I pause at last~
a rare celestial event,
like a comet or a clean inbox.
My files stare back,
feral little gremlins
named things like finalFINAL2
and use_this_one_maybe.
I take a breath.
The universe holds still.
Even my husband is impressed.
Then~
a miracle:
I drag one folder
into another folder
and nothing explodes.
Suddenly I’m unstoppable.
A digital filing phoenix.
A desktop deity.
A sorter of chaos.
And all it took
was pausing long enough
to remember
I’m actually in charge
of this digital zoo.
They say blood is thicker than water
Maybe if you weighed it by the gram
Rule obeyed by every son & daughter
Ham it up when you are in your pram
A through strife of life transporter
With some families it can be a scam
Parents don’t love like they oughter
Sadly behave badly don’t give a damn
Should be your ultimate problem sorter
Even when your are in a real jam
Treat their offspring like a free porter
As your emotions they will just slam
We are just a lamb to the slaughter
As your devotions like a bull they ram
They should be your bricks & mortar
Older realise I’m in their folder of spam
Despite fact they should be a supporter
So with our friends the good times cram
Because sometimes famalam is a sham
Just to keep up with a new style, while the Sand man sticks to a plan to hence understand the sentence one tense to be rinsed as the Grinch defends his tent in a pinch despite its foul rotten odor of a stench mouthed one voter who was NOT that dense in past present and future tense hence the bench warrant quarantine latrine screaming beanie baby trading card retarded jarred smarties party past time hardly hardy bartering shotgun runtime bubble covered in Nick at night slime time grime crockery stole bike spike Lymes disease treaty spiked seizer sky high geyser lightning bolt jolt soda colt cold shouldered boulder scolded holding smoldering diamond ring rugged bug-eyed smuggler tug of war tare of a care bare share holder folder to be both bad and bolder like gold oil and drugs with extra hugs and butt plugs underneath the rugs for the fuzz buzzing love jugs whatever that was or wasn’t but not my cousin nuzzling the guzzled puzzling Charlie Sheen screaming ice cream machine that feeds a team and the b team both green beans and brings the fiends back to their gene’s roots and boot scooting things... Let us see what else life brings. The Time is NOW! POW!!!
living in snow-capped Boulder was Mrs. G. Golder
Her personality persnickety and colder
fourteen juicy pepper jack cheeseburgers would not hold her
Six candy bars too, Mrs. Molder whispered to my pal Soldier
Mrs. Molder was a snoopy neighbor of Golder
None of us ventured to guess which crone was older
Their birth certificates flagged inside a red folder
Kept by the F.B.I. in weather that was colder
What’s your guess? My sister asked, nudging my shoulder
I guessed Mrs. Molder, but my sister argued it was Mrs. G. Golder
To find the answer, we broke into the F.B.I. office in Boulder
Discovered they were twins; it was unclear which one was older.
It’s a great exaggeration
Which I never understand
Why is it deemed an immigration
To spend a week in their land?
Just to see their homes and grass
Their gardens and the trees
But it seems they cannot grasp
The idea that it’s me
Lil’ old me who’s not a nation
But an owner of my mind
Stamped by generalization
That I never need to bind
I might be their mean projection
Thrown into the litter bin
A distorted strange reflection
Mirrored in the darkened screen
Brought my bank account statement
But it didn't work this time
There was no source of savings
Application was declined
Got the letter in spam folder
Their email made my day
They protected their border
And for this I had to pay
So goodbye the V&A
Farewell, The Leaping Horse
There’s no place around to stay
‘Cause my savings have no source
I was silly, they were stupid
But the right was on their side
It cost me two thousand quid -
I think highly of mankind!
Encores & guffaws .. sure you get more twinkle as you do get older
Be a jester...don't let anything pester..smoulder..floor or fester
Show jeers..fears..tears..sneers the door..that scolder colder shoulder
Sly minx..kinks & sky high jinx.. rafter of laughter from yesteryear's folder
Winks me thinks.. blink and guy on the brink.. dafter.. few too many drinks
Rascal sprinkle now a sparkle after each superfly debacle.. appears a bit bolder
His name is Momoh Kamara
a brilliant mind, fresh from school
confident, driven
his future packed in a folder and a dream.
But they didn’t see that.
They saw Themne.
They saw North.
And whispered spy, problem, glitch.
“Wait for our call,” they said.
So Momoh waited
days grow into to months
hope rusted in the silence.
Four years, four heavy years
he chased a future that kept retreating
not because he wasn’t worthy
but because of where he came from
because of who they decided he was.
Written: May 27, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Miranda Hawley
****************
Colorful crayons, the dreams of my choice,
Chalk, white, and red allergens hurt my voice.
Young hearts overflow with pristine lifetime,
While learning about our gone past sublime.
Like a box that cradles bright, varied pens,
Transforming basic scenes with vivid stems.
Shades of jade, azure, lavender, and gold,
Turquoise whispers like oceans, calm and bold.
Purple colors absorbed me as a child,
Soft blue calmed all the troubles of my mind.
Yet I shun the red; the shadow it casts,
Recalls too well the echoes of the past.
Same as how crayons fit in their holder,
I give each dream its special space folder.
