you made the happy days so much more fun you willingly provided comfort and a shoulder on the sad days your smile alone infused joy into the boring ones
now i can only…
wish for you on the happy days to make them even better
wish for you on the sad days so as to not weep silently and withdrawn
wish for you on the boring ones to not feel so alone
if only wishing worked…
because your love always wrapped me up in warmth and your joy was incredibly infectious you and your presence kept me sane
I only pretend to smell the roses when I kiss their petals with lips chapped by twenty years of thirst.
I never expected to live this long without you.
For the Bird who Smashed into my Window
All that remained airborne was a solitary feather on its final flight
Not understanding death drifting down
Galileo
Poets have been howling at the moon since before we invented language
Our ancestors gazed at the stars noticed five among thousands that wandered the skies like chariots
Astrologers and scientists tracked Jupiter as he marched along regularly retracing his steps at his most glorious
No one knew of his four escorts each brighter than the little dipper until Galileo pointed his telescope up — and revealed what had been hidden by the Jovian glare
And I mourn for the eons of reflected sunlight wasted on our puny human eyes
for Io, Europa, Ganymede and Callisto
A farmboy sees the ocean for the first time
I remember my first visit to The City, stepping onto a straight flat boulevard, shuddering at the endless street lights and buildings marching to the horizon.
I was afraid to cross traffic, be swept away by a river of iron, but trusted most drivers would stop if only to avoid insurance paperwork.
Now I stand on a beach and can’t see the other shore and the fear is different than it was among the works of men.
These waves are relentless, waxing and waning with their own logic, the guttural voice of the ocean propelled into the land, beckoning, compelling.
The fear is different here— The ocean does not care if I can swim and yet I step into the surf.
Liberation
Harder to jump my first boxcar than to leave my life behind no more cellphone leash no collar on my left ring finger no nine digit dog tag they’re all behind me now where the rails converge
But no more pleasant dreams beneath these naive stars the fear of being jumped the hunger of moldy food the cough that won’t go away
Freedom means detachment lost a tooth in the last fight lost a toe in the last cold snap lost my faith in mankind years ago though a Styrofoam of alms offered as though I were a monk reminds me we’re not all bad
Hope they won’t find my body that I’ll feed the earth that once fed me can’t stand the thought of being trapped in a box for all eternity
~~~
Bartholomew Barker is an organizer of Living Poetry, a collection of poets in North Carolina. Born and raised in Ohio, studied in Chicago, he worked in Connecticut for nearly twenty years before moving to Hillsborough where he makes money as a computer programmer to fund his poetry habit. www.bartbarkerpoet.com Bartholomew was initially featured in 2020 on The Short of It and had selected pieces in The Sound of Brilliance.
Submissions are now closed but if you’d like to be featured on The Short of It in the future, click here for the submissions guidelines.
Life’s sacredness, Death’s snatch. Love, loyalty, etched On the crypt.
Six-word stories
On Poetry
Poetry smiles, sings, weeps, exudes empathy.
On Life and Death
Weeping, we brew tea, carry on.
We are testimonials. To love, lived.
50-word stories
Life
Life is very important while we are alive, but in the end, the stories of the days of our lives are even more so. The act of living is urgent, the narration of living is sacred. Live now, remember the storytellers who made you. The story of you, exceeds death.
Love’s Requiem:
She played with her fork. Green peas scattering from silver tines. Ritualistic worship of the feast of inner life, rich meditations of mortality and satiety. Her eyes swam, and she drank crystal clear claret. Replenishing lost oceans, trust and sunshine submerged in Titanic icebergs. He let go, her life raft.
~~~
Amrita Valan is a writer from India. work has been published in online journals such as Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Short Story Town, Café Lit, and Spillwords. Her collection of fifty poems, Arrivederci, was published in May, and her collection of short stories In Between Pauses was published in November 2021. This feature is her second on The Short of It.
