –

All that unspent youth.
The potential of a promise,
the burden of a promise…

Why can’t he see what I see?

“I’m so sorry, Tina. Just this once!
I’m trying to find a caregiver
for her. But you know how it’s so difficult
to look for a good one…”

We stare at the pieces of rubble
before us. The message is clear.

Providence holds up her crown of thorns.

© Zelda Reville