In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Pens and Pencils.”
She was too special to text, to email, to send a selfie.
This had to be from the heart, and would likely be a ‘novel’ experience; he chuckled to himself, being a writer…
There were people about, but he was able to focus.
He even bought a special fancy pen and stationery at the bookstore, just for the occasion; the ink was distinctive, seductively dark, he thought; the yellowed ivory look of the paper gave it just the right look of antiquity, and she would immediately, upon seeing it was his writing, be duly impressed.
The coffee shop, however, was full of college students, much like he’d been not very long ago; loud, boisterous, sure of themselves and their world-changing ideas.
He smiled.
How his world had shrunk, so suddenly, so magically, down to two, and if he had his way, down to one: to her.
This letter, to her. His heart, to her. All that he would be, to her.
He left the coffee shop behind, its murmured ‘walla’ of earnest conversations became meaningless, like the prayers of rabble in the church courtyard to the consecrated priests within.
***********************
Somehow, he found a quiet spot, on a hill where few joggers and dog walkers, parents, and couples out for a romantic walk bothered to venture.
It wasn’t complete solace, but it was the best he would do, and while he burned with the passionate prose he’d composed in his mind, the day was fleeting; soon the night would come, and she’d be home, the element of his elegant surprise lost.
******************
He filled the paper by the light of the westering sun, laboring, reading, reading again, a small mound of pricey parchment in a pyramid of circles on his left, the envelope waiting patiently, resting on blades of grass on his right.
There. It was done. Well and truly done. If he were a girl, (pardon, a woman) who received such a letter, he would surely swoon. Cyrano at his best was a hack compared to this.
*****************
Romantically cryptic, he did not write his full name, just his initials, on the envelope, and he placed it with trembling hand in the mailbox, as if in offering to a god smiling benevolently, condescendingly, upon such a meager, but heartfelt offering.
He left in a high state of anticipatory bliss.
********************
His phone rang at eleven that night.
He’d been pacing, waiting, slowly going out of his mind, but he let it ring four times before he answered it, lest she think him desperate.
“Hello.” His voice came out steadier than he’d hoped for; that was good.
“Is this some kind of joke?” she said.
“Joke? You think I’m joking? You read everything I feel about you, and you think I’m joking? What’s wrong with you?”
Taken aback, her tone softened. “How you feel about me…? But …there’s nothing on this paper.”
“How could that be?”
“I don’t know, but it’s blank; there was a blank envelope too, but I figured with all that, it was probably you, playing a prank on me.”
“But…”
He rifled through his desk, found the pen, hastily scratched the word ‘pen’ on a sticky note, and told her,
“There’s nothing wrong with the pen I had, nothing wrong with the paper.”
They proceeded to talk about what could have happened, and as they talked, he walked through the house, but when he returned to his desk, the word ‘pen’ was gone from the sticky note.
“I’ll call you back…” he said, and hung up.
He took the cartridge out, but there was ink.
He shook the box, and a booklet fell out, splattering on the desk like an blot:
‘Jim’s Novelty Shop: fancy pen with disappearing ink.
Fool your friends…’
Day: January 17, 2015
Summer Fire
She rises
from the
broken, smoking ruins
of
my dreams.
With
knife in hand
and
lovely eyes
she cuts away
my screams.
And every fantasy I’ve had
And all my secret schemes
Are ripped from me
and cast beside
the
ragged, busted seams.
Little Queen
Little Queen, Little Queen
What can I give?
“Give me your heart,
that I might live.”
Little Queen, Little Queen
What shall I say?
“Tell me you love me,
every day.”
Little Queen, Little Queen
how shall I prove?
“If I come to sit by you,
don’t you move.”
Little Queen, Little Queen
Here is my heart
Long may I love you
Until I depart
“I love you too, daddy.
Now that it’s plain,
Won’t you come play with me
Out in the rain?”
© Alfred W. Smith Jr.
By a Seaport Village
In a cluster of tourist trap
hut-stores
by the Bay
on small,
semi-labyrinthine
streets,
the store
with
the chimes
caught my
fancy.
Weatherbeaten metals
Delicate shells
Wood and stones
Colors and animals
Glass, plain and stained
harmonies blending
in the
evening breeze
Calling
the stars,
Calling
the sea,
to join the
endless
song
of the
voyaging
wind…
© Alfred W. Smith Jr.
Throne Room
I died in this chair.
Returning
only to see the
growing shadows
of dusk
once more,
the rusted mailbox
filled
with letters
from my
child,
a portrait
done over
in
webs…
I leave
no footprints,
no tears
to stir
my ashes
mingled
with
dust
on the
creaking floor.
© Alfred W. Smith Jr.
Our Windows
Our windows
look into each other
like our
eyes
do
whenever you stand
in yours
and I
in mine.
Let’s
jump together,
meet in the middle,
and
f
a
l
l
in love…
© Alfred W. Smith Jr.
Coming of Age
Of which age do I come?
On which day?
I don’t understand this,
for it seems to me that
men
are always
coming of age.
There are only
new times
new similarities
and
old changes
mixing with variation.
A
bubble
of maybes,
this life
I lead.
Coming of age
is holding aloft your
first born son
and
burying your father,
doing both with a hearty laugh
and tears of joy.
Men,
it seems to me,
are always
coming of age.
Every day he does not
understand,
he comes of age
anew.
© Alfred W. Smith Jr.
Broken Peaces
Peace of mind
Peace of heart
Peace of spirit
Peace of soul
Peace of stable relationships
Peace of His promises
Peace of the Blood covering
Peace of the New Covenant
Peace in the home
Peace of enough
Peace of community
Peace with God
Peace with Man
Peace that passes all understanding
Broken
by
me
And in His
mercy
He will put the
broken peaces
back,
and
restore me.
Amen
© Alfred W. Smith Jr.
Crystalline
The madness stirs.
I feel it in the pit of my belly, I see it by the light of my mind
its eyes are open, fully focused on its target.
Like a snake on a branch, it incrementally inches, painstakingly progresses
My mind strikes out in fear, but it is not vanquished
My soul screams, but its approach is relentless
My heart quails in terror, but its eyes are merciless
Unwavering,
it wraps me in its writhing,
cold coils
and
bites
the heart
And for the first and last time
I lose myself
to
Love
© Alfred W. Smith Jr.