This is part of a series of things previously written, these ones being born from university assignments and trying out different techniques. I particularly liked the way these turned out. And, y’know, because of Superman, since I can never resist squeezing him in someplace. For the series’ preface, read this.
A blur of red, blue and yellow,
(but neither fully white or black)
Who whizzes steely alongside bullets and henchmen
(but not Kryptonite)
And is as snappy as lightning – enough to turn back time.
(but not always public opinion).
He’s not a bird or a plane,
(but he does fly on wings of glassy hope)
For he is fortressed with solitude.
(but he still yearns to break it).
He was taught amidst barns, sky and yellowed crops
(but born between a red sun and Kryptonian rocks)
To both toil and frolic, to be symbolic.
(but he still slips on mortal pebbles).
Battling for Truth, Justice, and the American Way,
(but not always saving it)
He soars up and away with a trail of embezzled hearts.
(but always returns them, save the one named Lois).
Can he save them all? Even his nemesis? Or is that too much?
(that’s to be continued next issue).
This next piece I originally penned in 2014, but tweaked for this posting, seeing as how my thoughts on the matter had also been tweaked since.
“I love sad movies because they make you cry.”
My aunt says this – practically shimmering as she does.
I always nodded with the result but
never the heartfelt feeling. When the movie curtains parted,
I tried to close mine.
No matter how I braced my face, when I saw those emotions staged, something
in the river canyon within me.
It splashed its way
upward through my tear ducts, sliding
unbidden down my cheeks, like the silverfish you find with wide eyes and stomp
and crush into paste and quickly wipe clean.
When movies came to stir me up and swirl my insides,
I came to always nod “Yes.” Then try to yank the curtains closed
when that stirring spilled out.
I used to sit with my own heart
fisted, gripped with all the tension it
refused to bleed away.
It never worked.
One day, my pulmonary organ finally rebelled against the
pressure, tossing inside me like a fish freshly dying
and disturbing my mirrored waters.
Too much splashing! Not enough catching!
All this flipping and flopping
was getting to be stretching.
The curtains were tearing and soaking and flapping with the hidden struggle…
…and then they fell. The rusted valve went from leaking to
gushing emotionally charged seawater.
It got me so slippery and sopping, darkening
the colour of my scarf, dripping with salt.
It was unhideable.
I always thought, “I must plug all the leaks!
Staunch the flow, maintain the pressure!” as though
I’d been mortally wounded.
Now, I still have curtains, but they are thrown open
more smoothly now, not catching on
Instead, they glide.
I Like Superheroes That Don’t Wear Pink
I played with Barbies some,
but they were always too perfect
(even the one whose hair my mother
had long ago haphazardly,
and childishly lopped).
I played with action figures: Rescue Heroes and superheroes.
They were perfect too, but
not enough to reflect shame
but to delight.
They were always in flights
Always pulling sight and never
lighting the flames.
They were hard-cased figures,
meant for boys and their
And smash them I did,
but also walked them along,
made them save
My figure was not hard,
and so were my insides.
may have been Pink,
yet I was
I was a girl, but I was not
a woman, and still
will be, though
I don’t mind smashing, saving
or being saved.
But I still think superheroes are
better than Barbies.
I still don’t like Pink, but
I like the idea.