Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

The State Doesn’t Love Your Children

Joe’s number came up,

and he never came home.

Homesick for the innocence of teenage summers,

driving his dad’s truck down to the moonlit beach,

with a couple of cans that they shouldn’t have had,

and a couple of friends he’d never see again.

Joe’s sister was an unwed mother,

but he still wrote to her at the home for wayward girls,

trying to make conflict sound like the games of soldiers they’d play together in the back yard when they were young,

but Mary heard the ricochet of the rifles,

and the screams of children,

miles away,

she sobbed into her pillow,

a blood soaked letter on her bedside table.

All the girls used to like Joe’s long blonde hair,

they said he looked like a movie star,

but in his last few moments,

the long hair was long gone,

and he was cradled in a crater,

like a frightened child.

Joe was a frightened child.

Eighteen,

with dreams that were never going to make it out alive,

and neither would he,

but what was it for?

What was it all for?

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

My Father Loved His Horses

My father was always tall,

just centimeters from the sky,

I would pull on his legs,

laughing as he collapsed,

on his hands and knees,

suddenly a horse,

smiling and shuffling across the carpet,

as if he were in a stable.

I would pull myself onto his back,

a princess,

in the sky,

with the highest,

happiest horse in all of Wales.

I would imagine him,

as a horse,

while I waited for him to return.

I would sit by the wireless,

though mother wouldn’t let it play,

and I would imagine,

that when I would least expect it,

I would hear him neighing over the airwaves,

and over the oceans,

so I would often awake,

at dawn,

with a stiff neck,

and the radio in my arms.

My dreams,

filled with static,

from the stables.

When he walked back through our door,

the sky sunk around his shoulders,

he was still tall,

but the sky that surrounded him was scary,

and dark.

I clung to his legs,

as thunder rang out,

smoke in the stables,

he collapsed,

crying,

on his hands and knees,

struggling and shuffling across the carpet,

as if he left his mind,

in the trenches,

with his friends.

I didn’t pull myself onto his back,

I knew I shouldn’t touch,

as he shook,

collapsing into the carpet,

screaming,

until his throat was sore.

I just lay,

inside of his arms,

as he shook and sobbed,

and I was a princess,

on the floor,

with the most shell shocked horse in all of Wales.