FLASH 55 - Edited for Imaginary Toads

George Hodan Add 

Hope Enough*

They were hurried off in war and yet,

Mother stopped to pack her suitcase with

fruit – they thought her mad and silent stood,

she split the suitcase side pounding it closed –

Only, later tumbled trembling together riding to nowhere – 

hope flickered when wafting in the cattle car came 

the sweet scent of peaches, pears, apples.  

*edited for Flash 55

PAD - Day 5 - Vegetables - Sweet Sacrificials

Petr Kratochvil

Sweet Sacrificials

peas did not always

tickle the palate

pushed by small

fingers around the 

plate -  until finally

Father asked – 

“Did I know?? 

That a farmer

had met the dawn to

to turn the soil to work

furrows in the readied

earth. To plant the seeds

and tend them through

frost, and heat and rain

and drought-in manured

stench- in threat of mud

Watching in wait, for life.

 Green vined tendrils.

Tenderly tended until

pods plumped enough 

to be picked with care-

full hands. Peas bursting

within. Peas, eager to sacrifice

their short green lives - packed

for travel to my plate – tumbled

there - Only to have me in arrogance

of unknowing push them aside? Aside?

Desecrating farm mission and vegetative

validity with sharp toddler tines rejecting

this greatest sacrifice of all - gift of farmer’s

work and lives of sweet green peas boiled

bright, staring up at me in bated expectation???"

Then, knowing all that went before - 

there was no choice - 

Staring at those sweet  

sacrificials  

I honored them 

and their creators

with wet shamed

eyes. I smiled,

scooped, 

swallowed 

and 

 ate my peas 

as any 

good girl 

would 

Hope Enough

George Hodan

Hope Enough

There is that parable that the old ones tell

of when they were hurried off in war and

Mother stopped to pack her suitcase careful

with the fruit that they could not fathom more

how she expected it to save – yet despite the pounding she had done to get the case to close – despite the crack across its side split as a departing dispute did rave –

Despite the pounding, the birdsong faith of packing this suitcase with fruit filled– there was a flicker of hope wafting in the cattle-car as the gentle decomposing fragrance spilled

PAD Day 4- 3 Secret Poem (s)

Secrets-NostalgiaCaptured.jpg

Mom’s Secret Love

“once I had a secret love

it lived within the heart of me”

my mother sang loud and

stunningly off-key – I learned

the words long before I was

three – long long before the

import that the product of

that rolling-in-the-summer-

surf-secret-love-song was

me far far from figuratively

Unspoken

I never fell in love with

secrets - be they those

well intentioned folks

waiting in dark rooms

to pounce on friends

for some occasion-or

a state papering over

blood on the walls of

hallowed halls in favor

of some so-called good

greater than truth - All

blend hushed unspoken

sibilancy shuttering the

light of truth - creating

a twisted bonsai version

of the tree of life unable

to spread, to soar free

and unfettered - I never

fell in love with secrets

their seduction fleeting

and priced far too high

The Neighbor

I barely knew her

the young woman

next door who

knocked softly

urgently to ask

if I would, if I

could cover for

her, should her

husband call me

I did not know her

well enough to lose

her friendship - not

well enough to keep

the secret that she had

left unwanted stinking on

my doorstep, where each

day I needed to walk on as

though I was did not see it

lying there.

PAD - Day 3 - A Machine Poem - The Tin Man

 460 × 438 - en.wikipedia.org 

The Tin Man 

She flutters her eyelashes
feels them brush her cheek
as he turns the page of his paper
Shakes off the blow and turns
to a topic of the day – always
interested in the ins and outs
of fellow travelers on this blue
marble – she waxes until she
wanes almost out of breath
stops, pauses in that empty
kind of quiet – “what does he think?”
“not much” he grunts quietly …
at least she thinks that is what
he said – it is hard to hear
when suddenly – her ears
are clogged with falling
falling raining tears

The Good Girl

it percolates -small

discrete bubbles

bouncing from toes

to eyes locked on

lips closing in –

it percolates – tickling

tantalization straining

with each fizzing corpuscled

yes to form tongue, toothed

voice into a rounded – “No.”

Cookie Lies

It lies in wait

Yes “lies” tis true

That cookie high above

Calling to you

“Come!” it whispers

“Come” it does shout

They’ll never know

They’re not about

And you waver standing there

Hand upon the runged back chair

Sun just rising – true mother might never learn

She sleeps with a soft smile as you teeter-turn

Father on his back arm about her flung in slumber tight

They sleep gentle trusting you, their son,to do what’s right