Écririons

Dreamer – a Found Poem

 

From Romeo & Juliet by William Shakespeare, found poem and image by Erica Gerald Mason

Dreamer a found poem by Erica Gerald Mason at Écririons

 

I dream

of my

amorous

paramour.

Fragments: Black Gloves

Fragments- Black Gloves

 

Four years old, and my father’s hands were so big.

In our first house, the garage was the weight room. His domain.

I spent hours in there, chasing our cat or pretending to drive the car. I always watched him, Daddy, freckled arms in a white shirt, stacking weights on the lat machine. The rise of the carriage as he pulled down the bar, the sound of metal rattling on metal.

I still hear that sound in my mind, ten years past the last time I lived at home. He still has that machine, in the basement now.

Sometimes he would pick me up and set me on top of the plates for a set, I added an extra thirty pounds and had a grand old time, riding up and down like a roller coaster.

He always wore lifting gloves, black or gray. Velcro wrists and palms lined with leather. So many pairs over the years, wearing them early in the morning, or after work. I would slide them over my tiny hands, laughing when my finger tips wouldn’t even pass the seam below the first knuckle. They were huge, Dad has big hands.

Now that I’m grown, my own hands are also large, but the bones are finer, more like the hands of my mother.

I used to put his spare gloves on my hands and follow him around with a little pair of two-pound hand weights covered in green foam. I would imitate his bicep curls and struggle with each move, breathing through my teeth like he did when rounding out a heavy set.

I think he originally purchased the green weights for Mom, but I would pretend they were just for me. They definitely weren’t for him, a man who considers twenty pounds to be paltry and light.

Whenever I think of those gloves and those hours, I feel comforted. I feel safe.

Even in the midst of serious trouble, the scent of mingled metal and leather is a balm.

I remember each pair of gloves as it died, worn out, the leather in the palms cracking and the velcro rendered useless, all different makers and colors. They all feel the same on my hands, and breathe into my heart that nostalgic, metallic peace.


header image credit: Compfight stock photos

The Life That Is – Chapter 3 – The Boy with the Hat

ecririons_post6A little down the road, when my mind was in its right place again and I was ready to start on a fresh. In an ordinary school just like so many others, to me too it ended as so much more. The place I learned who the boy in the mirror really were. The place I grew into something else, something new. To me it is the place where I started to think of all the things I am, instead of the things I’ll never be.

The story starts out small. I was a kid with a hat and big dreams but little knowledge of the world I had been thrown into and the things to come. Tough times lied ahead but with time I earned friends and being safe started to feel a little safer and with those odds there isn’t much that can’t be overcome.

However as it would conveniently show, my old friend and nemesis wouldn’t offer me much of a break before striking down upon me once more. Only this time it hit right where it stings the most. She opened my eyes on a regular Wednesday.

The bell had rung and the classrooms had been abandoned. It had been her turn to have the job of swiping the classrooms floor clean. I was simply late at packing but when I finally stood in the door ready to go home, I suddenly didn’t feel so ready to leave just yet. I looked at her and realized that the ugly duckling from my visit last summer, didn’t quite seem like an ugly duckling no more.  A first move would be made in from of an offering of help with the floors. What seemed like a perfect start on grand love story, but unfortunately she replied “No I’m good”.

What was to follow is a far forgotten story, yet still floating around in the back of our minds along with the myths and what ifs that it created. Once in a while we all stand still for a moment and think back to that time, wondering what actually went down. All I can say is that it was a long walk home.

Although I had lost twice or more to my old nemesis I can’t say I never gained, they do say third time is the charm. One wet windy winter I did finally get that one kiss I had been drying to have for so long. Her hair was black with a strip of blood-red, only a mere glimpse of a burning fire to come. I wouldn’t say nothing good came to us but as humans we tend to only remember the things that hurt, just like the first time you came too close and burned yourself on the fireplace.  In the end her hair and all turned to the unforgettable red and she cut my heart out and stepped on it but there are enough stories about such things to last you till next winter.

They say you never quite forget a true love no matter how small of a high school flirt it might have been. They also say the first one is the one you’ll always hold dear in your mind, for me that was never the case. Sometimes I think to myself why it is like that? I guess that is a question that takes a bigger man than me to answer. Deep inside I know I loved her then, now and always, never quite in the same way but never quite gone either. All because of that crazy stupid thing called love.

(Header: Unsplash.com)

“The Art of Losing Isn’t Hard to Master”

-The Art of Losing Isn't Hard to Master-

 

My soul begs forgiveness from her pastor.
Lips wrap around the words, glass-empty eyes
stare through church walls laced with cracks and plaster.

Each hand will fall away, each heart
has left me to decipher truth from lies.
My soul begs forgiveness from her pastor.

Memory, and pictures too, wilt like dying aster,
that powdered death-scent lingers while I eulogize
and disguise my cracks with a coating of fresh plaster.

Love, in dying, doesn’t always seek hereafter;
and I didn’t love so much as fraternize,
so my heart begs forgiveness from her pastor.

The art of losing isn’t hard to master
or so goes the lady Bishop reprise
I recite with each trowel stroke, laying on the plaster.

No fruit from the hours of prayer I muster
will end my penance – this I realize.
So my heart begs forgiveness from her pastor,
and daily, covers up her cracks with coats of plaster.


 

Title and italicized line from “One Art” by Elizabeth Bishop
Header image credit Compfight stock photos, Creative Commons use

Wanderlust – a found poem

From Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe, found poem and image by Erica Gerald Mason

Wanderlust a found poem by Erica Gerald Mason at Écririons

 

Wanderlust

I

saw

the woods and became

impatient

to see the shore.

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