A Fine Afternoon for Mischief

 

 
Long, wide blades of grass
Deep green, wet from rain
Tickles ankles and
The soft underbelly of bare feet
The afternoon falls warm and golden
Moist earth and decaying peaches
Perfume the air
And lend a spiciness; a sharpness
That stings the eyes and the senses
A fine afternoon for mischief
The perfect peach lay in wait on the ground
Soft, mushy and with the ability
To splat across it's target
It deposits a rotten pulp
Stinking with the occasional maggot
As proof of victory and
A well-groomed throwing arm
Three or four ripe and ready peaches start the battle
As things progress, so does the degree of rot
Until it is every ‘man’ for himself
Screams of laughter fill the air
With the occasional
Declaration of disgust
Someone just got marked
By a particularly nasty peach
Or worse, they stepped on one
Warm, damp air and body heat
Agitates the aroma
Until only one ‘warrior’ remains
Wearing the maxim:
“To the victor go the spoils”
The evening sun smiles
On the battlefield
Ripe with the carcasses
Of decimated peaches
The warriors who
In the spirit of brotherhood
And the deep desire to not stink
Link arms and walk back to ‘Headquarters’
In search of the garden hose
Where a battle of a different sort commences  

  

Colors

 

Warm colors
The color of flesh
From pale white to near black
Pearl, blush, tawny, olive, cocoa
What a resplendent ocean of color!
They shimmer harmoniously
upon the waves of prosperity and hope.
They move independently,
each with its own seminal language,
yet with the ability
to function as one-
the human machinery-
insurmountable,
exquisitely formed,
opalescent,
unremitting,
ALIVE!
No one part any less important
than another.
Each well-oiled with the blood
of their fore fathers and mothers
wearing the badges of
sacrifice and injustice,
courage and dignity.
Each with their own uniqueness,
well-crafted and intricately made,
brought together under the banner of
Democracy,
unified by freedom and liberty,
with an intractable will
and mutual respect,
formidable yet compassionate.
The lady with the torch still beckons,
draped in technicolored robes
straddling amber fields
and murky waters,
weapons of mass unification
hidden under her tattered skirts
that threaten to overcome.
The torch waits to be relit.
“Come and find solace here!”
she declares.
From pale white to near black.
Warm colors.
The colors of flesh.
The colors of America.

August (a love poem)

 

August languishes
Like the ass end of summer.
The streets are littered with melted carcasses
Slumped on park benches
And outside store fronts.
Half spoken conversations
Float laboriously in the air;
Collide into one another
In the middle of five o’clock traffic.
Horns blare, drivers swear
And interrupt the ‘thump, thump’
Of stagnant vehicles.
Sweat runs like rivers on foreheads,
Around necks,
And down backs to pool in crevices-
Uncomfortable and stinking.
Dreams of cooler weather fill the brain pans
Of malcontents, asthmatics, and anyone alive.
We sit outside a crowded ‘Tastee Freez’.
You eat your ice cream
While I drink a soda and grimace.
Children squeal and threaten each other
With their ice cream ‘swords’.
Sticky streams run down their bare arms
Attracting gnats and copious amounts of dirt.
“Street urchins” I spit out
As I lean my arm on the table,
Only to withdraw it immediately.
A milky, ketchup mess coats my skin.
“Oh, son-of-a-bitch!”
All I hear is your laughter.
My lone napkin just smears it
Leaving bits of cheap paper hanging from my arm.
You roar with hysterics,
“Street urchin!”
I pout as you clean me up,
“I’m not a child, you know.”
“Yes, you are. You’re an urchin.
But you’re my urchin and I love you.”
I melt.
If you cut me with razors
I would willingly bleed for you.
Instead, you feed me your ice cream
And drown me in your smile.

The Sunflower

 

Small pools of water dot the wood floor
Yellow petals swim in the pools
And ‘sun’ themselves on the polished oak
The long thick stems are far too rough
For the small hands determined to hold them


Mutilated, the fuzzy brown face of the sunflower
And its bright, yellow petals are strong temptations
They whisper to the child,
"Touch me! Hold me!”
Yet behind that gentle façade
Are sharp, stiff, green leaves
That poke and tear at delicate, young flesh
A sudden, heart-felt cry
Reverberates through the house
And down corridors of a young mother’s mind
Body in motion, she quickly learns to fly


An upturned vase lay on its side
Dripping its contents onto the floor
Three feet beyond sits a very wet, diapered child
Snot running down her nose;
Yellow petals sticking to her body



~ ~


Yellow petals that framed
A soft, fuzzy brown face
Atop a tall, proud stalk-
Just one in a sea of yellow, brown, and green
Standing valiantly, following the sun


From the moment she rises
To the second she sets
Their faces follow her
Never leaving her
Sacrificing their all for her
For love of her
Or because of it

Morning

Morning sun awakening-

Colorful ribbons stretching

     languorously across the sky-

Cries to me, “Rise!”

