“Good afternoon, Mr. Goldberg. My name is Jean Roarke. I hear you wish to discuss a wish you made on the twelfth?”
“That is correct. Please, take get rid of this!” The man fiddled with a golden ring, twisting it around his finger.
Mr. Roarke nodded, then turned to his computer. “I’m sorry to hear that your experience has been unsatisfactory. Can you tell me who it was that granted your wish two weeks ago?”
Mr. Goldberg sighed in relief. “Yes, thank you. It was someone named K—“ his brow furrowed. “K-Kyle? Someone named McLean.”
“Kevin McLean?”
“Yes, that’s the one!”
Mr. Roarke paused, eyes flitting over the monitor. All of a sudden he looked rather pained. He glanced over at the anxious man, screwed his eyes shut and sighed. “Have you never read a cautionary tale?”
“I’m sorry?”
“King Midas! The most basic ‘be careful what you wish for’ story there is.”
“I did read the disclaimer—“ Mr. Goldberg started. He had indeed. Heading every contract between wish granter and grantee was a statement advising caution when listing the terms of a wish.
Mr. Roarke took a deep breath. He dealt with a lot of foolish people in his line of work, it couldn’t be helped. Carefully, he asked, “Would you please specify what went wrong with your golden touch?”
“I did add a clause to make sure it would only affect objects that were inanimate, inedible, and nonliving. And that it wouldn’t work automatically, I had to will it.”
“I see. So what went wrong?”
“It’s too easy to turn things into gold! As soon as the thought passes my mind, that’s it! There go my glasses. And I can’t turn it back!” Mr. Goldberg pulled a glasses case out of his pocket and opened it. The precious metal prescription lenses were now very much opaque. And somewhat bend out of shape, too, because pure gold is fairly malleable.
“I can see how that might be problematic,” Mr. Roarke said, looking at the cushioned chair slowly shift elements. Even solid, the cushion looked squished. “I believe we will be able to void this wish, and undo the most crucial damages. Unfortunately, you are going to have to come back another day, as Mr. McLean has called out sick today. I would advise you not think about gold.”
Ironically, it is right around thanksgiving when the wild turkeys make their rounds, strutting around like they own the place. All things considered, it isn’t entirely unreasonable.
A flock of females waltz by, elegant even in their subdued colors, leisurely going from one yard to the next. They care not for the occasional car waiting as some dozen of them mosey across the road, one deliberate step after another. The turkeys chatter amongst themselves, uncannily like older ladies discussing the neighborhood gossip.
They don’t take much interest as a confident, puffed up male approaches, his feathered fan open behind him. He loiters nearby as they gossip, gobbling all the while.
3.1415 Irrational numbers 92653 Phone numbers, ID’s 58979 French horn scale fingerings 32384 House numbers, license plates 62643 Spelling tests 38327
What’s your number? Cool, I can’t forget it I whiz through mental math But forget to do the homework I know one hundred and twenty Four or five or six Digits of 3.1415926 Did I take my meds at six? No wonder I feel sick!
Sometimes I fear my mind is going When short term takes the scenic route And brain fog fills the gaps And thoughts spill out my head like water
But those first thirty digits 3.14 to 327 Have never let me down
———————— This is my personal checkpoint. Been spending two months coming up with reasons NOT to write. Now, I just try and see what happens. Baby step goal: minimum 1 post per three weeks
I’ve been away long I’ve been away
To scared to pick up Pick up a pen
Traveled a hundred miles Thought I’d escape This earth-crushing burden This life-sucking burnout
Let my mind wander And it came running back
Tried to lose my mind It followed from behind
And then in All the midst I lose you Baby Bear
The one only constant In my mess of a life
My green matted teddy I reach but only find air
To go is to get it over with ;
To stay is to spare myself a day
of meaningless misery .
To be present is to stay ahead ; To stay behind is to f behind . a l Will it hurt me or help me ? l
Release a burden or add a new ?
In the end
It doesn’t matter .
My stomach
a l w a y s
makes the decision
for me
I’m insignificant! Cried the wee grain of sand; Gather all my numbers, Spanning deserts and coasts, Count us all! Look up at the sky; Look past it! The stars outshine the sand.
I’m insignificant! Cried the star we call a sun; One hundred thousand light years, One hundred billion stars, The Milky Way! Watch as we churn; And me- An average star among brighter.
I’m significant! A speck of dust suspended in sun; This planet you call Earth. Where we look up at the sky, And are scared by it’s vastness; Our smallness. And forget that we too Have significance.
“I’M SIGNIFICANT! (screamed the dust speck.)” -Calvin, Bill Watterson’s Calvin and Hobbes
I give you permission to stay or to leave
I give you permission to laugh to cry to feel to live
I give you permission
to not know where you are or where you are going and wander
I give you permission to wonder to think to be
to be everything and anything you’ve ever thought you couldn’t be because you were waiting for us to give you permission
And I give you permission to never ask for permission again
To breathe To love To be alone To ask for help To hurt To heal
For now and forever I give you permission
It’s okay To not Be okay But when Is it okay To be okay?
A leap year and a day, And am I okay? You passed on the first day Of Passover And no one much felt Like having a Seder
I mourned your death Before you died And soon ran out of tears Fourteen days until Passover returns How do I feel? I don’t know
But all thirteen years you had Eleven spent with another You found a place in our home A place in our hearts Thank you for spending Your last years with us
I am intelligent. I haven’t always known this. So many of my early memories are filled with the adults in my life gaping down at me before letting out hearty guffaws and exclaiming to my book-loving-never-baby-talking parents about the extent of my vocabulary, as if they hadn’t noticed.
So many of my elementary school years were filled with teachers wracking their brains because when I asked ‘why?’ I meant it. ‘Because’ was not enough. And my peers urging me to speak English, not that I knew what that meant. Reading books where all the characters hated math and I wondered how this could be.
But I had never grasped that people saw me this way. My class had the giggly proto-popular girls, the-way-in-the-back-and-too-loud boys, the just-kind-of-there kids, the sort-of-my-friends-but-not-quite kids, and the smart always-winning-Kahoot kind of kids. And me.
And I’d observe the mental real estate as the teacher called out groups, estimating my chances of joining a powerful player, and determining the worst case scenarios.
And in eighth grade history, I scrutinized my group. I gazed longingly at groups far more cohesive than my motley crew.
“Oh good, Eliana’s in our group. She’s smart.”
I’m not an idiot, I know I raise my hand three times more than anyone else, I know my report cards are flawless. But I also know I’m other, I know I talk too much, I’m weird. If nothing else, I’m first on a list of Spot the Difference.
It never once occurred to me that I was considered a powerful player in this group project game.
How does one become a What makes one a Who am I to call myself a Poet?
How does one write What makes my words Who am I to say that I make Poetry?
Meter Couplet Refrain Rhythm Stanza Pentameter Rhyme Where is mine?
Free verse Is worse Give me S R C U E T U T R Give me sestinas Villanelles Haiku and Sonnets Limericks and odes Ballads galore!
Break me free Bring me free verse Let me put pen to paper Finger to key Let me make poems That are just for the eyes Let me make poems That shape how I feel Let me be a poet Let me write poetry
Let me send out the pieces I’m less proud of Let me send out the pieces Only for me Let me learn Let me grow Let me write
Pass me a pen