i am seven and in your living room
with antiques & photographs
of family that are more like strangers
and handshakes at christmas
there is a jar of circus peanuts by the armchair
and i remember being told that these are here because they are never out of stock
and that they are the only things
children will not want to take from me
i still do not like the color orange.
i am eight and round the bannister
to an upstairs that reminds me
of heaven in that
place i can't go sort of way & i am
knuckle deep in your pumpkin pie
wiping it on my uncles suede jacket
our hands still shake but the jury is still out
on if he looks at me and napkins the same
i hope you do not sleep
with my apologies under your fingernails
i will not say them out loud
i know i should have mowed your lawn
i should have been a home
for second hand smoke
if i could go back i would be your ashtray
i remember the day you forgot who i was
i bound into the room and throw my arms
around you like an armistice
and you ask who i am
we are not in church
but everyone stops singing
i am passed from child to child
while we all laugh
but my lungs feel like
they've been mugged in an ally
who's son does he look like, mom?
my father says like gospel
you pull on your cigarette
sip from your watered down wine and shrug
and i am neck deep in forgetfulness
i imagine alzheimer's
as being born again every day
so, we will spend ages
looking at captions to photographs
telling your stories to strangers
as my father begins to forget
and when i imagine probate
an unfamiliar hand unfolding a will
to be read to wayward angels
i want to burn down the house
and sleep in the ashes

She wore black except the white heels and pearl earrings. Coughing would show weakness. She swigs her water. The subway-car slows to a stop, “STATION A-4” and Blythe glides out into the underground bustle. It’s routine now to be ignored. A laughing blonde on her pink iPhone bumps Blythe and gives a startled yelp. Blythe pierces the Barbie with a glare and starts up the stairs to the office. A clock reads 7:57.

Late.

Again.

She rounds the corner and sees the sign, “Cound Industries- over 100 years of family service.” Pushing in the wooden door and ignoring security she marches to the IV floor. Marketing. No one says hello or acknowledges her presence. She is phantom. Everyone knows its terminal and that she’s the last of the Cound family line. “Three months, max. It’s a very aggressive cancer.” The doctor told her that at Christmas and it’s now Valentine’s Day. She shut herself in her office. Blythe sighs for the first time. She took out her kerchief and coughed. Blood spots. The red blood was not the only red she planned to see this Valentine’s Day. Today, Blythe Cound decided to take her life and make it immortal.

Steeling herself with a ***** shot she tucked the ****** rag back into her coat, which she then removed to reveal a flowing white dress. “Maybe it will be Owen, he has ideas on how to fix this place. No more charity to start with.” The whispers of her “friends and coworkers” filled her mind as she observed herself in the mirror. Ninety pounds, hollow cheeks, and the wedding dress of her grandma baggy and yellowed. She coughed up blood again, this time on her hand. The urgency hit her. Re-dressing in her long coat she left the office for the last time. Ever. Twenty minutes later she entered the soup kitchen. She sat in the back observing the scene. She chose the young boy, maybe in his thirties. She approached him and grabbed his hand. “Come with me son.” Her voice was harsh now. He obeyed. They went left three blocks to the Courthouse. They entered the probate judges office, signed the papers, and “Cound Inc” officially had a new successor. She died two weeks later.

The boy she married was named Cyril. He abused his newfound power and eventually was deemed by those in black ties to be, “mentally insufficient for such a stress-inducing position.” But, Blythe’s plan worked. The news stations ate the story up. You should’ve seen the headlines. They say “Cound Inc” lasted only two more years before declaring bankruptcy. Some blame Blythe. Some blame Cyril. None blame the whispers.

It goes on for as long as it will or as long as the will is quite strong and when the will fails
everything tails off,all bets are void and whatever it was that buoyed me up disappears,
for years I have wandered through wills which I've squandered and thoughts such as these bring me to my knees and my will falters.
and for years I have searched,have lurched here and there to find someplace where my will can be free,
not to be
for we the proletariat have decided that all wills will be held in probate .

Then let them fornicate or ******* I ******* hate them all
I am not we
I am me
me alone
my Island
my home
******* ifya don't like it
I don't give a ****
I am
me.

I had a bad night last night.
Texts from my mom saying grandma should raise me full time.
She said she will take me to probate court and sign away her rights as a mother.
Is she a mother? Could you really call her that?
My mom said it’s better this way for all involved.
It’s better for her if she wouldn’t have a daughter anymore?
My mom told me that my dad has missed me, he wanted to pick me up and bring me back.
My mother said I know you aren’t happy at our house.
You have lived with your grandma most of your life, of course she is going to make you happier.
Who’s fault is that? You sent me to grandma’s house when I was little because you didn’t want to deal with me.
My mother thinks I hate her, she acts like I haven’t made any effort to fix things.

