When Pain has no escape

Does anybody give a dam
Does anybody really care
Pain locked deep inside
It never gets repaired

Does anybody really care
Suicide a lovely poem
It never gets repaired
It's rhyme drifts through the air

Suicide a lovely poem
Smell its fragrance sweet and sad
It's rhyme drifts through the air
From every eye a tear

Smell its fragrance sweet and sad
Pain locked deep inside
From every eye a tear
Does anybody give a dam

Copyright © Robin Mitchell

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This is my first short story, I hope you enjoy it.

And the wildflowers did sing

Ryan stood in the field of wildflowers the tears that ran down his cheeks
and dripped from the end of nose went unnoticed; it was the first time he had cried. 
At first there was just the pain, then there was a sense of loss like a black hole
had settled in his heart; its massive weight pulled his soul into it.
He was empty except for the weight of loss and loneliness.

Standing here in this little valley of the Italian Alps, brave little
wildflowers pushing though the winter snow to sing their song, he cried
and he dared to remember her.  She had come to him in the winter of
her life.  He remembered the day so clearly that it was more vision than memory.
Yes, vision is appropriate; meeting her was a religious experience.  It was
his salvation.  He had been eating breakfast in his usual spot,
in his usual restaurant.

"Morning Ryan", the not quite cute little waitress said
Alyssia, that was the waitress' name, set black coffee in a black mug and
a glass of ice water on the table.  Ryan knew all of the waitresses' names
He had eaten breakfast at this very same table for more than four years now.
Alyssia stood there, waiting expectantly, as if she were about to hear some
new and interesting tale.  It is the practiced look of all good servers who
pretend that you are not boring and ordinary, the look that says you are
truly important.

Looking at her I smiled and said, "Have you been behaving yourself?"

Tilting her head back and laughing Alyssia replied, "Absolutely not, you?"

"What fun would that be!"

"Absolutely... so, the sunrise?"

"Yes, with an english muffin"

"You got it, hun"

The morning ritual of flirting and ordering complete, she flounced away and
I settled into the book I had brought today.  The food came, it was ordinary
in its not quite great way.  Waitresses came and went, coffee was drunk and
refilled, food was eaten and plates carried away.  The morning dance of
breakfast had reached its conclusion and now for just a little while I would
be left in peace to enjoy my book.

It was like all religious experiences, unexpected and unrecognized in its
importance.  She and her young grandson came to have breakfast.  The hostess
brought them to their table.  That choice of table brought them past mine
and they were seated three tables in front of me.  The hostess had chosen
the table at random, at least to her it was random, but the universe has
its tools, and the tool is not aware of the hand that wields it.  As they
passed I looked up and watched them being seated.

After sitting she looked up and our eyes meet in one of those exciting, embarrassing
heart fluttering moments.  I could not pull my eyes away.  she was beautiful.  I'm
not talking about the kind of beauty that splashes obscenely across fashion
magazines.  I'm talking about the kind of coming home to rest in the safety and
intimacy of your own home kind of beauty.  The kind of beauty that starts in
the heart, shines through the eyes, and paints itself as smiles as it flows
from face to face.  Smiling shyly, she looked down.

I was in a trance, I could not stop looking and then I noticed the hat.
I had seen hats like that in the past, and I knew what it meant.  My heart,
which had swelled, began to freeze.  I know it stopped because if it had
tried to beat it would have shattered.  This, my angel, had cancer.  Cancer,
even the word is ugly.  I felt betrayed; the punchline of a cosmic joke.
I buried myself in my book and refused to play the fool for the amusement
of the universe.  She and her grandson left.

That would have been the end of it, and I would have continued in my own
private hell of mediocrity, but the universe, far from being perverse, had
other ideas.  On my way home I saw a car stopped along the side of the road.
My imitation angel, how ignorant and cruel I was, she was standing in the
field looking out over nothing.  Thinking, "I should at least do the noble
thing", I pulled over behind them.

Getting out of my car I said, "Everything ok?"

She turned and looked at me and smiled; it was like the Sun breaking through
storm clouds as a rainbow formed in the air around her.  "Yes, we're fine, thank you."

"What are you doing?"

Turning back to the field, but her smile still hung sweetly in the air, she said,
"I'm listening to the wildflowers sing."

Well, I'm thinking, "Ok, she is sick; it's to be expected that she may not
be quite all here."

I did not know how wrong I was.  It was not she, but we who are not all here.
She knowing, like only those who stare death in the face can know, that now
is all there is, and she lived, all of her, in the now.  She was all here. 
Walking up beside her I said, "What are they singing?"

"Shhhhh, hear them?  They are singing to the spring.  They sing and rejoice
in the beauty of now with no concern for what will be tomorrow."

