Today a Woman Went Mad in the Supermarket – Annette Kalandros

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Brave & Reckless

Today a woman went mad in the supermarket.
All too much for her, you might say.
No one with a mask, then the jeers and the insults.
It proved too much for her sensible logic.

They say it was due to this pandemic.
But she railed against the idiotic
Who kept us on this carousel,
Going round and round and round
With their circus clown theories
‘Bout reasons for variations and this virus.

“5G waves,” she screamed as she used a frozen turkey
To smash the glass where the frozen chicken nuggets
Stood, waiting to be grabbed by anxious parental hands.

“Designed by big pharma for profit,” she yelled
As she used a frozen cry-o-vac of pork ribs
To smash the deli section all to hell.

“Wonder why there’s no Polio?!”
As she overturned the endcap of Velveeta.
“You wear a damn seatbelt. Don’t you, fool?”
As she threw oranges…

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All That She Carried – Annette Kalandros

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Brave & Reckless

She carried the weight of being told

Young girls didn’t ride the school bus into Charleston.

The wages of sin rode in the school bus

When left unsupervised that long with boys

And their untamed hands pushed and held

Girls under the Devil’s sway.

Seventh grade was good enough

For a girl of the mountains anyway.

She needed to be hired out to a family for pay.

It was time to learn the ways of mountain women,

Time to stop all this wanting of books and play.

 

She carried the weight of escaping the mountain,

Leaving her mother and family to struggle.

She had the wonder of electric run to the house,

Bought an electrified ice box for her mother too

With the wealth she earned in the city.

Yet she could not escape the weight of escape.

 

That was the start, the birth of her dream–

Held…

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Misty Remains – Annette Kalandros

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At the kitchen table, My mother and I sat. Nothing new to discuss Silence covered us. Sometimes we glanced at each other. Mostly, we stared ahead Or …

Misty Remains – Annette Kalandros

Stolen Words – Annette Kalandros

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Brave & Reckless

The tinge of sadness in your words

Told me you had stolenthese words

From another to whom you had

Given them then turned and gifted them

To me, and I—I pretended you had

Freshly written such lovely words for me,

Letting the ink of your stolen words

Blanket me, comfort me with something

I needed to feel— if only for a time—

The street huckster wraps her wares

In three day old newspapers to cushion

Them from breakage

And once home, I peeled the molding

Paper off my skin to find it stained

With the cheap ink of your stolen words

Soap, hot water, and good scrubbing

Wore all the stains away.

My skin refreshed and oiled,

I sigh heavily with pitynow

For you mustnot feel

Anything much that is real

Who must constantly steal

And steal away again your now

Cheapened wordsto give to one

And then another and…

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The Gift of Mercy

Image courtesy of Pinterest

The jigsaw puzzle of mercy

fell to pieces today.

 

The dogs saw it crumble,

alerting me before I could

gather, prepare, ready–

anything—

For this, this seeming simple thing.

 

The dogs ran, back hair bristled—

I ran after,

yelling, yanked their collars—

the dogs listened, stood back, panting.

All the construction of houses around us stopped

it seemed for a moment—

for a moment only us—

the four of us—

my two dogs, one on each side of me,

standing back, as they’d been told,

me, and the small bird now in my hands.

 

I had not stopped to grab anything—

no gloves, no towel—

had not thought of viruses, bacteria—

this bird was still alive—

limp, though nothing seemed broken,

yet its eyes wild.

I held it lightly,

thinking it stunned

it would surely fly off—

just stunned is all–I thought—

just a moment,

give it a moment, it would fly.

It had to fly.

By God, this ordinary grayish brown bird,

shaking, breathing hard in my hands, had to fly.

The bird closed its eyes—

It would not fly—

I knew it then—

 

I would have to gift it– mercy,

and so did what needed done—

Broke its neck in two.

 

No. No. It doesn’t help to know

I put an end to its suffering.

 

But I learned mercy makes for easy talk,

yet it is a suffering thing to do.

 

accidental tourist – Annette Kalandros

I am honored to be featured on BraveandRecklessblog.com

Brave & Reckless

I entered life an accidental tourist.

My mother’s body served an eviction notice,

But I ignored it and burrowed deeper

Into placental warmth.

My twin, however, weaker,

Entered the world a clotted, bloody,

Gelatinous mess on the white tile

Of a bathroom floor.

The doctor told the man,

Who wasn’t really my father

But thought himself to be,

There was still a heartbeat,

Still a baby left. 

I felt the absence of my twin,

the lack of another’s heart

beating a rhythm to match my own,

racing toward emergence, light, life, breath.

A ghost-like memory I carried with me

Always– Even when I, who survived

By claiming squatter’s right

To my mother’s uterus

As it tried to evict me

And who had never been told

Of my twin’s existence, would

Turn in childhood play and talk

To my twin sister.

My mother asking to whom I talked

And I answering—My…

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Modern Prometheus becomes the Little Stranger – M.A. Morris

Written for last year’s challenge when I still used my pen name.

So now we know, You told me I wasn’t, But I was— Your creation. Said you loved me Just the way I was— But was it true? Yes, I was perfect Just the …

Modern Prometheus becomes the Little Stranger – M.A. Morris

Frankenstein; The Modern Prometheus – Annette Kalandros

I am honored to be featured on BraveandRecklessblog.com

Brave & Reckless

That is me
I am of my own making.
Rather than ignore, pretend
A pretty sky for my façade—
I chose to make of myself,
A real thing, a living thing,
A patchwork quilt of scars:
Sown together scraps of terror,
Of pain, of suffering,
Of the dark wells into which I fell,
Of the dark wells I clawed and crawled,
bloodied fingered, nails torn off,
Out from the depths,
Of the wealth of human darkness
I have known, of my failures, of my triumphs—
Follow the stitching with your fingers
If you wish to understand
The quilt that I am
Though the batting be made
Of my tears, my blood, my skin,
My scars, bits of my spirit, bits of my soul—
The quilt that I am
Can offer you more
Than any villager can.

Photo by Dhilip Antony on Unsplash


I am a retired teacher, enjoying everything that…

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