It is a brand-new day

    half asleep and laden with dew,

   pregnant with all the hope

   and apprehension that the

   unknown, unproved can hold.

I do rise-

    and through eyes open, expectant,

   contemplating the lushness that life can bring,

I pay homage to the sun-

   it’s arms all encompassing

   growing wider and wider-

   colors fading into each other

    becoming white and far reaching,

   drawing shadows on the ground.

Beyond-

    lies the highway, hard and gray

    neither guilty nor innocent,

It just is-

   and it can take you

   or lose you

    but you will go

  along with all the other cars and trucks

  their headlights now going off

The sun illuminates the way

   as they embark on their various

adventures and destinies.

I breathe deep

  becoming the moment,

    absorbing the lightness,

   unreachable and brilliant.

To The Grandiose Shopkeeper

you killed our heart.

you took away the light and the sunshine

and replaced it with gray smoke and ash.

you took away the clean fresh air

and replaced it with face mask and toxic gas.

you took away the open green prairies

and replaced it with ugly pipe and crude.

you took away our sense of security and confidence

and replaced it with fear mongering, isolation and a wall

you took away our democratic press

and gave us red herrings and “fake news”.

you try to silence those of us who dare to speak

by belittling us, ignoring us and threatening us.

but we will not be silenced.

WE WILL BE HEARD.

you took away our respect, our dignity, our self-worth, our place in the world

and you replaced it with instability, insecurity, fear, shame and constant derogatory

quips on ‘twitter’.

you stomp your feet and expect to get your way.

it doesn’t work for toddlers.

why should it work for you?

and when you don’t get your way

you make false promises of

good healthcare FOR ALL,

better education FOR ALL,

jobs FOR ALL,

clean water FOR ALL,

security FOR ALL

in an effort to cajole us

though you nor your cronies

have ever been

HUNGRY

HOMELESS

IMPOVERISHED

SEGRAGATED

BROKEN.

yet you expect us to ‘believe you’.

that poses the question-

“How can so few with so very much effectively govern

so many with so very little?”

you may try to kill our heart

BUT YOU CAN NOT,

WILL NOT

BREAK OUR SPIRIT.

K. Leslie

FUGLY

    Eyes-
         once illuminated, vivacious,
         smiling capriciously at the world,
         seeing eagles where only sparrows fly,
         watching the sunshine dance
         even on the grayest of days.
    Eyes-
         now dim, milky white and questioning.

    Ears-
         once alert taking in every snap,
         every crunch, every "what's that?" sound,
         once curiously listening to every
         dog bark and child laugh beyond the window,
         intently listening to my off-key singing
         as if I was Adele.
    Ears-
         now lay flat, clothed in quiet though
         straining to hear echoes from the past.

    Legs-
         that once chased squirrels up trees
         and birds that would never be caught,
         that once walked miles by my side
         through woods, fields, neighborhoods
         that once danced around the kitchen
         with me and the radio.
    Legs-
          now wobbly, weak, chasing imaginary foes only in dreams.

    Little furry body-
         once wagged ferociously at the sound
         of keys and leashes and the word "go",
         once barking in bouts of ecstasy at the
         sound of the can opener
         or stretched out across my bed and
         taking up more real-estate than myself,
         greeting me at the door and jumping around so much
         I could barely get through.
    Little furry body-
         so many stories to tell, so many miles traveled,
         so much life, so much love.

    Eyes, ears, legs, body-little dog
         my best dance partner
         my travel buddy
         my companion
         my joy.

This photo (baby Fugly)

Top photo (older Fugly)

Ode to Atilla

Along the ridge side by side

Roman and Goth did meet

Awaiting the arrival of their mutual disgust

The Terror of the East.

In clouds of dust the hordes came

The Evil under the Sun-

The Goths and Romans did steady themselves

Prepared for the mighty Hun.

Somewhere down in the depths of the bowels

Came their battle cry!

By stomping hooves and clashing sword 

Many men did die.

The land was ripe with blood that day

When metal, flesh and earth became one.

No Roman or Goth would stand alone

Against Attila the Hun.

But the scourge of the earth road onward

Raging his bloody cry!

As he raped and ravished poor Italy--

Only Rome would not die.

On to Rome the marauders would go

Leaving destruction in their wake

But Rome was fortified and ready

When the Barbarians arrived at the gate.

Ahh, but even Attila had his Achilles heel

  In this case it was Caesar's daughter

In exchange for her he would leave Rome

And not lead it to slaughter.

But Caesar became enraged!

This insult he would not take!

The Romans indignantly took up arms

Causing Attila to consider his mistake.

Long is the day for a worn warrior

And the Huns were worn through and through

Their energy spent and their resources depleted

Retreating was all that Attila could do.

