How Dolphins Make It All Seem Worth It by John Grey

-
Hard feelings make no difference.
Subversion has no clue.
I’m up on deck.
What are tyrannies compared
to acrobatics of the sea?

Even a little cloud cover,

can’t bring me down to grayness.

Dolphins are rollicking all around,

delight in my company,

show off their leaps, their spins,

their freedom.


I’m told I need purpose.

That I’d better make plans.

To what?

Blend in with surface light?

Howl along with the pod?

 

Save me the lecture on how ends meet.

Or what it’s like to be lost in the crowds.

Or how the middle road is my best alternative.

And if I don’t watch out, I’ll be taken down,


I’m on the waters.

A dolphin smiles up at me.

I indulge in reciprocation.

Two species bound.  


---

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Home by Jessa Forest

-
Home scratches at her shingles with tree branch fingers, pulls the air conditioning unit close to her grimy aluminum siding, and keens an empty song of mourning. We found her wandering the tornado snarled wild three months ago, starved and lonely. She doesn’t know how to take care of herself, you see? We fed her shards of dining room tables, kindling for the fireplace, and cast iron bathtubs clawed feet first. She was slow to recover so we gutted her plumbing, ripped out her nerves, and rewired the electricity. She let the water in every time it rained so we put a new roof on her and let her out for regular walks around the wolf pen. Let her mingle with the vultures, I said, let her feel useful and clean up the dead but no one wanted to listen. We found rot an mold in her corners, infused her insulation with antibiotics, and quarantined her for two weeks while she belched ladderback chairs, sofa cushions, wind chimes, and broken bookcases. She still has her bad days. After feeding time
Read more

Things They Don't Tell You by Barbara O'Donnell

-
That the moment the words terminal diagnosis leave the doctor’s mouth, the grieving starts. Speaking a foreign language to cover for the fact that there is nothing they can do. That the family will fight, even as they know the treatment plan is the best medicine available. That his swallowing reflex will depart before him, making you figure out ways to give him the only thing he begs for, cold juice or whiskey. That you’ll beg the pharmacist to tell you, which is the better mouthwash to use. As if it would make a difference. That you’ll spend those last days, not telling stories or saying how much you love each other. But that he’ll repeatedly throw you out of the room. Make you wonder again, whether to contradict the doctor’s orders ; to give him what he wants. But which will also hasten his demise. So that you can try to eke out the minutes, that the clock tells you are passing, but which seem to stand still inside the close, bare
Read more

Letters never sent by Beth O'Brien

-
I write you letters, like these ones here.  I focus on my handwriting  so I don’t over-think the words  I’m never going to show you.  I burn a stamp, an envelope, and imagine  flames dancing from inside a postbox, pretending I can smell the ink melting.  Sometimes, I think that’s the only way forward and I wonder if red becomes redder if you burn it?  Every letter I write is a reminder of why  they are letters never sent.  Every letter I never send is a reminder of why  I write you words, like these ones here. --- Beth O’Brien is a third year English Literature student at the University of Birmingham. She has had work published with  Foxglove Journal ,  Nine Muses Poetry , and  BellaOnline Literary Review.  She is a reviewer for Mad Hatter Reviews and Riggwelter Press, and has written articles for  sheswanderful.com   and the  Graduate Recruitment Bureau  blog. 
Read more