|
Morning Trash
by Elizabeth C. Haynes (Author Note: Morning Trash was originally published in a literary anthology under a pseudonym. Permission has been granted to publish it elsewhere.)
Age of hate. The color of our skin. Intolerance. We all pulse red. You shoot me, I bleed the same. My God. My soul. Different and yet not at all. It's not the color, the direction of the prayers, the partner in my bedroom. We are one people. Two eyes, two feet. Two hands to hold or to steal life. It's a choice, this thing. This monster of the psyche. That grows with age, inhales the world and spins it, spitting it out as a fallacy. Where humans are divided by kind. Categorized like the grocery store. The black bags kicked to the corner, to be put out with the morning trash. What's Wrong in the World Today
by Elizabeth C. Haynes What's wrong in the world today is selfishness. Greed.
Me, me, me. More money, bigger houses, more things. I. I am important. I am worthy. I am the most worthy. I am the only one who is worthy. I see my house. My car. My friends. My job. I don't see you. You don't matter to me. Maybe you are a number. Maybe you are an outsider. I lie to you. I lie to myself. I lie about what's in front of me, because I don't want to look. It's not really there, I say. It's made up. It's their choice. It's their fault. Really it's all about me. I've forgotten how to love. There is still love. Do you have love? We are born in love. With love. Full of love. And yet where does it go? Us. We. We are important. We are worthy. I do not just see me. I see we. I see your house, your car, your friends, your job. I see you. You are there. You are part of we. And the we is all there is. Plague
by Elizabeth C. Haynes While they die, the wind blows.
The birds sing The trees sway The rivers flow The creatures sigh The sky is bluer, the stars are brighter. The waters clear, the air more kind. While they die, more humans sit in shielded bleachers, waiting… And looking on, they finally see what it truly means To live. |
The Riot
by Elizabeth C. Haynes Flushing skin. A tinge at the
ears on my pale, olive complexion. Radiating invisibly, like the rays of the sun. Cells rioting. Releasing. Damaging. Cloaked in an outer shell. But you look fine, They say. Dreams
a prose poem by Elizabeth C. Haynes My dream is to wake up each day with the breeze. To spread out a blank page and conjure a creation from the ether, sent in a golden pathway through the sky. To rest when my body needs it. To work to the point of satisfaction. To have balance in my life. But also to have things - some things. Like nice pajamas. A home that I love. Nourishing food, sparkling candles, good books. Travel. And most importantly, to do and to have all of these things without shackles.
Disease. Dis-Ease.
by Elizabeth C. Haynes Swirling within. Dis-ease. Disease.
I fight against the tide. Pulling away, running away. But the swells overcome me and I'm washed out to sea. Clawing at rocks. Gasping toward the blue above. Toward the shore. Toward the light. But then the water retreats and sand runs between my toes. Slogging, I press forward to the shore. The tide pulls all the way out and I'm left standing with small swirls around my ankles, saltwater dripping from my skirt, my hair dampened into strings. And for a time I enjoy a glorious moment in the sun. Basking, smiling, stretching my arms above as if awakening. Letting go of what was and relishing in what is. It's fleeting, I know. The tide will come back soon, I know. But I draw in the sun's energy to prepare for the next encounter. I turn around to the horizon. The water swells angrily. I brace myself. I'm ready. Shoreline
by Elizabeth C. Haynes Sit. Be still.
Find the ocean and the sky. Sitting at the edge. Of your mind. Dollars and Cents
by Elizabeth C. Haynes I envision some of the men
with souls inside like Shrinky Dinks. Withering away with each new dollar, billions of them, piled on top, weighing down and dissolving the skin and bones into their essence. The eternal self. Far away and small, though, the lights barely lit. Their very existence diminishing with made-up dollars and cents. |