Thursday, January 16, 2014

Stress - A Bakers' Half Dozen

Petr Kratochvil

all work and no play

gently she opened the sunroom door intending
to walk to the child on window-seated cushions
book on knees lost in a world of black scribbles
they told her - stressed - that it was not healthy for a child
to sit still thus and yet,watching, paused at that
entryway she knew with surety that she stood at the
tip of the Universe, the child, her child, had entered and
slowly, silently, as on those ‘little cat feet’ she
retreated as gently as a lifting fog and
closed the door
on the worlds
opening behind



She knew a teacher of English was she not to be
when the dipthongs tortured her so unceasing mercilessly
those vowels that slid and slipped and hid in plain sight
regaling their importance to young fresh faces just not right
young faces that ached with unspilled words just coalescing
criminal to constrain, contain and cut heart from passion dipthong rehashing
No! She felt the burgeoning boundless balloon pressure rising irrevocably in her chest
gathered papers, books, and out into natural unsliced language walked in freedom blessed

Paper gown on breast

She sits icy hands folded
in silent penitence for
all wrong-doing real
and imagined and waits
pulse pounding in ears
as in the other room
her films and destiny
are read


Cat claws

She holds with tenacious grip
in the sap-slipping betrayal
of the willow branch


Star studded

burst in the navied night
of a peaceful heart
the first pointed star
of doubt doubling
trebling multiplying
in midnight madness
burst in the navied night



rumble of traffic
thrumming too near
machines beeping
all suddenly clear
The mind straining
for clarity oeace dear
to revere
not here at all
not here
not here


On velvet paws

it comes to me
one silken step
after another
I shake

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