Climbing the Silo

The first time was so innocent

And made the most sense

For I climbed hand over hand,

Foot over foot, up to the top

Of a silver sided silo, from

The bottom I went up. Up.

As I neared the top rung,

My feet sturdy, solid,

I held on so tightly with

fingers clenched, so fierce

and finally found what

I sought, At the top. The top.

13 years, only thirteen and

The instinct to survive bound

Me to that ladder with the glue

Of a promise, that above me

The stars blinked and winked and

 showed me there is more to be found

if I didn’t crash to the ground.

Voice

Throat tight.
Stage fright.
Arms crossed,
Voice lost.
Faded.
Jaded.

Deep breath,
Big step.
Reach high.
Defy.
Stand up.
Erupt.
Speak out.
No doubt.

Journey of One, Part I

Is there no way out of the mind? - Sylvia Plath






Climbing up, up to the moon,
Up, up over the stars, we are
Brilliant together, I and the stars.
Not looking down. Don't.
Don't look down.
What goes up...

How did I end up down here?
Crushed under a mountain of cold stone,
I fondle my carvings.
Yes, this is my work here.
My mistake.
So sorry.
I can't make it. I can't.
You see, I'm under this mountain of
Grief.

No, I can't remember
What or why I mourn.
I believe something is lost.
It must be around here somewhere.
The cavern is dark and I forget how to make light.

I was lonely once long ago.

Nothing matters now.
The darkness has swallowed
Me and I am laying in the stomach
Of this beast.
 Is it breathing for me?
The beast and I are the same, for
Its shame and mine have digested.

Complacent

Oh, hey there, jet stream

Looks like you got left

Behind with me.

And we’re just fixed

Here unintentionally

like predetermined

objects pasted on

with miles of smiles.

And don’t you know

That we can go.

Anywhere.

Anytime.

But let’s just stay awhile

And we’ll make the most

of a blue sky.

Friendly Fire

She wraps her dreams in cellophane,

Sending them off like toy soldiers

camouflaged in brown paper bags.

But every war is started by someone

older; the young are lost on foreign

soil, grasping for meaning (or maybe

not) that is thrust upon their backs;

the dead weight of yesterday

is screaming for the light.

Mom

           Welcome Weekend Writing Warriors!    

Weekend writing Warriors is a weekly bloghop. Each week, participants sign up HERE at wewriwa.com, then post 8 sentences of their work, published ot unpublished, to go live between noon, Saturday and 9:00 AM Sunday EST Then we visit each other and read, comment, critique, encourage--all those things that do a solitary writer's heart good. 



My mind cannot separate

her from the brown earth

that raised up

her flowers

and me.

She said, “Reach.”

Oh, I did and she

did not insist

on superfluous things

like saying, “this is how.”

Her eyes would just

Smile as I found

my way,

like her flowers,

to the light.

One Thing You Missed

           
Welcome Weekend Writing Warriors!    

Weekend writing Warriors is a weekly bloghop. Each week, participants sign up HERE at wewriwa.com, then post 8 sentences of their work, published ot unpublished, to go live between noon, Saturday and 9:00 AM Sunday EST Then we visit each other and read, comment, critique, encourage--all those things that do a solitary writer's heart good.
 

Here is your little girl’s

first loose tooth, six

years of pearly growth

down the drain.

No, literally, it went

down the drain.

Your son, though

younger, her champion,

composed of freckles and

energy, shovels every

ditch, certain he will

recover her lost treasure.

You see, they know loss

And they seek what is lost.

Megan Cypher copyright 2013 All Rights Reserved

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