Submissions are now closed but if you’d like to be featured on The Short of It in the future, click here for the submissions guidelines.
survival hits different for every being on this earth adults and children kept and free animals even our beloved planet facing physical hardships whether risking living with little food or minuscule comfort or none at all whether beat into submission before they could find their voice or any number of unbearable situations through no other reason than a perfect storm coming together by chance life’s variables colliding just because those unlucky enough to always be on the end of surviving the punishments doled out by indiscriminate and unfortunate circumstances or by forceful, living monsters created by an evil social consciousness insinuating their vileness into the vulnerable lives of the innocent
A blood-tinged orb in the sky preceded the night’s events, foreshadowing death and destruction as the night unfolded; they chilled me to the core.
Bodies with deep, savage cuts, leaking their lives onto the grass, were littered everywhere—the green of the strawberry fields hidden beneath gallons of blood spilled.
My heart rate pulsed considerably higher than usual, my exhilaration palpable as I plotted the details of my next novel. With each sickening paragraph of the gore expressed, I felt more and more diabolical.
Sometimes, even I am afraid of the things my mind comes up with. How sick am I?
His end was near, didn’t know it though. He was clueless.
Her knuckles tightened around the elegantly shaped wine glass. Instinct and rage fueled the glass crashing into the side of the table. Only one crescent-shaped shard fell away.
It was the perfect edge to damage a pulsing artery.
She gracefully, furiously, lunged for the side of his throat. His vital organ cut wide-open. A rhythmic stream began pumping out, gushing blood down and out over his body. With stunned horror, he gripped his throat to stop the bleeding.
the cobwebs of the day grew thicker even coffee proved useless after three ten-hour shifts mucking around in and on the bodies of those ravaged by detrimental accidents necessitating ER visits an assembly line of in-home, highway, work, and all other accident producing places a mild laceration from slicing oranges to a hand versus garbage disposal situation or fists breaking windows following jaws broken by fists to anaphylactic shock from eating peanuts using a scale of 1 – 10 i witnessed and fixed hundreds of every number i was exhausted it was time to go home
my decision to stay for the third shift may not have been my best as i watched cones laid around my mangled car the overturned truck and its driver unconscious but thankfully breathing, unlike me my dead and bloodied body on the pavement still the red life liquid from my corpse almost reaching the closest cone
The season changed Deranged with loss, oh, how I grieved The season changed. Spring lambs leapt; blue skies furled white sheets A cloudy barge carried your hearse A setting sun shed crimson blood The season changed.
The lovely moon
The lovely moon Sent me into, a trance, a swoon The lovely moon Whispered gibberish, silver bliss Made love to me, sly crescent tease Winked eternal love, blew a kiss The lovely moon.
The Death Dance
Death floats above my mortal Cast-off shell Adieu, life, as I knew it The spring wells of joy The pools of tears, The daily grind The nighttime fears I am to hold hands Dance above my corpse With the great leveler In the holiest temple of all Without body or address Dwelling outside time And space Where when I flatline Where I go Is something now I shall Come to know.
Will You Be Mine?
I don’t want to be rescued. Be My deliverance. I don’t want to be saved. Be My salvation. I don’t want to be loved. Unless I can love you back.
Please, don’t open doors for me. Or offer me your seat.
Be my doorway To brave beginnings And I will rise, Stand up for my beliefs.
Cost of Betrayal
My infidelity did not anger him, strangely enough, it humbled, crumbled, and made him so meek it broke my heart.
Lights Die Out
When he finally cracked, it was a ‘blink and you will miss it’ moment. The twinkle in his eyes extinguished.
End of a Love Story
In short, though I was ready to forgive him, he had moved beyond the need to be forgiven. The end.
~~~
Amrita Valan is a writer from India, and she has been published in many online journals and anthologies. Recently her debut book of fifty poems Arrivederci was published and is available on Amazon.
Submissions are now closed but if you’d like to be featured on The Short of It in the future, click here for the submissions guidelines.
I Write Her 