Inkblot

It’s the monster’s forest, they say. Deep within it, he lies sleepily protecting his domain. Many villagers have been killed trying to take the forest down for their advancements, and it is happening again. This time the villagers want a road to connect them to the newest village just beyond the forest. They should go around, but they will try and go through but will inevitably die.

An army of men gear up in rusted armor that hasn’t been used since the last time, their ancestors tried to enter the monsters forest. They march onward with pitchforks, broken swords, and some rope. (What they are going to do with rope, who knows? The monster will only snap it.) They continue to march towards the forest. The hill starts to shake as the monster’s face slowly rises over the forest and stares down the makeshift army. They make their demands, and the monster moves out of the woods and down the hill towards them. Fear taking hold of the villagers, they run back towards the village, their flight is cut short by a swift annihilating blow from the monster’s tail. The beast looks over to me, and I hear his voice inside my head.

“Do you want to try too?” He says exasperated.

“No, I’m content leaving you be.”

“Good.” the monster turns and settles deep into his forest to sleep until the next wave of progressive villagers come to the attack with the same rusted armor and broken swords.

Blocked

Poems stuck in the branches
of everyday thought
stories stifled by anxiety.

Calling for inspiration
in the dead of night
yet no muse comes.

Torn and crumbled pages
litter the floor.

Exhaustion takes its toll;
the brain won’t cooperate.
It darts between ideas,
like a cat chasing a laser.

Oh, phone.
Oh, YouTube,
it’s research.

Two hours later.

Kitten videos,
still research.
The mind convinces itself.

Crumbled over the desk,
nothing,
squiggles,
make sure the pen is working.
Splatters form when it doesn’t.

Random thoughts come,
writing them down
because at least it’s something.

Something
is always better
than a blank page.

Kim Sealock
9-1-19

Collection

He must have a collection
of metal cat food bowls,
that line his den,
that he has stolen
from my back porch.

I curse his name
when I come home
to one less
cat food bowl.

That makes five
that have gone missing.
I know it has to be
Bandit, with his
love of shiny things.

It’s eleven o’clock,
and I’ll catch him in the act;
running off the porch
with a bowl clutched in his tiny hands.

He stares at me
from under masked eyes;
he drops the bowl
and runs up the closest tree;
looking down upon
me in hopes I’ll leave,
so that he can add to his collection.

I sigh and shout,
“Not this time, Mr. Racoon.”

Kim Sealock
7-20-19

Savior

Breathing gets harder
as he strengthens his grip.
The chest tightens, and
the pulse quickens
the mind races into dark corners.

“Remember the mantra.”
Is whispered under the breath,
eyes close in desperate
attempt to bring the mind
back into the light.

His voice screams
inside the mind,
drowning out all rationale.

The stomach turns.
The throat constricts.
The world spins.

“Breathing Exercises.”
In for four beats, hold for seven, out for eight.

Worlds most relaxing song
makes the walls cave-in.

Grab for the headphones.
turning on hard rock
with meaningful lyrics,
it pours into the ears
and fills the mind,
drowning out the static noise
of anxiety.

With each drumbeat,
he loosens his hold,
airways open,
and the pulse regulates.

Eyes close relishing
in the relief music
has given
as it saves the day.

Kim Sealock
8-4-19

Independence Day

Fireworks drown
out the stars,
while an old Ford pickup
waits packed and ready.

I stand gazing,
upon my home of
twenty-plus years,
thinking I would be more prepared.

Home becomes
the parent’s house,
and a strange place becomes home.

Though we can always
“go back home.”

It’s never the same,
our stuff doesn’t litter the corners,
our food isn’t in the fridge, and
our favorite mug isn’t in the cabinet,
waiting for morning coffee.

We still call it home,
for it’s littered with memories
of our past.

There are pencil marks on the wall
marking how much we had grown over the years.

Pictures of family get-togethers
and our achievements line the mantle.
Proving that we lived there,
handprints in the concrete steps
forever staking our claim on this home.

I turn to start a new chapter in my life,
looking forward to making a strange place home.
I always know that my heart will be here,
with the pencil marks, the mantle of photos,
and the little handprint on the steps with K.S. and ’95 beside it.

The fireworks drown out the stars,
as an old Ford pickup, drives away.

Kim Sealock
7-27-19