Eleanor
Slowly, green burns from my eyes.
Head’s stacked tall with where’s and why’s.
Where once was dark, and cold, and snow,
lively trees and flowers grow.
And like those plants, into the ground,
by my foot, I too am bound.
I push and pull, but won’t give in
the rubble - scratches it my skin.
Broken planks, and glass, and tin,
reminding me of garbage bin,
bury pedals, deeply red,
redecorate the flower bed.
Smells of honey, sea, and dust,
beer, and smoke, dirt, and rust.
I try my voice and cough out loud,
words in hopes that I’ll be found.
“Dad! Where are you? Help me, please!”
But no one hears… Just heartless breeze
throws dust around and makes me sneeze.
Tears in eyes, in pain I moan…
How will I get out on my own?
Then, suddenly, he stands right there,
having come from who knows where,
the Bentley man midst all this junk,
screams were coming from whose trunk.
I freeze but stare, as if my head
had found it safer to play dead.
Could I hope that help he will,
or is he only here to kill?
He doesn’t move or say a word,
but, clearly, cries for help he’d heard?
Damn, no choice, must drop the curtain…
Alone and stuck, my death is certain.
‘Could you help me, sir?” I mumble.
On his kindness I must gamble.
Standing there, in total silence:
He could choose aid or could choose violence.
Eventually, he walks my way,
and without look, without a say,
gets to work and sets me free:
pulls me up! Ouch! Hurts my knee!
He asks: ‘You okay?’
And cleans his suit…
Proud, as no one cand dispute,
his kindness toward a girl stuck, hurt…
Should I thank, or strike alert?
‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ I crawl back up,
trembling feet, like just-shot-buck.
Pain, it surges through my bone!
Could be broken, sprayed...?
I moan…
And shut my lips to play it strong:
to show I’m weak, it must be wrong!
‘I’m good. Do you know what’s happened?’
I wipe the dirt off from my back end.
Glancing up, there moons are plenty:
pink and red, from ten to twenty.
He says no words but moves on forward,
toward the thick, where wind blows toward.
Leaves me here, as if his kindness
came to end, replaced by blindness
toward my knee, that leaves me hopping…
I need his help, but he’s not stopping!
Jackson
Let’s get it straight.
It’s happened last…
Outcome of my god damned past.
All that guilt, and pain, and sad,
congregated, turned me mad.
How else could one explain the weird,
all around me…
Disappeared, the snow and cold, and left the night,
pulled up, pushed out, me bright green light.
Left me stranded in these woods, which
colored green, with flowers rich.
Under sky - we’re not acquainted,
dozen moons up there are painted.
But have I not a moment to,
collect my thoughts, sort wrong and true?
As at my heel, without a rest,
hopps a girl, a human pest.
Without looking, I can tell,
she moves like thirsty toward the well.
Though ankle busted, fuels her fear,
to not be left alone out here.
But how is she of my concern?
Of all arrivals to this world…
Why was I made to chaperone
a girl with busted ankle bone?
And damn her silent, willful walk,
manner quiet, doesn’t talk.
How knows she that the more she whined,
more likely she’d be left behind?
With every step she takes behind me,
in deeper guilt she lets me find me.
I can’t, again, forsake a child
to be ravaged by the wild.
She misses step and yelps a squeal:
and hence is signed this silent deal…
Alright! I’ll help her cross these lands,
till someone takes her off my hands.
‘I’ve no idea how all this is,
Of fixing bones my knowledge flees...
But there’s no rush, so take a rest,
whilst I try figure East from West.’
Right away she stops, her face red,
Chasing me has left her half-dead.
‘If it’s not too much a bother,
could you help me find my father?’
She asks, her voice worried, meek.
It’s a quest with outcomes bleak.
‘Look we can, but cannot promise,
anything – in woods I’m novice.
Best we look for higher ground,
look for smoke and hear for sound…
If there’s someone to be found,
alert lets be to what’s around.’
She nods and breathes a silent breath,
‘I worry, not much sunlight’s left?’
That does ring true and causes worry.
Soon the night our paths will bury.
‘But over there, I have a feeling,
soon enough we might reach clearing?’
She points toward the part of woods,
which easier will be on boots.
With bush less thick, trees start to scatter:
Yes. Quite well I like that pattern.
I let her grab onto my shoulder,
and so we go, as up I hold her.
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