It'll be funny when she notices

                               the stamp was upside down. Besides,
who uses envelopes anymore?

                                              Post WWII democrats? Fact is.
despite (who uses that)
our age difference,                                        I know more about

indentation than she does.
                                                 It started with me remembering images
of the ink not yet dry on the probate.


"She plays at liking me", says the
                                                             ­                          orphaned child.
Offer a hand again?
I'll get back to you.

Sara Fielder © Mar 2019

Asking for a friend and need a public opinion

An elderly woman that was sick and a patient at a hospital in a hospice care situation that happens to be ran by that elderly woman’s daughter, was admitted. The daughter of the hospital calls an attorney to have a will drawn up and forces her mother to sign that will, with holding her medicine under hospice care to sign that will. The elderly woman dies less than 3 days later.

To be completely honest
I'm done being deeply modest
Sick of your mouth
Couldn't be your orthodontist
Broke all you that you had promised
Still you choose to be dishonest

So now begins the end
Decison far from no contest
Victory shall be flawless
Your amends has no predominance
The truth is your abuse has
Hung my emotions from some nooses

All you do is construe
Useless untrue excuses
Yes I can be crazy too
A wire loose
Maybe a few
But If you were in my shoes
**** right you'd blow a fuse
But I'd never make you choose
Like you made me on the daily

That was low
That was shady
When you spoke about a baby
Do you think that I appreciate the lies
Tell me
Do you think so Amy

Not caring for my feelings
Though this time is not the first
If wrote down only the worst
It'd be reaching to the ceiling
Breaching up until it burst

This has got my mental state
No longer gentle just irate
I can see right through you
It's bizarre how all I see is fake

Now you want my approval
For Christ sake give me a break
Dementedly lost my respect
Couldn't keep yourself in check
Eventually it was bound to happen
What the heck did you expect

That I would turn a blind eye
That I would let it slide by
Only way that could be the case
Would be to stab me in the face
With ice skates then wait
In probate until I die

And even then you couldnt make me cry
I've got to many fish to fry
Just a crab consumed in cake
Won't settle no more for cheap imitate
Until the moon and Earth collide
I won't be satisfied
You and I are not an option
No more will I oblige

It's no longer on the table
Closet now empty, clear and, clean
Unable to sense fear it appears
Or I don't care it would seem

Leave me out of your fable
And keep me out of your dreams
Might want to search for something stable
Because I'm tearing us apart
Let me start
With the seams

-Ajm

She is Big Brothers sister
and since probate's been
finalised (quite sometime
since he was sick, or well)
his estate is her inheritance.

Genocide of the elderly or
unproductive animals will
be her first duty as the farm
can no longer maintain or
sustain practices of era 1984.

Landfill burial procedures of
last century are a redundant
form of carcass disposal, the
Krupps™ technique is going
to be employed universally.

She anticipates that by 2024
forty years after her sibling's
initial concept was conceived,
the first tsunami of Pfizer's ©
victims will be exterminated.

There will be plentiful grazing
for the younger beasts and a
lot more accommodation, plus
an abundance of Winter feed
which was becoming a problem.

Gated® communities will no
longer exist thanks to the new
patent 060606 which will allow
branding again, thus permitting
free ranging via the GPS systems.

Jesus made a will before
being crucified at Calvary.

It has been in probate for
over two thousand years.

Due to Corona Virus -19
it has finally been read.

The executor said the earth
is not for the chosen ones.

Instead, which is a surprise
to all, he left it to the Meeks.

You were born of her, which
is the most important piece
in this title, endowment of
a birthright estate, a legacy
bestowed, a genetic provision
of the patrimony, a hereditary
gene, a sense of how one must
treat the universe, an awareness
of nature, a knowledge of history,
an appreciation of where you came
from, a sensitivity for those still
there, an ability and willingness
to share the warmth and light
from the uncertainties of a fickle
wick, an open door, a place at
the table, a deaf ear, a blind eye
and a soft word for the honed
harshness of ill-humoured rumour,
a writing of wrongs, a highlighting
of atrocities, an alert to consciences
a **** from the tip of your nib.
                                                      


       ­             <>

“This is your inheritance there’s
  no probate, oh, one last thing
  don’t forget to feed the birds"