A Lady in a Picture

There was a lady in a picture,
She stood there and watched all.
Every morning when I walked through,
She would be staring from the wall.
Her expression never changed,
And her complexion stayed the same.
She just stood there perfectly poised,
And not once has she made a noise.

© copyright by Heather Champion, 2010

A Game of Worlds

Sitting there pondering,
Trying to decide on whether to take control now, or to wait.
It was a tough decision to make.
How can you handle the world of such massive power?
In one simple move, will it fall from its great tower?
Time and patience is the virtue of aggravation.
How can one so simply rule this nation?
A roll of the dice,
Snake eyes.
Winner takes all.
A game of the worlds, and our happiness is gone.
So, to take control now, or to wait.
Our survival relies on the next face.
A wicked grin, a card slipped in.
The new free world now coming to an end.
A simple change of faith,
All the lives at stake.
A luck of the draw,
A Royal Flush, and we’re not doomed after all.


© copyright by Heather Champion, 2010

With Needle and Thread

When I come to you, I burst at the seams,
The world is exhausted at hearing my screams.
So you take your colors, your needle, your thread,
And you stitch away with colors I’ve bled.

Green thread for arms, that I may be strong;
You stitch up my muscles, and nothing goes wrong.
For my feet so weary you choose a dark brown,
And despite all my walking, it’s soft as birds’ down.

For my heart so wounded, so scarred with regret,
You sew up with red and say to forget.
If I ever need you, you say with a wink,
You’ll be there faster than I can blink.

Now I look down and see with a start—
What have you done to my poor, poor heart?
It’s true I’m not bleeding, but instead I swell—
Bruising and scarring does not look well.

And my arm and my legs—alas, tailor dear!
The darning is shoddy, and worse, so I fear.
My joints are loose and my limbs wave and flop;
And this mended muscle—it’s useful as slop.

You can fix it, you say, with a dark little smile.
You tell me to shut my eyes for a while.
You pick out black thread, as thick as can be;
You sew up my eyelids so I cannot see.

Tailor, dear tailor, with needle and thread—
Now that you’ve fixed me, I think I am dead.

© copyright by Isabelle Lahaie, 2010

Unpalatable Pasta

My pasta is unpalatable
it’s dancing across the dish
I’m really rather wondering
if I should’ve fried some fish.

The farfalle is flirting
with rotund rotini
whose eye is on
the fattened fettuccini

The spaghetti is snorkeling,
submerged in the sauce,
but the zealous ziti is zipping about
and trying to prove who’s boss.

The tagliatelle is touchy
around the pensive penne
and couscous is kissing
the picky pappardelle

My orzo is ogling
at ruffled riccetti
and my gnocchi is knocking
for my pining pizzoccheri

The linguini is languishing;
the rotelle is a refugee
from finicky farfalline
and anglo-agnolotti

My pasta is unpalatable--
the entire kit and caboodle!
Maybe I should let it go;
now that’s using the old noodle.

© copyright by Isabelle Lahaie, 2009

Invisible

Thoughts are pending,
My tears are bending,
In their silent release.

No one sees me, no one looks.

My heart’s pounding,
And my fears arousing,
As the clock ticks.

No one sees me, no one looks.

Patience my child,
Soft, hesitant, mild,
And harsh truths.

No one sees me, no one looks.

Hope I forget,
Restless guilt won’t sit,
Wishing for freedom.

No one sees me, no one looks.

Standing and screaming,
Reaching out streaming,
Words into air.

No one sees me, no one looks.

I wish they’d care,
As my hair,
Falls into my face.

No one sees me, no one looks.

It’s a quiet fight,
If I break the mirror I might,
Just win.

No one sees me, no one looks.

Blood shattered, I stand,
Hand in hand,
With just myself.

No one sees me, no one looks.

© copyright by Heather Champion, 2010

Inadequate Seeking Adequate

Eyes lowered
And lips painted,
Daughter hides
Beneath her bridal sari.
Have you seen such fabric?
True Indian silk!
The finest of dyes
Color richer than pomegranates.
Her hands are folded
Mirror images of lotuses
The mehndi is dark burgundy
Bursts of flowers
Whorls and curves
Merging into her skin.
A complexion so fair
(The moon would be jealous!)
Young skin all the way
Down to her silver anklets
Listen to the soft
Shudder of their bells.
Her stomach is smooth, slim
The navel so deep
It could hold a spoonful of
Cinnamon butter
Have you ever seen such bangles?
They were once her mother’s,
But Daughter now wears them;
And you could have
Both bangles and bride.