Well I never heard them sing, but I could hear angel choirs every time I
looked into her eyes.  That day we went to a little coffee shop and we talked.
Well, mostly I talked and she listened.  Her eyes absorbed me and I found out
what it was like to be truly comforted.  We fell in love and for four hundred and
5 days we were never apart.  Most of it we spent trying to teach me to hear the
wildflowers sing, but all of it was timeless.  She would never let me be in a
hurry, always making me enjoy the moment while it lasted.  Even when the cancer
over came the chemo the doctors gave her, I would sit day and night in her
hospital room.

She died three days before spring and was buried on its first day.  Laura, I have
not spoken that name out loud in a year.  I did not realize it, but Laura had
changed her will leaving everything to me.  Her relatives, who had always thought
I was after her money.  After all, who would fall in love with a dying woman.  They
Had already hired lawyers to contest the will.  When the will was read I found out
that Laura had left me just over a million dollars.

After the will was read her sister said, "You'll never get to spend it I promise you that!"

Looking at her I said, "I don't want it.  I will take $12,000; you and your family can
have the rest."

This stopped her, "Why $12,000?"

"Laura and I had planned to take a trip in the Spring before she got bad.  We were going to spend time in the Italian Alps.  She was hoping I would finally learn to hear the wildflowers sing."

I arrived in the little valley of the Italian Alps on the first day of Spring.  The brave little wildflowers were pushing their way through the snow and I stood there crying as I listened to them sing.

The End

Copyright © Robin Mitchell

Tags: Story spring wildflowers Robin

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Too many words

Little words of wisdom strolling down the street
All of them look weary from dodging people's feet
Tender little mercy nearly getting smashed
By a little girl who only wants to dance

Elephants with wings, flying unicorns
Action verbs in battle each of them with swords
brightly colored adjectives quickly running adverbs
Silly little palindromes playing music backwards

No one seems to notice the language at their feet
Words just running everywhere none of them in sync
Now I see a group of them making up a phrase
All the little words are forming a parade

Marching with a purpose ready for a fight
A host of dangling participles demanding equal rights
Angry mobs of words left without a purpose
A jumbled ball of words looking quite uncertain

Maybe its the sunlight, or maybe I'm insane
Now I see the source of all these angry sayings
People they just chatter giving words no thought
Each and every word they speak is created on the spot

Silly little nothings spill upon the ground
Quarrels without logic keep go round and round
All these wasted words seeking better usage
Each of them is angry its language we're abusing

Looking up in horror a solid wall of words
Crashing down on people it really is absurd
Up ahead I see the source of this disaster
A smiling politician no one speaking faster

Copyright © Robin Mitchell

Tags: Poem Poetry Words Robin

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Inspired by a comment sent to me by RavenShadows:

Death, a love story

Slain by love's blade

I willingly give my blood to her light whim

Without her it is useless to me

Having bared my soul I bare my chest

Strike swiftly take my life

It is yours and always has been

Lying at her feet wanting nothing more

My life ebbs away with each beat of my pierced heart

Knowing that real pain is love lost

My last sight is of her slipping away into darkness

My last thought is for her

In the sigh of my last breath a love poem

Copyright © Robin Mitchell

Tags: Dark Love Poem Poetry Robin

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The more difficulties one has to encounter, within and without, the more significant and the higher in inspiration his life will be.
--Horace Bushnell

A Tale Of Two Men

The horrible man would sit in public
How dare he let us smell his pain
Daggers hidden in our eyes did cut him
Only his death could drive insanity away

The beautiful soul would sit in quiet
Tolerating their stinking hate
With each dagger cut he did bled pity
He knew their salvation was in his pain

How dare he let us smell his pain
A beautiful man once sought old wisdom
Only his death could drive insanity away
Soft paths for him would not suffice

Tolerating their stinking hate
The horrible soul once sought old wisdom
He knew their salvation was in his pain
He, to proud to walk on soft paths

A beautiful man once sought old wisdom
Cut and bludgeoned the horrible man emerged
Soft paths for him would not suffice
Shallowness has a cure, but the patient dies

The horrible soul once sought old wisdom
Cut and bludgeoned the beautiful soul emerged
He, to proud to walk on soft paths
Shallowness has a cure, a new soul is born

Cut and bludgeoned the horrible man emerged
Daggers hidden in our eyes did cut him
Shallowness has a cure, but the patient dies
The horrible man would sit in public

Cut and bludgeoned the beautiful soul emerged
With each dagger cut he did bled pity
Shallowness has a cure, a new soul is born
The beautiful soul would sit in quiet

Copyright © Robin Mitchell

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~Magickal Graphics~

~Magickal Graphics~

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My Father's Cloak

Dreams are buried one day at a time
A grave is opened the moment we are alive
Caskets are crafted from dead dry hope
Funeral mourners wear regrets like coats

A grave is opened the moment we are alive
When I was seven of thirst I died
Funeral mourners wear regrets like coats
They buried me in my father's cloak

When I was seven of thirst I died
A single tear could have saved me
They buried me in my father's cloak
Stones cry, but big boys don't

A single tear could have saved me
Caskets are crafted from dead dry hope
Stones cry, but big boys don't
Dreams are buried one day at a time

Copyright © Robin Mitchell

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