In the eyes of his people Attila was a hero

And a hero's welcome is what he received

Victories of the Hun were widely celebrated

Stories of glorious battle believed.

As the custom was with his people

Attila had many wives

None had ever claimed his heart

Assuming they even tried.

There was one woman, however, young and fair

Seeming sent from above

One simple glance his way and the fearsome warrior fell;

Attila was in love.

Soon a great wedding was made;

A feast to end all feast

People came from near and far

To see this beauty of the east.

Now there is nothing more ridiculous as a warrior in love

Their commonsense and boldness are sunk

So Attila did what all besotted warriors do

He  wholeheartedly got drunk.

As with all great warriors of his ilk

Attila wanted to die a warriors death.

Engaged in combat on the battlefield 

He wanted to draw his last breath.

But for poor drunken Attila

It simply was not to be

He suffered, you see, a bloody nose

And died unceremoniously.

No hero's death for him

No warriors last stand

Nature did for history

What could not be by man.

Writers Block

A cup of coffee to clear the cobwebs

A cigarette to help get the blood going

An empty page sits before me

Still I can't get the words flowing.

Many are the stories that beg to be written

Many are the legends that long to be told

The words of these now escape me

I fear my brain is getting too old.

I sit and stare and pray for inspiration

Day after day, week after week

I finger the metal keys of my typewriter

So cold and hard and fast asleep.

And that blank page-that damn blank page!

It sits so smugly in its bed

Mocking, taunting and teasing me!

It likes to play games with my head!

My coffee pot is empty; my ashtray runneth over.

I fear my literary end may be at hand

As my deadline grows increasingly near

The minutes tick by like so many grains of sand.

So its come down to this has it?

A final face-off with time.

With so very much against me

How can the eleventh hour be mine?

But I must rally my troops, boys!

Gather ALL my arms around me!

One long deep breath before I fire

As I bravely strike the first key.

One word, then two--a sentence is formed,

A whole paragraph upon the page!

"Mock me now!" I cry,

Fingers flying in a rage.

Well into the night I create

So many people, places and things.

My brain dances, my eyes grow wild!

My typewriter virtually sings!

By mornings light six chapters have been born

From a former infertile brain.

My publisher will be happy by noon today-

I am officially back in the game. 

                                                                        ---Katy jean Leslie

My eldest son and myself at the time I wrote this.

I was 21 and he was 2.

When I originally wrote this we were still using typewriters--I had a big metal black one with gaps between the keys--no idea what maker--I got it from a yardsale back in the mist of time.  The 'M' key would often stick.  I also smoked a lot back then.  Some how the two things seemed to go hand in hand.  Now the typewriter is a laptop, the cigarettes have been replaced with pretzels or chocolate.  The coffee, however, is the same.  Only  stronger.  

Enough

Am I enough?

When you look at me what do you see?

Am I young enough?  Pretty enough?

Smart enough?  Rich enough? 

When you look at me do you see 

 The glow of youth long surrendered?

The shadows of childish endeavors?

Or do you see the battle scars;

The crevasses of time I wear on my face; my body? 

When you listen to me do you hear

The intelligence of my mind?

The wisdom and compassion of my years?

Or do you hear something different-

Unlike your mind, your thoughts?

Do you hear what you expect to hear?

Do you hear me at all?

When you speak to me do you

Speak with your whole heart?

With respect?  Equality?  Authenticity of being?

When you speak to me do you speak to me

As if I were important?

Or do you speak above me?  Down to me?  At me?

When you experience me do you 

Feel good about you? 

Do you feel safe?  Encouraged?  Valued?

Do I show you respect?  Compassion?  Love?

Though I may sometimes fall short 

I will always value you

And should you sometimes forget

Or get busy with living

I will forgive you as I forget too.

But never forget:

WE ARE ENOUGH

The Story of Love

The Story of Love

Though the thorns may be sharp and pierce the skin

we endure it

for the blossoms bring beauty to our eyes,

the petals are delicate and soft to the touch,

and the sweetness overwhelms our senses.

We so desire it’s presence

that we willing except the pain, even welcome it.

Such is the story of Love…

Just to hold it in our arms,

to feel in our blood,

to know it our hearts,

is no pain at all. 

 ~KJL

Woman

You are the bird with the broken wing trying to fly,

You are the star behind the dark trying to shine,

You are the whisper on the wind trying to be heard,

And the life in the tomb trying to survive.

You wear your tears like diamonds

And your bruises like fine silks.

You are hard and soft; frail yet strong.

You are brave because you have had to be.

You hurt because you have loved and trusted

And you are far more beautiful than you will ever know.

You are fair and dark, young and old.

You are all nations and all  faiths.

You are my daughter, my sister, my mother, my friend.

You are my grace, my conscience, my wisdom, my heart

And in your hands you  hold the world.

You are me

And we 

Are the future.