I was born inside the winter wind
The cold used to be my only friend
And as the night filled with sin
Shadows followed me with a grin
And a glare that pierced my skin
Within my bones would rattle
A frightened child thrown into battle
I was five and scared to death
Making clouds out of my breath
To hide in the fog that I had left
As the cold wind held me tight
I made friends with the night
every day i am told to grow up
implying they mean to make an immortal child die
as if growing up gives comprehension
on why the sun reflects onto the moon
as taught by oliver
my child eyes see a universe within the sky
people of self-same age do not fathom
that maturity is not measured in age
rather a gathering of self-confident knowledge
my angel knew these traits
long before the birth of his being
a naturally wise soul
in a community of people
stuck in an endeavor
to learn purity
whilst the physical entity of oliver
is not within physical reach
all must remember
with child eyes
i love you Oliver
I am lost within the box of 64 colors. Mom got it for me for my birthday. Said it made me happy when I was young—tickled pink by the thought of giving me a carton of my childhood. The crayons lined up tightly like sardines, tips blunt and paper perfectly peeled. Colors seemingly endless. Perhaps I could draw myself a new life. The viridian found there; dulled, worn, and loved. Or an airplane, to take me far away from this awful place.
A child sits in the far off room. Scribbling across parchment with her crayons sprawled along the floorboards creaking as her mother approaches. She abrades the azure along her drawing filling in the sky, lost in her art. The magenta of the heart she drew is split unevenly in two on either side of the room, she is pleased. The canary of the sun with flecks of tangerine in it lays naked and lonely behind her where she is unaware of its misery.
How wonderful it is that she has the delight of drawing! “You are an artist” mother tells her. She at the head of the army can conquer the whole page. She can fill the paper—herself—with the colors. The white crayon, sits alone in the box. Immaculate and untouched.
But these are just crayons. And can’t even color in the lines. How the hell can a child be so happy with crayons? Their paper peels unevenly and they snap when you press too hard. They can’t change what there is. I could break it. I could smash this damn crayon. I could turn them to colorful pieces of what they used to be. Why would she get me a crayon set? What is it to do for me? To benefit me? Pieces of a memory I don’t want to see. I should melt it into a pool of wax spreading seamlessly across the table, dripping down the wrapper. It would still fulfill its purpose. The wax will still stain the page.
The world will still spin, and time will still go on.
of mirthful eyes
and volcanic cheeks
as puffy snowballs leap
chatoyant eyes glide
side to side
halcyon hands stroke
erasing frenetic world
prowling paws stir
snippets of serenity
in nuzzled fur
~ sadness scurries ~
purr of laconic
an only child
Kim Rodrigues © 2017
A tiny boy races through a village, with
fragile arms carrying books, papers,
maybe a pencil or two. He's hugging
the world with bright eyes, while
stumbling through the morning light,
traveling aimlessly in a field of
Never looking down at animals'
hopeless faces, flesh blown away
by the bombs of freedom, the
scorching heat smearing morality,
changing what should be,
what shouldn't be.
But here he is still, his shadow in the
haunts from forgotten tears
no older than I.
Water is my safe place. As a child my heart soared with the seagulls above my floating body as it rocked me from side to side with the laughs of the tide. I was connected to the savior that I once worshiped with trickles of moistness on my forehead. And it has pulled the pain out of my body onto my cheeks with its salty touch.
But when the storm hits it can wash all serene thoughts away. It buries deep within the surface of fear and rolls over me with laughter as I wait.
I wait for I know it will come
When it releases the grip around my throat allowing clarity to overtake my frantic mind
The calming reality reminding me it was only a flash flood
Covering my senses leaving me paralyzed int hat never ending moment
That has ended
I thank my body for riding me of this mysterious monster that comes out not of a closet, my bed or a coffin,
But from the highlighted moments of darkness, of the skeletons of my heart, the pain of my neck, the locked jewelry box of my childhood containing every beaded necklace written h. i. m.
When this wave comes out, reach your hand, so when it pulls back, opening my lungs, filling their declared “self torture”, I know that the candy necklace can be eaten by us both.
