Falling Leaves

January Pages

January Pages (Photo credit: alykat)

That dog-eared, marked-up 12-page manuscript
on the wall gets changed again tonight for
a revised version with page numbers shifted
and the title respelled. I’ve seen a lot of these
restockings a handful of sunrises after hanging
of Christmas stockings on the day this slim volume’s
denouement says we’re supposed to. Then, The End.

I thought about this construct for a long time,
while counting all the so-called Mondays to Fridays
and how many full leaf-falls until I can scribble
my own manuscript full of leaves. Recently I figured out
I’m not as old as these calendars say I am
simply because a certain number of Septembers
fell like any other pages from the trees.

The Final Bar


Left hand wraps the neck of my Larrivee
and I press four fingers into a G-major shape.
I like the fuller sound of my pinky on the high E,
ring finger on the B, both third fret.
G, C9, D, the I-IV-V progression.
Then E-A-B. All nice big cowboy chords,
twelve bars, like the progression
from January to December.
It’s always like that…the years,
the mindless strumming through life.

This past one was good to great,
with its share of sad, so I turn the chords
into 7ths and play it all as a slow Blues.
Repeat, repeat, repeat.
This gets pretty boring, the passage
of chords, of days, of months,
unless I throw in some solo runs.
I sometimes show off
(for myself, up in my Lair).
You know, just to be free of Life’s structure.

But this thing has to end.
I can hear my critics downstairs, 
so, as I come back ’round to Bar 11,
I go grab my I Chord, the E,
and let it ring nice and long,
closing my eyes to remember it
until my next time.
They have a word for finishing up
on that tonic chord. We resolve back to it.
Just like in that last bar of the year,
we end things with resolution.

Shhh… Still ringing.

This was written as a true Internal-Editor’s-eyes-closed Free Write in response to the photo above from my friend Kellie Elmore’s blog and her New Year’s Free Write Friday feature. I admit, it’s a little rambly and free-form, like a good blues and a good year.

Five Sentence Fiction ~ Ending

The Half Windsor


Half-Windsor (Photo credit: Timothy Valentine)

Larissa Fine straightened her husband Eddie’s tie — a blue one in a Half Windsor knot — and patted his chest.

“What would you ever do without me, Eddie?” she asked, taking a sticky roller to the lint and such on the shoulders of his best suit.

No one ever thought her Eddie would retire from the family business, he loved it too much — crooked ties and all — but retire he did, handing complete control of the place to his and Larissa’s son, Ted.

And tonight would be the chance for goodbyes and all Eddie’s gang — family, business colleagues, even the guys in his bowling league — were coming.

Looking up from Eddie’s coffin, Larissa smiled and nodded to Ted to open The Fine Funeral Home doors and allow the early mourners in.

Lillie McFerrin

Here is my latest Five Sentence Fiction offering, based on a prompt from Lillie McFerrin. This week: Ending.

Purple Awakening

Purple Clouds

Purple Clouds (Photo credit: amandabhslater)

Purple clouds daub the eastern sky,
bruising reminders of this,
my abusive relationship with winter
and dawn. I traverse the slippery slope
of driveway, highway, my way,
to get this body where it is scheduled to be.
So, with two left feet on the gas,
I lock myself in this well-rehearsed,
one-track commute to and from
everyday butt whoopings.
But whoopings are what I learned
(somewhere) someone’s got to take
for the team, and it’s not right for
just anyone to be that someone.
No one can do it so well as I.
That’s how I got these garlands
of that purple I wear hidden
from dawn to sunset…
and from you and often even me.

Away, Near a Manger


Stables (Photo credit: Earlham College)

Get-together at Cliff’s barn, and the evening stable smells,
chilled like leftovers from an equine Christmas party,
sting my nose like the host overseasoned the hay,
tossed nutmeg in the meal, or gifted the gelding
with too much Paco Rabanne.

And once agin it crossed my mind,
if the faith-spawning story is totally true,
did a similar cold night in a barn
on the other side of the world
carry somewhat similar smells?

I try to envision the reality of that scene,
mindful that the people in the Nativity story
didn’t appear to be carrying their own
key lighting and Martin guitar accompaniment.
Did they sense the same ambiance as I do?

Or did the application of a little of that gift
frankincense and myrrh make their barn smell
a wee bit more festive than these present-day digs
for old Dobbin.  I think I think too much…
But every Christmas, I still wonder.

Snow Angels

Snow Angel

Snow Angel (Photo credit: dalechumbley)

The nightmares began in the week before Christmas;
screaming, fearsome trespass into the child’s mind.
The news had infringed with no conscience
and stolen a bit of innocence from the six year old,
waking her from a terror others could not escape.
“I don’t want Santa to come into our house,”
she said one night. “it scares me.”
“You’ll be safe, hon,” her father whispered.

“Mommy and Daddy will protect you,”
her mother said. “And your Guardian Angel, too.”
“Why didn’t their Guardian Angels
protect them?” she asked,
in the direct distillation of thought
only a child can accomplish.
Her father closed his eyes and drew a breath
before telling her.

“Because so many little kids
and their Mommies and Daddies
fear this world more than we used to,
God needed more brave little angels
to help them feel protected.”
As snow fell outside the bedroom window,
the little one lay down with her mother,
satisfied for a bit, sleeping safely in her arms.

Her dad thanked God for her and that
she heard not the door open and close twice.
When she awoke in the morning,
little Emma called into the kitchen,
“Daddy come see, come see.”
There in the new-fallen snow, a score
of snow angels had ringed their blessings
upon a home and a little girl.

