I remember when the world had more vivid colors than it does now.
When my mother was twice as tall as I was.
When kickball lasted until the streetlights came on
or until someone ran into the tree that we used as home plate
and no one could talk them out of going home.

Sometimes we would come home to sticky buns.

Warm bread and sticky glaze made for a maple-flavored mess,
spread across the face and hands of four children.
ALL dirt sticks to children who have just eaten sticky buns.

Dirt or not, I remember the way we looked forward to them.
I also remember the look on my mother's face
every time she made them, as if burdened by a weight
that children were not aware of.

Many years later, I know how they're made.
A simple recipe, made for children's taste:
pre-made biscuits (from the cans that explode)
cooked until golden, then drizzled with maple syrup
and left to bake for just a few-  more-       minutes.

The perfect blast of sugar for energy-wasting children.

Such a simple recipe was surely born in desperation.
In retrospect, I know that look upon my mother's face as pain:
once, in lieu of dinner, she poured syrup over biscuits.
To cook the only food we had.

Every time we called for sticky buns,
she was reminded of our poverty.

Yet still she obliged,
cooking up sticky buns for her kids,
who knew not what poverty meant,
yet were formed under its rule
with sticky hands and ***** faces.

Something That We're Not

It isn't with a bang,
a pop, a pow, or a whimper.
It's with a look.
It's with a word.
It's the result of someone's temper.

Over time, splendor fails
and the boiling *** simmers.
In the end we're left to wonder
if there's ever really a winner.

What was great,
was only great,
and all out history is not.

And all the hate,
was only hate,
and so we weigh what might be lost.

Yet we stay,
and try to make
what we are, something we're not.

And the days,
they grow long
with our intentions ill-begot.

Rise and make haste
to the display of human waste!


Stand amazed at the hate
that I deserve in my disgrace!


I have taken
           What is precious
                         And I have given it to waste.

I destroyed
           What is dear
                          In a fit of sightless rage.


This scrabbled page
             Is all I have
                            From our halcyon days.


I know for sure
              that forever
                             life will never be the same.




                                                                                             I am ashamed.

The misshapen palate
Of the creature made him crude,
But I listened to his case,
As he told me what he knew.

"Stop! I beg you, please!
Lower sword, and listen, you.
We are not as we appear,
I swear these words are true."
He displayed his empty hands,
on which extra digits grew.
"We awoke in this condition.
As you neared, we did ensue
to devise a plan to flee,
but the woman saw us through."

"**** them all," my lover interrupted,
"Lest they throw you in their stew.
The very nature of their foulness
Evidents their souls askew."
The smallish creatures looked surprised,
and my wife appeared amused.
"Need you more explanation?
Their appearance is the proof.
These nasty things deserve a death:
Cut them all in two!"

These kinds of words from my beloved
were a sight I'd never seen.
Had she lost all her compassion?
Was it disgust that made her mean?
I was surprised to find her here,
but now that shock had left the scene,
there seemed an oddness in her then:
The tiny difference found in dreams.

The stunted creature spoke,
and my wife vented spleen.

"We ask not much:
Take us out from here, we plead.
This mountain has been sown
with an evil kind of seed.
There are only seven here.
Take us with you and with speed,
or let us pass without protest.
We only wish to flee."

The armor on his chest
was polished fairly clean,
and I saw in its reflection
a vengeful face of greed:
Peering over my right shoulder,
was the face of The Queen.
I turned with such a haste,
I stirred the snow with startled scream.
An idea began to form,
but I spoke with slow degree.

"What say you, My Only one?
Why do you wish these lives undone,
when the only thing they want for,
is a chance to turn and run?
They threaten not, they lack the strength,
Yet you plead their ends to come?
Do you find them so revolting?
Is their sight so cumbersome?
I've never known you to be violent,
So readily quarrelsome!
Were you to be so stricken,
would you call for martyrdom?"

Once within the cavern,
Roughly hewn and carved,
I saw snow, falling lazy,
And overhead were stars.
They would glow and they would fade
and collide as if they sparred,
making show, and making play,
and then raining down in spark.
When my eyes tracked their way,
I saw a figure standing far.

Underneath the light's display,
it was my love they did bombard.

I ran to her at once,
under snow and starfall.
Though I roared with all my might,
she didn't seem to hear my call.
She faced an opening,
on this chamber's farthest wall,
with such a look upon her face,
as though a spell had her in thrall.
I followed her line of sight,
and froze at once at what I saw.
It was fear that held her rapt,
not magic, not at all.
There were creatures coming in,
and their features made me stall.

I freed my sword at once,
seeing malice in their make.
It seemed they had the skin
of frog, or pig, or snake.
They were sickly in their jaundice,
and a palsy made them shake.
Illness pallor in their tissue,
it was more than I could take.
Yet something in their outfit
pinned my vision with a stake:
The armor of my men
adorned these monsters, no mistake.
Had they killed the lot already,
and taken their breastplates?
How is it snow falls
with these Halflings in this place?
Why do they not attack?
What is that look upon that face?
Is that sadness mixed with terror?
I swallowed my distaste.

From behind me, I heard breath,
drawn in fitful pace.
At my back, my lady gripped,
seeking safety in embrace.
The dwarf before me spoke,
And my heart began to race.

The mountain loomed on the right,
as we reached our destination.
I was reminded of the sight
from the night of invocation
when my mind had taken flight,
and soared to this location.
It looked identical to the vision,
I write without hesitation.

So, in darkness,
and in foreign land,
we plotted our invasion.
Cleaning sand from our effects,
we readied for the occasion.
The air seemed to cool,
and build anticipation,
but of life, or of death?
The wind's exhortations
were a giant's dying breath:
Fitful in expectation
of whatever comes next,
forgiveness or damnation,
or an endless, empty depth,
lacking sense or explanation,
like this chasm filled with darkness,
awaiting our exploration.

Sword in hand, and men at ready,
we made our way inside.
Stomachs tightened, like our grips,
upon the hilts of leather tied.
We moved slowly, stabbing blindly,
at shadows where men could hide,
and found them empty, but for dust.
Uneasiness multiplied.
We advanced through the labyrinth
where the heat would not subside,
gliding silent, in the darkness
toward the smell of sulphide.
The glow of light, in a cavern,
stopped me in my stride.
I whispered for the men
to observe and to abide,
and discovered, to my horror,
there were none to hear my cry.
They were lost in the intestine
of this starving mountainside
with only fumbling hands and feet
to serve as sense's guide.
I sent a thought out to my men,
as best I could provide,
and pushed ahead into the mountain,
fearing this was suicide.

Again

They say it's cathartic
to be broken-hearted,
but now that I've started,
it's a shame:
a shame that it's new
every time I go through
this set of self-induced pains.

Cathartic? May be.
But really, to me,
I've indulged in pointless refrain.
Over again,
I let it win.
Oh, wash me in tormented rain.

The tortured artist!
That's how this started:
pen-strokes and brushes, the same!

Yet suffer I do,
but only for you:
the next to start me again.