For I know nothing can be created or destroyed, forgotten or given, re-gifted, lifted out of my body away from my soul. For I don’t want to this
Take this wave
and I can grab onto you
I pull myself up into the light of the idea that I am better than this
I may not want it, but I have it
It is within to scare, stop start me from all that comes
Although this wave my push me, it is nothing without the moon. And I have not a pulling force to guide me back up eveytime but myself
And that is the one thing it can’t take
So, flood me, take me, sway as you please, but I have a will and it does not spell out the word h. I .m. so it will always come back to me. My water will settle as I say and your pushing pulling will have to seize for I, I am more than the very water that nourished me. It is only part of the equation to keep swimming.
And swim I shall.
For I love the water, even that of the dead sea.
Lost a kid his boat to the stream
Blind amidst a crowd of boiling steam
Wind carries away his soul's light beam
Above a mountain a shore of angels' gleam
Burnt hands and ashed knees
Has made with demons his peace
Slit open 'tis rust o' sheath
Set fire to veins can't more any breathe
From rotting torso at the noose,
Fierce cries of life were sound.
So born from maiden hanged, was it
With bloodied claws, we found.
I felt to pity it at first,
Until I saw its face.
Oh ghastly thing, it was! No less.
I wished then to erase!
When I had said to let it die,
My wife threw me in place!
She cut it from Tod’s kinder grasp,
And tears fell from her face.
She held it to her case and cried,
“This child we will love,”
And so that creature, on that day,
Came to be known as Glove.
For twas a glove I made it wear,
Upon each wretched claw.
And twas a glove upon its head,
To cover every flaw.
But when my loving wife fell ill,
Glove cried and could not move.
Such wraithlike sounds, obstreperous,
I sent for Docteur Ove.
He said he could not help my wife,
For she was past the cove,
Yet mused that he could take the thing,
We must have known as Glove.
Oh Glove could all but comprehend,
Until Ove took its mask,
But horrified so much, was Ove,
To drink his death from cask!
And so from then, Glove wore its mask,
With hatred on its mind,
For no one taught it how to love,
Which left Glove, rather blind,
Still blinder yet, was I, it seemed,
When Edith kissed old Tod.
I thought that I could kill it then;
Oh how my plan was flawed!
I reached the attic where it lived,
A sharpened knife in grasp,
But as I pushed the door ajar,
With angered shock, I gasped!
The mat it slept upon was gone;
The room was very bare.
My thoughts were that, the beast had left,
To seek a darker lair!
So with cold sweat and fearful heart,
I stumbled from the house.
“Where could that blasted thing have gone?”
I could not help but grouse.
Just then a flock of maggot-pies,
Soared by with doleful song.
I laughed and held the dagger dear
Then fled to right this wrong.
I burst upon the disturbed wood,
Quite red at my poor plight;
Its mat and things lay tossed about,
Yet Glove was not in sight!
I rushed and screamed its beastly name,
From here and there throughout!
But stopped at last, when I could hear
I frightened child, shout.
I ran towards the sound at once,
And found a few young men.
While gathered ‘round a battered Glove,
They beat him, with amens.
“Oh Devil, you have cursed this town!”
The oldest seemed to roar.
And then the others howled along
Far louder than before.
At once, I felt a turn within,
My stubborn, bitter, heart.
I realised I had been the one,
To wrong Glove, from the start.
So I, with dagger in the air,
Chased off the foolish brutes,
Then gathered Glove up in my arms
And carried him en route.
When we had reached our quiet home,
I placed him in my bed,
I couldn’t look upon him yet,
But still, I kept him fed.
He often tried to speak to me
But could no word pronounce
Until I finished up the tea,
And “No!” he did announce.
At first I could not help but smile
“The child speaks at last!”
Yet little did I know, this day,
Would come to be my last.
He pointed at the tea and screamed,
I failed to comprehend--
Until I coughed up specks of blood--
No doctor here to mend.
I saw his eyes were full of fear,
And I returned the same.
He’d poisoned it so long ago,
I knew I was to blame.
I had so many things to say,
But little time to run.
So with my final breath, I said,
“I love you Glove, my son.”