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
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
thank you for reading poetryrepairs|
please link to http://www.poetryrepairs.com/v16/009.html
All the fine arts are species of poetry--Samuel Taylor Coleridge
even as it splits it open.
The Art of Reading
Our Dancing Poet Logo! FIND GIFT BUY GIFT
No state organ: POETRYREPAIRS
accepts NO money from federal,
state, or local governments.
READERS maintain poetryrepairs
NO READING FEE FOR SUBMISSIONS. DONATIONS, while appreciated, WILL NOT INCREASE CHANCES OF BEING SELECTED.
I have many things to write unto you but
I will not write with pen and ink
--JOHN the theologian
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
read more poetry
CHERYLYNN HORVATH, a retired paralegal, nows writes in her spare time.