expressions

fizz by missy a kitchell

The warehouse was crumbling and dark. 

Decay, body odor and fluids perfumed the dank air.

Fizz stood unsteadily on what was left of the concrete floor.  Dirt was caked under his nails, his clothing just as foul.  He added to the stench.

His mouth and nostrils were stained with paint hues. 

Huffing the fumes, colored puffs escaped through destroyed nasal passages.                                            His drug of choice was the intoxicating inhalants, readily available at every corner market.  They were cheap.

            The volatile vapors permeated his being quickly with their numbing effect. 

                        Alcohol gave him a buzz, but didn’t manage to transport him to the nothingness                                                                 he wanted to experience.

Ensnared and addicted Fizz couldn’t let go as he drifted into an Alice-in-Wonderland

                        mind-blowing                                                  

                                                                                                                                   euphoria.

shoes by missy a kitchell

my closet…

baby blue suede’s stay off

knee-high Sarto leather boots rock on

olive strappy Italians buckle up

coffee brown laced sneakers walk along

three dollar rubber flip-flops tossed aside

rugged dirt-caked hikers climb onward

shell pink ballets dance away

lanky spiked heels seduce effortlessly

showy black and white spectators stand out

…the collective sport of shoes

quiet words of his hands by missy a kitchell

His hands are tenacious and solid; quite rugged.  Laundered, they are not polished and undisturbed or perfectly manicured.

His hands tell a narrative, the grind of hard work.  An account of scars and callouses, wounds and rough areas ingrain words on his palms.

His hands are competent.  With expert skill they shape and design, dig, build and show the way.  They gather and produce.  They are able.

His hands see through, distinguish and touch.  They express emotions not verbalized.  Clenching in anguish and frustration; rising in enthusiasm, clapping wild and unrestrained, pressed and bowing in worship, in humbleness.

His hands love and yearn; a gentle brush, an enfolding embrace, tracing, exploring in unabashed passion.  A ring encloses his finger, symbolizing assurances, tender affection and promises.

His hands speak of who he is…the image is endlessly caught in my awareness.

observing the makeshift river by missy a kitchell

there’s a heron standing in a makeshift river in the field

long-legged wading bird, Great Blue frequents marshy shallow lands

and sketchy water streams flowing through pastures

notable plumage echoing the color of slate skies

head crowned with a white boater, donning brick-rust clam diggers

willow-like, stately neck forming a graceful “S”

iconic symbol of the wetlands

hunting gray-tailed voles, field mice and frogs in meadows disguised as ponds

grazing on fish and miniscule crustaceans on briny shoals

deciduous, broad-leafed cottonwoods, cone-bearing evergreens

beckon the heron, a colony gathering at day’s end

            rookery, a place of refuge

           

first blush, an effortless wade in the accidental watercourse

supple body rhythmically rocking to and fro with each stride

nimbly dipping his tapered yellow bill

taking flight, Great Blue soars

lifting, rustling immense feathered wings, the expanse of a man

eyes sharp, perceptive

            rodent swept off its feet, taken in …

the makeshift river is calling