Category: childhood

Throwing Fruit at the Elderly

Ben had an ear stud

And was already thirteen,

Which made him the natural leader.

He marched us across the wasteland

In a proper wedge formation,

Scraggled grass and dust

At our feet.

When we reached the chain-link trees

And leafed fence, sun in our

Eyes, he pointed out the old persons’ home.

Pruned Glaswegians lay sunk

In the terrace deck chairs.

We had munitions:

Wild fruits like cranberries,

But poisoned, maybe,

And we flung them with our kiddy arms.

Until Ben cried,

I got one in his mouth!

We bolted then, but a rasp from the faded

Feminine span me round.

Let me get a good look at ye,

Ye delinquent thug!

My conscience whimpered, and I hated Ben.

Nervosa

I.

 

An–, GREEK: without.

–Orexis, GREEK: appetite.

It’s true enough.

I lost my hunger for just about everything:

Love, fun, people.

I hungered only for hunger,

And hunger meant control.

 

I probably would have dragged

My unfed muscles

Across a mile of

Shattered willow pattern crockery,

Just to hit a calorie deficit.

 

And what do we see,

Depicted in said fragments?

A father’s consternation, blue.

A sister’s muted concern, white.

Friends smashed, morals smashed,

My feet blooded, a celery heart in each hand.

 

II.

 

Writing on the topic proves challenging.

Not emotionally — I’m a certified sharer —

But pragmatically.

 

My brain’s changed;

I find it hard now to pull on that old suit —

It’s a tight fit.

Skimming Stones

Is there a crueller sport 

Than skimming stones?

I implore you to opine otherwise.

Just look:

A child of nine,

Face screwed in earnest,

Scouring stones, weighting stones,

Appraising stones like a student

Before the avocado basket.

Not flat enough here,

Not round enough there,

Disfigured, unshapely, aeronautically impaired.

But then:

A truffle in the rough!

A wonderstone! Smoothed and plumped

By God’s own hands.

Yet the child admires no more than a moment,

Encircles twixt thumb and index

The stone,

And adds imperfect technique to a perfect tool.

Six skims? Seven? “I counted eight!” they cry,

Having jettisoned perfection to prop up the lie.

My Origin Story

Let me tell you my origin story.

Roll back your stone imagination

And grant access to this: a true Rory

Myth, the keystone to my creation.

We must toddle through time back eighteen years,

Before making swift haste to Whipsnade Zoo;

A peacock stalks my younger self, rearing

Its gross blue throat, pouncing as if to screw.

All was flurry! All was feathers! But worst

Those dozen eyes, fixed in the plumage like dyes!

My Dad roughed the bird, but young me was cursed:

A child I fell, ornithophobic I rise.

Last year, at length, I conquered the pigeon;

Perhaps, one day, I’ll manage the chicken.

That Boy Needs Therapy

He was on the couch again.

He was having thoughts again.

Thoughts about killing Grandma.

Sheila inked on her Moleskine:

Primary caregiver’s primary caregiver.

They sat in silence for fifty-nine minutes.

Then he admitted: she’s old, I’m young–

I won’t succumb to her arthritic thumb.

Nodding like a pendulum, Sheila

Penned a careful addendum:

Remind Karl re: Boohoo order.

Peter

Peter was a funny boy

Who’d masticate raw cabbage;

He’d drop dry leaves into his mouth

And crunch them like a savage.

 

Peter was the kind of boy

For whom the age-old adage,

“Eat your greens and you’ll stay lean”,

Was stooped in excess baggage.

 

Peter was a quirky boy

Who made up his own language,

Codifying leafy greens

As pudding good enough to ravage.

The Post Box

The child says that post box is red.

The student exclaims, “That post box is blood-red.”

The school-poet suggest That post box is blushing scarlet.

The moron asserts That post box is red as a step-daddy striking mother in a whiskey cloud.

The writer says that post box is red.