3 New Poems

Flower Blossoms Close At Night
Flower blossoms close at night
not because they are afraid of the dark
but because they so love sunlight
they will accept no lesser spark.

Bottles on Shelves
We filled many shelves with bottles we drank
thinking they would help us remember our good times.
But looking at them lining the shelves now,
I just see emptiness trying to fill itself.

Separate Beds
There is a gulf between our beds.
Mine is next to the wall while
yours is under the window.
You crave sunshine and a view;
I demand peace and quiet.
How is it we live in the same room?


Copyright (C) 2012 by Eric Landuyt

4 New Poems

Wondering While Wandering
I wonder while I wander
whether wandering will lead
to greater understanding
or simply more wondering.

Who Shot First?
I took pictures of you
taking pictures of me.
We both asked, “Who shot first?”

If The Saints Could See
If the saints could see
all the statues and paintings
people have made of them
in all their glory and suffering,
would they feel proud
or embarrassed?

Through Jaundiced Eyes
I see the world with jaundiced eyes
which give all things a sickly tint.
Fresh flowers seem about to die,
and faces look withered and spent.
All beauty is a false façade,
youth and health illusory tricks.
People are not images of God,
just wax puppets held up by sticks.
I see poisons run though clear streams,
stain them to piss, and leave them stinking.
Joys are only thin, fleeting dreams
conjured up by wishful thinking.
The warmest heart can still turn cold,
and storms rise from the gentlest breeze.
A pious soul can still be sold
if it succumbs to this world’s disease.



Copyright (C) 2012 by Eric Landuyt

Story Fragment: My Wife Shot The Dog

I've fallen behind again, so in the interest of staying caught up, I'll post one piece now and something else later in the week.  This is the opening of the story I've been tinkering with lately.  I'm not sure where it's going yet, but let me know if you think this is a good starting point.

It all started when my wife shot the dog.  She’d never liked the dog; from the day I brought him home, she was always threatening to kill him, but I never thought she would actually do it.  Then one night, she just walked into the living room and shot Jimmy Stewart.

The dog’s name was Jimmy Stewart.  I’d wanted to name him after the giant invisible rabbit in that one Jimmy Stewart movie where Jimmy Stewart sees a giant invisible rabbit, but I couldn’t remember the rabbit’s name, so I just called him Jimmy Stewart.  I found him following me around on the street one evening, looking all cold and hungry and lonely, and I took pity on the poor mutt because I figured no one else would.  He wasn’t a good-looking dog; in fact, he looked like someone crossed an Irish wolfhound with a Chihuahua (don’t ask me how that could have happened; I don’t know his parents).  I suppose I wasn’t really surprised when my wife didn’t take to him.  The first words out of her mouth were, “You should have kicked that ugly son of a bitch out in front of the nearest passing car!”  Frankly, I think the only reason she didn’t kick him out of the house herself is she didn’t want to have to touch him.   She spent most of the time hurling insults and blunt objects at him for being a dumb son of a bitch and then hurling insults and blunt objects at me for being an even dumber son of a bitch.  But all that became part of our daily routine.

Anyway, I was sitting on the couch one night when my wife walked in with a nine-millimeter and shot Jimmy Stewart in the head.  Then she yelled at me to get the filthy son of a bitch’s body out of the house and clean all the blood off the floor.  I didn’t really like her bossing me around right then, especially considering she’d just shot my dog in the head, but since she was still waving a gun, I figured it was best to do what she said.  I put Jimmy Stewart in an extra-thick garbage bag and hauled him out to the trash can.

Had I not gone outside at that moment, I never would have seen…

Copyright (C) 2012 by Eric Landuyt

Back

Hey!  Here are some more short story pieces, some with titles, some without.

0 divided us.

Nothing could divide us we both promised, and for a while it seems to stick.  We are great friends and maybe even lovers.  But I’m telling you now, it might be nothing that divides us in the end, the void of no words or caring that tears us apart.


