Six shots ring out. Fat, hollow bangs ricocheting against the walls of the night. I tense waiting for a cry of pain, a howl of distress, a ruckus of some sort, someone doing a runner from the commission of a crime, an active shooter on the prowl, who maybe is not done yet. But there is nothing only a twitchy silence a dead emptiness for our imaginations to fill
John is a South Australian writer of poetry, flash fiction and the occasional short story.
inside rock flinty fire inside sand time inside water space inside air song inside light dark inside tree colors rise weeping through branches’ eyes inside bone poem inside flesh bread of hunger inside blood pulse of thirst
The new normal which isn’t normal The perpetrators of the myth who propagate the idea True believers of the hyperbole lulled into apathy And the apathetic don’t care as long as they can follow the herd Believing that there is a new normal Refraining from thinking as they sink into depression And the new normal is the isolation of fear Manifesting the new reality of loneliness and suicide
“I had to write this because this is what I see all around me.” – the writer
I look up at the north side of a huge frame house,
twice as wide, as high, as the one I live in,
rough pine shingles
brown with cream trimmings,
stained glass windows,
an architect’s history lesson.
How do you knock on the door of such a place?
What right has this fist?
A circular alcove, dark entrance –
this is not the way
to any place that will have me.
“When I’m not writing, I get anxious.” – the writer
I’m grand, thanks, with a slight nod and an even step
Would you rather I told you what trampled my heart?
Would you pause long enough to hear me, if I did?
Don’t worry, I won’t
And neither will you
We’ll smile and nod like we always do
Nodding through life like we always do
Someday our life will be over, too
But it’s grand,
Our teachers have a daunting task
insuring students wear a mask.
And when some kids should throw a fit?
They’ll invade spaces, hit, and spit.
Then, as those germs spew in the air,
fears will increase there, everywhere.
So folks, be smart. Don’t play the fool.
Please keep your children out of school …
safely at home, healthy, secure,
til we acquire a covid cure.
“Sometimes I just have to express my opinions.” – the writer
Things have changed
since my early years
I’m not young and dumb
My spontaneous teenage ways
went out with the dishwater
I don’t go anywhere
without an extra sweater
or an umbrella
I know too much
My naïveté is gone
along with the hair on my head
and the muscle tone
I hear too much,
even when my hearing aid
is turned down low
I don’t do foolish things
like I used to,
or jump on bandwagons,
or try spicy foods
without an antacid
I see the world
with a grain of salt,
and a cautious point of view.
“Writing helps me to be mindful of my inner voice.” – the writer
The silence of the smallest fireworks
pirouetting in the air
on soft summer nights.
That sparkle in my peripheral
letting me know that I’m not alone.
Twinkling to life,
startled by my footsteps
and always traveling up.
Their journey begins
on the tip of a blade of grass.
They flare to life around my knees
before flickering out of existence
on their quest for the stars
like angels pointing the way.
“I write to relax and unravel the knots in my spaghetti brain.” – the writer