Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
Wispy, subtle words leave your tongue,
floating from lips to ear with ease.
Leaving behind a trail of silver dust;
sonic spores spinning streams of song.
Lighter than the air they rest upon.

One voice, bending harmonies into new mold.
Locking my eyes into place.
Paralyzed from the fear of any movement -
making a noise to scamper into this sacred sound scape.
Fluttering lyrics like brittle, little moths
seeking out a flame. Dying to be heard.

Melodies lifting, lingering in yellow.
Dissonance, crisply crashing, mixing to green.
Washed away by a refreshing blue refrain.
Only to be boiled into the ole' gold chorus.

Anthem of awakening for the foolish sleeper.
This is the song of the migrating flock -
the hymn of the winter-slumbering hive
to tell of the memories of many springs past.

So I sit, simmering in suspense.
Hoping, praying that the silence not return.

Sounds of leaves laughing as the wind -
tickles them on the tips of their branch-homes.
There is a thing that lives in a cave in the woods

A desperate and silent villain

We keep it at bay with one simple secret

DV UVVW RG GSV YPMMW MU MFI XSRPWIVN

He comes in the hour of the wispy dew

There is only one thing that can purge him

At the foot of the hills beneath the mist

DV HPRG GSV GSIMZG MU Z ERITRN

With an elder’s body and a serpent’s tongue

He licks at the altar with hunger

Revealing the scar he loves to bear

SV RI NZIQVW DRGS GSV WVERP’H NFOYVI

He comes again and again, night after night

We can’t keep up with the slaughter

To make sure his belly is never unfilled

DV NFHG RNLIVTNZGV ZPP MU MFI WZFTSGVIH
I think I finally got this right...
Lost in a blanket of fog

We dream of decades long past

Worlds of such perfection and youth

Worlds, gone into the night

Spiral pathways mark the truth

Long winding roads of tireless intricacy

Falling from every angle

Walk on, Man of reason

The Future, the undeniable truth

We have for us an unwritten plan

The pen strokes yet to dry

We have all the time in the world
I trade my footing for liquid paradise

An aquatic Eden of my design

Isolation is a lullaby

Publicity is the nightmare that follows

Steadily sinking below the waves

My glory waits at the lake bed

No one to see me here as the darkness intensifies

I seek only the silence that the surface lacks

My body goes limp as the waves move me

Sinking has never been so uplifting

As my body gently reaches the bottom

The last of the air leaves my lungs

It will not be missed

I am content here in my dark paradise

It is quiet

It is calm

It is lonely

Peace and tranquility at last
My grandfather had always felt like a sturdy tower that I could lean against

or a mighty redwood that offered peaceful shade

from the hot sun.

He was a very tall,

very strong man,

and the years of working hard labor

and hopping trains through The Great Depression

seemed to etch a certain unique dignity

into his persona.

Raising five children on a single pay was never an easy task,

especially in his days,

but he managed

and he got by.

I remember hearing about so many odd jobs he used to work,

like furniture restorer, crane operator, embalmer,

and even more surprising dress upholsterer.

He was a man who would stop at nothing to put food on the table,

and he would do these jobs with his southern wit

and friendly demeanor on full throttle.
An excerpt from a non-fiction piece I wrote about my grandfather; Elby Marcellous Pulliam.

Birth: Jul. 12, 1917
Death: Mar. 12, 1999

Elby Marcellous Pulliam, 81, of Decatur died 1:43 a.m. Friday (March 12, 1999) in Decatur Memorial Hospital.

Mr. Elby was born on July 12, 1917, in Newport, Ark., the son of William and Grace Balch Pulliam. He was a member of the Sunnyside Church of Christ. He formerly owned and operated the Quality Furniture Store in Decatur. He married Roberta Sutherland on Nov. 23, 1947, in Newport, Ark.

Surviving are his wife; sons, Lee Pulliam and wife Diane of Oklahoma City, Okla.; Elby Pulliam Jr. and wife Jo of Smyrna, Ga.; Danny Pulliam and wife Pat of Dalton City; Gary Pulliam of Springfield; daughter, Sandi Pulliam of Decatur; son, Roger Pulliam of Decatur; sister, Joyce Williams of Boliver, Tenn.; 11 grandchildren; four great-grandchildren.

He was preceded in death by his parents, one sister and one brother.

Family links:
Parents:
  Grace Balch Pulliam (1894 - 1966)

Spouse:
  Roberta Pulliam (1928 - 2013)
Vicious collector, violent specter.
Woven and tethered with the leftovers
or a kindergarten nap time rug.
Her motherly instincts overpower
her wit, as the banshees within her shriek
their born again, worn again verse.

Do you want to tie her to a leash?
Do you want to put her in a cage?
Do you want to let her roam the dark,
and forever nightly free her rage?

She's threatened by the markings
of a first-born tortoise shell.
The sounds of rabid children roars
and whipping flagellant tails
marks the arena where the pride lord
got her first taste of sour fear.

Do you want to hold her down?
Do you want to make her stay?
Do you want to lock her in her room,
and never let her run and play?
The fourth day was spent comatose
Mind locked away, matter did play
Dancing the steps of the Ent
Uncaring of anything when the throne was in sight
Earthly pleasures before the storm
This place was struggling to breathe
Mistakes taking shape and walking
The fog is blinding, Oh sweet little pea

The fifth day was a resurrection of sorts
A new man with new power to drink
Arrogance returned with the blind
Taking flight to the coasts of gold
Again those rusty promises plagued
Whether a doll, a tool, or a foolish venture
Truth was an impossible gesture
It's never that easy, Oh sweet little pea

The sixth day was a realization
Rest came easy when the future didn't bark
The treasure was buried in the yard under ash
And the truth was in the homestead
Everywhere at once, the rain trickled
The seeds did more than sprout
Tap roots and accepting - light words
Let the answers find you, Oh sweet little pea
This is the second half of the story. A tale of those I've loved.
Next page