Look! She peers at you
From under her head cloth
Eyes of a doe
Sweet, modest, shy
She does not make a sound.
She does not protest.
She will not protest.
Such a treasure
Pays for its own bride price.
Such a thing
Could be your own.

(My dear beti needs a home
She is eldest of five girls.
She is a good girl
And deserves
All the things that
Baba could not provide.)

© copyright by Yeeva Cheng, 2010

Mama

Something wasn’t right.
My daughter was doodling happily at the end of the shadowed hall, creating transparent outlines in pale chalk on the grey walls and floor.
“Mama?”
She saw me and beamed. She stood up, a brief phantom in a pale nightdress, and raised her chalk. Look what I can do, her sparkling eyes said as she outlined wobbly bricks in front of her. The pale pink and blue lines perched precariously in the air. She waved for me to come.
“Mama?”
A hint of puzzlement crept into her voice. A stick of peach chalk distracted her from her frown, and she drew another row of her chalk wall. I hesitated and stepped closer to her. The shadows in the hall lengthened. Every step closer took me farther away, and I sprinted forward, trying desperately to outrun eternity. The darkness curled around her, salivating shadows and breathing terror.
“Mama!”
Suddenly I was in front of her, and the wall of chalked bricks stood between us. She doodled little white flowers on the floor, and they sprouted up beneath her hand. I tried to walk through the wall of pale bricks, but it held firm. The darkness bled between the stones and hung like dirty laundry on a line. I pressed my hands against it, trying to force my fingers between the crooked lines of a child’s imagination. She turned away from me, drawing, ever drawing her pale blossoms. I pounded helplessly on the bricks, calling her name, but she did not hear me. The malevolent darkness ripped at my fingers and my throat until they bled with twilight.
“Mama—”
She stood and looked proudly at her blossoming creations. She turned to me, a sparkle in her eye and flowers in her fist, and saw the fear in my face. She dropped the flowers and they withered, crumbling to brown dust as the ravenous dark licked them.
“Mama! Mama!”
Then the bricks were tumbling down on top of me, and the dust of her meadow rushed to me in a great tide of death.
“Mama—no, Mama!”
I fought against the bricks, but they wrapped themselves around me and pressed themselves against my face, and I felt that I was drowning in a sea of chalk, suffocating in a meadow of sandy corpses.
“Mama! Mama, wake up! Mama!”
I took a deep gasp of air and shot upright in bed, dizzy and breathless. She was standing beside me, pulling at the sleeve of my nightgown. I sighed in relief and gathered her to my chest. I pressed my lips to her hair, and I did not want to let her go.
“Mama, I’m thirsty.”
Her relief was evident, and her big brown eyes gazed solemnly up at me. I smiled, took her hand, and led her into the kitchen. Her bare feet padded softly against the floor, and she pressed against my leg as the darkness loomed.
“Mama, I’m scared. It’s dark in here.”
I picked her up and fumbled for the switch on the wall. Light flooded into the far corners, rendering a hungry dark powerless.
“Is that better, Yuki?”
She nodded. She burrowed her head against my neck and said in a muffled voice, “I love you, Mama.” I smiled. “I love you, too.” I stopped to find the next light switch, and Yuki turned her head so her mouth was next to my ear.
“Mama, is Daddy coming home?” she whispered.
“No, Yuki, he can’t. He’s...busy.”
“Oh.”
She used to ask “when” Daddy was coming home.
I sat her on the kitchen counter and warmed milk on the stove. She smiled and wriggled her feet in time to the bubbling of the stove, her fears forgotten. I gave her a glass, and we drank quietly and rested in each other’s company. Yuki slipped her little hand into mine, and stars danced in her merry eyes. I smiled back and kissed her cheek; I wished the darkness would never feed on the light in her face.
“Come on, Yuki. Time for bed.” We walked down the grey halls together, and Yuki shut her eyes against the darkness that swallowed the light.

© copyright by Isabelle Lahaie, 2010