It's nice to know you still do
I thought that you had stopped
Many sleepless nights were had
I worried quite a lot
I thought of going someplace far
To let you be alone
While all the time I'd quietly
Be waiting by the phone
I know I'm too dramatic
Deleting things at will
But love you? I'm emphatic
Calm down my heart, be still
Patience, lots of patience
It's not an easy thing
To want my little bluebird now
And long to hear her sing
I'll follow what you're doing
I'll store my thoughts away
In a temporary folder
Marked, "Open Me Someday"
Please give me time, I'll get there
Though sometimes I might say
"Goodnight my J, I love you"
Just telling you, I may
Eco fuels at home are warmly cherished,
obligation calls and duly heeded,
in the past a smokeless coal,
allied to peat briquette the norm,
a less than ideal medley I’d agree,
I have this last briquette in camera folder,
on the day it was eventually disposed of,
an ahh moment if there ever was one,
Yet I cling to reminiscence round a warm hearth,
with my sister Jay’s wondrous glowing orb,
how she giggled so infectiously at will,
as intense vivid red flames leaped,
deep down inside we knew this couldn’t last,
a rubicon of sorts had now been crossed,
one final soiled clump of history,
that would resonate deep into late life mists,
our family clustered gaping in amazement,
at momentary flight of era toss on film,
an eternally preserved instant fetish,
some poignant flashback a capsule
I will always hate the colour orange. Consider:
Last meeting was on promoting sales of necklaces,
The folder given was orange.
Going home was a one-lane affair,
An orange sign stated, “Works Ahead”.
Orange traffic cones lined the lane on each side.
Arriving home I found my wife had installed orange curtains.
By this time I began to have some shivers.
Dinner began: orange pumpkin soup with orange buffalo wings.
“Come dear have some orange juice laced with orange vitamin pills.”
Opening TV and orange Garfield appeared.
Even the Cheetos and Utz Cheese Balls were orange.
Turning to a book what do I get?
A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess.
That’s when I began to really hate the colour
For even the goldfish had the same colour.
“Is it possible in this world it’s all orange?”
My wife thought about that and said:
“Oh no my dear, there’s salmon, carrot, coral, titian….”
Disgusted I left the house towards a verdant park.
In home room that morning
I found the folded letter on my desk
informing me of my election
to the National Honor Society
Quite a thing for the 11th grade,
I later found. Perhaps even
more for a stumbling over-achiever
on some redemption road.
There had been earlier letter...
one sent home in Junior High by a man
named Yonkee, who wrote my mother
of an academic malaise in my DNA
that was most certain to inform my future.
I remember her pleading face as she read
me his verdict. And so, that 11th grade afternoon
I stopped for the mail on my way from the bus,
subtly stuffing my honorarium in the stack
That second letter is still in my desk somewhere
filed away in a folder labeled True Best Day.
Mary Jane passed some eighteen months
after my delivery, and that vanished
world now seems so remotely mine,
but her faith is summoned, sometimes,
these later days when Yonkees of the world
--see right through me--
...“I suppose that this just makes you
like everyone else on this earth,
light and shadow both in your soul,
your choice as to which you deserve.
“Some might say that the man you were
is really your ‘authentic self,’
but then again that man you were
put countless people through sheer hell.
“I know what choice I would prefer,
but that is a choice I can’t make…
Just know, if you choose your old ways,
you’ll soon be a guest of the state.”
He said nothing more after that,
just left Jack the scattered folder.
Jack sat there quite incredulous,
his mind racing in a great blur.
His memories were not his own?
His life belonged to another?
He saw his past in the pictures,
but it felt like something other…
Was this what he was meant to be?
A scumbag who had left lives wrecked?
Was this now nightmare, or quite real?
He did not know what to do next…
The clip on my folder has finally cracked
From all the paper that’s been stacked
All the paper piling up on top
My mind has unwaveringly become an emotional shop
A pivotal moment of a significant heart beat that can’t stop.
An influential mind of days’ nights and time
Running free of feeling and thought
Of integrity and dignity that can’t be bought
Not a cheap bargain that’s for sale
There’s no price tag on these tall tales
Irrevocably
Permanently
Conclusively
As you scan
Beep
Beep
Beep
The screen reads decline
I’m sorry sir, madam if I sound out of line
They say that’s okay its fine
We understand
We have a mind that can comprehend
It’s just that we have a strong love for your written hand
I say here then take a copy for nothing
You have given me more than something
Your respect I take willingly
Far more worth than money.
I ran for a long time.
And from alot of different things.
And you can be running and not even know your running.
My whole life was a sprint away from pain.
My family called me so strong.
They applauded my solidity. My stability. My reliability.
She'll never let us down. It's a little awkward now.
Because I did let them down.
And I'm not strong.
But I am fast. And I know how to run. And I know how to hide things away in a special folder.
For later or never.
But mostly never.
I haven't faced the things I'm afraid of.
Spent 22 years hiding.
Never daring to open those folders because frankly my memory of them was gone.
But now they're open.
And I see myself again.
And I've stopped running.
And I felt my pain.
And I will continue to feel it
And it's gonna hurt.
Deeply.
Bring it on.
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