You found an ugly stone; me, and you tried to crack it and crack it you did.  But with every crack, you didn’t know, I was a diamond, and every single blow, every kill you tried under the cover of love, I just gleamed brighter.  When you broke me, it all fell apart and I became anew.  I’ll have to thank you someday because now everyone wants me, the ugly gem, the gorgeous insecure


I like to play where I shouldn’t play.
Harps and shadows, darkness all day.
I like to walk where I shouldn’t walk.
The darkness is fun when you don’t balk.
Bad things happen in the dark
So stay near me and let me be the light of the shadows.
I love the dark because of the pain
So come close, I’ll give you my rain.
I hold fire in my hands.
And it’s running through your veins.
Don’t leave me in here, it’s all dark.
The shadows and meadow larks.
Don’t leave me here alone
This is my house but not my home.

The Campaign: An Epic Verse (Prologue)

Beyond the crafted wastes of Phal,

Magam’s spirits, and Teb’s Great Wall

Did Our Master set railed course

For this story of loves and force,

Of scheming kings and wizards mad,

Of dragons and pits. If you had

Some imp on your back that must know

Why these events were chosen so,

Know this: Our Lord makes all heroes.

They’re picked by him so they may show

Hope in the few and Our Master’s

Genius at stories. As it were,

Our Lord crafted this world for

Our heroine, life of this lore,

Named Solus. She’s sent by a duke

Who fears that his soul would rebuke

Its mortal chains. He gave her wealth

To buy the Tome of Bod’ly Health

From the north-king of Ustufas;

She’d receive land if she moved fast.

With the Duke’s guide, a ship set sail

With a Solus who could not fail…

For at this point, she lived a thief

And filled belly with poor men’s grief,

Which is why the Duke did tell her

To steal the Tome if wealth couldn’t lure.

Now, you do know as well as I

How evil is to our Lord’s eye…

Does he not dream that his chosen

Be good and lawful in prof’sion?

Ahh, but here’s where Our Good Master

Is master of stories. This cur

Is clay to form in our Lord’s thumb,

To rise and then serve her kingdom.

Lord does love His servants, it’s true,

But redeemers are his way to

Show the power of blest free will

When it’s sent to Lord for the kill.

Now I continue. While at sea,

Solus slept below while the key

To this whole plan, the guide, was up

On the deck. When Solus woke, she

Saw his body slain disgracef’ly:

Skin dry white, veins replacing eyes.

As thieves are wont to do, she pries

Through his possessions. Map and gold

Had vanished like a ghost. The cold

Winds gave Solus no hope of sort

As they blew her into port.

She was now on this island,

With no means to do tasks at hand.

Now, so the list’ner can’t despair,

Know that Our Master, wise and fair,

Meant this as a prologue of sorts

And brought His touch to all. Cohorts

In form of sea and sky did serve

To set the perfect stage. The nerve

Of one to bicker against this!

Now Solus had control of fists,

Of eyes raven and fingers swift.

Her free will’s restored as a gift

Of Our Lord to prove grace. The sun

Peeks meekly back; our tale’s begun.

4 New Poems

Our Final Recess
We spent our last night at home
out on the old playground,
riding swings and climbing towers
like we were still young,
running and laughing and pretending
like nothing was going to change.
We acted like the shadows were just
cover for our hide-and-seek,
but every time I lost sight of you,
my throat formed a lump
as I thought of never seeing you again.

Desert Canyons
Desert canyons were once rivers
which the rains could not refill.
But deep-running springs deliver
life to roots that reach down still.

Carousel Horses
Carousel horses frozen in place
like abandoned soldiers
left behind on the battle field,
too weak to move without help
but too strong to slip away.

Ghosts in the Mirror
Ghosts in the mirror
appear to smile at me
when I stare long enough.


Copyright (C) 2012 by Eric Landuyt

Happy News!

Though I'm behind about two submissions now, I have commented on everyone's piece in the blog, past and present! Go back through its history to see what I can add about your piece!