Posts Tagged ‘Linda M. Crate’

the power of words
words only live when
you utter them, and use
them in a way that others
can believe – otherwise
they simply swim in your
mind as shapeless voids;
they can give life or bring
forth destruction, you always
choose the latter just to
spite me methinks; you’ve
always enjoyed poisoning
my apples and summoning the
burgeoning blossoms of my
tears for your sordid amusement.
– linda m. crate

You light my fires with poorly
constructed words, your tactless
nature abounds in the best of times —
you accuse me of heinous things
yet have no prove with which to
hang me; so go ahead and light my
fire, I’ll set your forest ablaze and
I’ll watch your trees of lies tumble
down and down and down and laugh.
– linda m. crate

your love
you tangle me in metaphors, you spill me into
allusions, you lose me between the euphuisms
sailing high above my head on the wings of the
frisbee, I’ll never catch it to save my life; you
lilt to me the most beautiful songs I’ve ever
heard in missives of apple orchards and yellow
daffodils, you give me an inch so I take a mile —
you paint me in the citrine and scarlet of lilies;
I pirouette on prisms of moon silver a ballerina
(albeit a clumsy one) as I nearly fall on my face
by tripping over dew, you take my hand and look
into my eyes utter lantern stars to break opaque
night’s charm over me, and press your rosemary
lips against mine like the ocean slams upon rocks.
– linda m. crate

lonely soul
he stood a lone wolf alone
in the trees, there were no
she wolves that could soothe
away the pangs of his lonely –
they stung ever so sharply in
the winter; when the babes
were carried around him, he
was never accepted into the
folds of any pack; he was that
solitary purple cloud hanging
in an otherwise sky of azure
whose white clouds ousted
him from all the others, his
hearts psalms melancholy lilts
that not even ravens can echo.
– linda m. crate

Happily Never After
by: Linda M. Crate

I’m sick of people telling me that everything is going to be all right. Life is a happily never after, and mine is destined to be the unhappiest of all. All of my life I have been unlucky, and I have no hopes of that ever changing. You see my mother as a prostitute and my father was a pimp and the rest is . . . as they say, history.

My parents were both killed by firefight when I was a month old, and I’ve been dangling on the arms of one abusive foster home to the next. I don’t have much hope of a future despite what those idiot teachers in those asinine schools tell me. The only thing I’ve ever been good at is words. For some reason, I’ve always liked to read and write.

It’s the only thing that keeps me sane. I can’t talk to people. I have a speech impediment so when I speak everyone just laughs at me. They don’t listen to the wings of all of my beautiful words winking beneath the horizon. They don’t see my potential.

I’m just dubbed another stupid kid and shoved in a box and told to be quiet and do as I’m told.

Today I got into my first fight. I beat him up pretty good. He told me that I was a loser, and I knocked him out after two swings. The first one gave him a black eye, the second one broke his nose. His teeth collided with my knuckles, they’re bleeding. It feels good.

Maybe I’ve discovered something else I’d be good at.

I could be a boxer.

A Penny For Your Thoughts
by: Linda M. Crate

Sometimes in the dead of night she told herself that she was a corpse just so she could sleep without worry. Her day revolved around fretting. Worrying about the bills she couldn’t pay, the baby, if he’d ever come back to take care of things like he promised he would. Life was nothing more than a copper penny — sometimes it shone and sparkled with favor, but most of the time it was just covered with grime and refuse and pretty much good for nothing.

They always said that they’d ‘give you a penny for your thoughts’, but if that were true she’d be a millionaire by now.

Her rose tinted glasses were broken years ago, she knows better than to hold her hopes on stars broken past the point of repair.

my surrogate father: trees
sometimes I look upon the faces of
parents and their offspring, wanting
to see the similarities between them —
thirsty for knowledge of the genetics
that lays beyond the branches of their
veins; something they couldn’t really
explain nor could I try doing it in
return; it unsettles people, my eyes,
they pry into all those unwanted little
crevices that you wish didn’t peep out
in valleys of moss hanging at your
elbows; I can’t help it I am a cat I am
curious, yearning to know what exactly
makes someone a parent, my father was
never there he blew away in the wind of
some great storm, I want to know if the
children know how lucky they are if their
father cares; how wonderful they have it
if their father loves them, how nice it must
to be to bred of a man and not a monster;
I am part chimera, I’ve already discovered
the fangs, I try not to cut people on my
dagger teeth; an endeavor that sometimes I
fail, as I twist myself among the trees on
wizened hands too strong to ever let me go.
– linda m. crate

you stain
the pomegranate
of hades is the
mark you bore
upon me
in the shadow
of moon silver
flicking through your
eyes and heart
when I fell
victim to your lies.
– linda m. crate

falling up
falling upward is
like falling in love or
the opposite of
plunging down a flight of stairs —
it’s the Cheshire cat smile
when the world is in ruins that
haunts with its stain
more heavy handed that the
pomegranate, it nestles its
song like birdsong it nests in the
ears and pours forth eggs.
– linda m. crate

you dance
with your teeth
they glisten
like dragonflies wings
in autumn; they
evade me like wisdom of
the elders, whispering
languages that I ought to know
but have forgotten in some
past life where I had slain
you simply because
I could; you do not hold that against
me when you hold my
hand; apples grow in trees
the bright green of your irises trapped
in the limbs of the unborn,
you fall with the grace
of broken birds.
– linda m. crate

spider webs
your silence reverberates off my bones,
against the port of dreams that never set sail —
they crash upon the shore like birds;
I wish I could tell you all the things I never felt
they echo with more resonance than the
things you thought I feel but don’t,
I want to wash you off the consciousness of
my mind, but in doing so I would destroy myself —
I am you and you are me, and together we
are eternity wound in the arms of forever as we
eek out an existence in the spider webs
of tomorrow that haunt like rain.
– linda m. crate

behind the hatred
there was love in
their eyes, but they
didn’t believe it —
because believing
us meant they never
would; they wished
death upon us with
their unsaid words —
they spoke more
volumes than the
longest book known
to mankind; they
spoke with more
severity than the old
testament and sprawled
their spines before us
showily like a Pharisee —
I didn’t know whether
to laugh or cry so I did both —
it doesn’t matter what they
think, we know we’re true
and that’s all that matters.
– linda m. crate
her moon
out in, out in, out in
breathing him in was the
only thing that kept her
sane — breathing in
the nicotine that laced
his breath — out in, out
in, out in she just had
to convince herself it was
worth it; each day she
felt as if she were slipping
out of her own skin, she
looked at her reflection in
the mirror — she didn’t
recognize the woman staring
back at her; it was not her,
out in and out in and out in
taking in the scent of her
beloved was the only
thing that was worth meaning —
she lost her reason and her
worth in the silver sheen of
his words glittering brighter
than moon dust upon dew.
– linda m. crate
forbidden fruit
he touched her heart
just by smiling at her
she always savored
each piece of him she
was given; she sewed
it into the fabric of her
life, though, she knew
she could never have
him; he was not hers to
hold in her embrace —
so she’d hold him in her
chest of lust, never to be
unlocked; he was that
forbidden fruit, but his
Eve had cottoned on to
her so all she could do
was watch him and pretend
that he loved her back, too.
– linda m. crate