poetryrepairs 16.01:009

CHERYLYNN HORVATH : Visit to the Mental Floor Lounge

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Visit to the Mental Floor Lounge

No TV chat to greet the waiting with those-obviously-in need who are slowly being called like numbers at the DMV. No numbing soaps, or monotonous monotone news, or ramblings of Dr. Phil to banish the hum of disembodied mutterings that unexpectedly escape from scheduled bodies and strum discordance on taut nerves of the waiting, now nose deep in frayed dated magazines to escape eye contact with the numbers. A movement in the irritating silence suddenly reveals the large, round, Mr. Green Jeans Macy’s balloon barely balanced on the chair in the corner. “He-heh”, “He-heh” eerily erupts from the small round “O” perfectly centered in a pale pie pan face beneath pig-squinty eyes. Like a child’s batting clown he rhythmically rocks—back and forth, back and forth— hypnotically engrossing those who do not see that each slow, calculated rock draws dangerously closer to edge of chair, enlarging his girth with each squealing rock as if a bellows enhancing the flames of Hell. The stretched disfigured clown begins to near the breach between wood and floor. Panic sends hot wet salt down napes of waiting necks; shouldn’t we instead be watching luxury cars and made-up beauties during program breaks instead of anticipating the “BOO” that will come when invisible tethers snap sending the garish white bloat loose on unsuspecting . . . . “Mr. Doe,” calls the calming voice from the hidden hallway and the horror in the corner mysteriously returns to a quiet scheduled body responding to its take-a-number caller, knowing he needs to hide the demon face that makes these visits necessity, though the thought of a scare for the waiting changes the ‘O’ to a smile. A joint sigh of relief returns the room to silence with the dissipation of Doe’s ever-stretching strings of dread; through the unnerved crowd all eyes quickly flash to others to assure that all had seen the same. The room returns to obligatory waiting, each quietly wondering where televised was when they needed it.

poetryrepairs #220 16.01:009


My wrens and sparrows now join their flocks moving south on wings that carry the delicate flowers and hope of resurrection from Spring, glimpses of sun-kissed skin and water laughter of Summer, and crisp days and early dark of Autumn, as they move slowly toward warmer climes and cloak the barren fields with undulating shadows as they pass. I watch and wonder why I am yearly left behind to fend off winter’s cold and desolation, holding tightly to dreams of Spring’s return on triumphant wings, a silent spark of warmth to meet the gray and clouded days that speak only to Winter’s regrets of bulbs not planted, picnics not planned, and the snap of apples not harvested for winter. Longer and longer now it seems I wait for signs of minute shadows moving north across the fields whose furrows are awakening with glimmers of green reaching toward the sun, Spring’s first splash of color announcing the renewed promise of resurrection. I pray that soon, when the flocks turn south, I will earn my wings and will be allowed to follow to see where it is they go

poetryrepairs #220 16.01:009


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REPAIR: resort, frequent or habitual going; concourse or confluence of people at or in a place; making one's way; to go, betake oneself, to arrive; return to a place; to dwell; to recover, heal, or cure; to renew; to fix to original condition. -- Oxford English Dictionary

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CHERYLYNN HORVATH, a retired paralegal, nows writes in her spare time.