I’m sorry if this doesn’t really sound like a poem. I’ve been struggling with these feelings all weekend and I have difficulty expressing such things sometimes except by “writing them out.”  Some folks say I’m some kind of storyteller, but I often lack the emotional capacity to couch thoughts of such horrible things as the Newtown tragedy in words. This piece has helped me gather a few in one place. May all our angels rest in the peace of this season, and all to come.

An Honor

Most of you who know “real” Joe and not only the Poet Guy Joe, understand that I am a bit strange when it comes to dealing with praise or honors. I’m like one of those Roman generals driving his chariot into Rome after a victory. In my case, there is always a voice something like my own yelling into my ear, not whispering, that I’m still the dirt-dull and too-fallible doofus I’ve always been. Just occasionally luckier.

So it is with my usual confused awkwardness that I announce the international poetry journal Aquillrelle Magazine has honored me with selection as its “Poet of the Month.”

I’d like to express my most sincere gratitude to the editors of Aquilrelle for this honor their kind attention to my poetry.

Otherwise Occupied

On my old blog I would, from time to time, post short stories I was fretting over. Really, until I let them go to some unsuspecting journal, they’re all Works in Progress. And, after their editors reject them, they still are!

This story came to me during the freezing latter days of the Occupy movement, specifically the Occupy Albany camp sitting across Washington Avenue from the New York State Capitol.

It’s 1,300 words, but hang in and I hope it makes you smile by the end. It did my fiction group colleagues.

The story’s working title is…

Otherwise Occupied

Kenny walked down the dark corridor of headquarters toward the Old Man’s office. Even though he had worked there what seemed his whole life, he’d never been in the Old Man’s sanctum sanctorum.

Outside, he could hear the south wind, the wind always from the south as far as Kenny knew. What he couldn’t hear was the sound of the workers working, the sound of hammers and whistles and laughs that always drowned out the howling wind.

You can do this, Kenny, he said as he pulled open the large frosted glass door and tottered into the expansive anteroom. The platinum-haired receptionist looked up, startled, as if she’d never seen anyone but the Old Man come through that door. She peered over here silver-framed glasses at Kenny.

“Can I help you, sir?” she asked.

“Uhh, yes, please. I’d like to see Mr. C.”

“And you are…?”

“Kleinmann, Kenny Kleinmann. I represent the workers.”

“The workers?”

“Yeah. Can’t you hear the chanting and clapping outside?”

“No, I only hear the wind.”

“And that in itself should tell you something’s up. There’s something in the wind,” Kenny said, regaining some of the courage he’d felt trickle away the further he walked down the long corridor.

“Suppose you tell the Old Man that the workers have stopped working and demand to air their grievances with him…right now,” Kenny said. He stretched up to his full height and felt his chest puff up a bit now.

“Let me see if he’s in,” said the woman behind the desk.

Seriously? Kenny thought. Where the hell else could he be?

Isolated as it was, the main office still used outdated equipment such as the intercom the receptionist toggled to contact the Old Man in his office behind the carved oak door.

“Yes?” Kenny heard coming from the tinny speaker on the desk in front of him. Even through a small speaker, the Old Man’s voice had a deep and stentorian timbre that gave Kenny as much of the shivers as his walk across the frozen space from the factory to headquarters.

“Sir, there’s a Mr. Kenny… uhh…”

“Kleinmann,” Kenny reminded her.

“…a Mr. Kenny Kleinmann out here to see you.

“I’m a bit tied up right now. Could you tell Mr. Kleinstein to please make an appointment for next week?”

But as she turned toward where Kenny had been standing, he was no longer there. She heard the great door open behind her with a clank and a creak.

“It’s Kleinmann,” Kenny said as he entered the Old Man’s dark wood-paneled office. And there behind his great wooden desk sat the Old Man himself, two computer monitors beaming light upon his white beard and the impressively carved decorative accents that festooned the walls and furnishings. Kenny recognized the carvings as Bavarian Black Forest style. He came from a long line of wood carvers on his mother’s side. He had no clue about the computers. Kenny took a couple of small steps toward the Old Man.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” the secretary said as she rushed in behind Kenny. “Shall I contact security?”

“That won’t be necessary, dear,” the Old Man said, never taking his eyes off Kenny. I’m sure this young man just wants to inform me of all the bad behavior that’s been going on the past few weeks outside and in the factory.”

“It’s not bad behavior, sir,” Kenny said, a chill running down his spine. How’d he know? Kenny thought. Does the Old Man have spies inside the Union?

“Oh, I just know these things, Kenny,” the Old Man said with a cheery expression in answer to Kenny’s unspoken question.

“What was it you came here to tell me, Kenny?” the Old Man asked.

“It’s really quite simple,” Kenny said. “We are tired of being the 99% around this factory town and we’re instituting our own version of the Occupy movement until you give us our due.”

“Oh my,” the Old Man said in mock horror. Then he thumbed his red vest and laughed his loud and seemingly affected laugh.

Kenny became angry with this condescending response to his serious attempt at social change and workers’ rights. It was this kind of looking down his nose at the workers that had prompted Kenny to organize all the little people against Corporate. He reached up and slammed his calloused hand on the Old Man’s desk.

“Listen! We’ve had enough of your keeping us down while you roll fat and happy off our sweat and blood. That’s the way it’s got to be from now on, Old Man. We want a bigger piece of the cookie, no more crumbs…real wages.”

The Old Man stopped his laughing, tented his fingers together prayer-like against his lips and closed his eyes. The only sound in the room was the loud ticking of Kenny’s heart and the elaborately carved grandfather clock in the corner of the office near the display of awards and photos of the Old Man and various celebrities. Then it struck quarter-after with a resounding gong.

The Old Man’s hands dropped to his desk and he slowly, quietly began to speak.

“Sorry, Kenny,” he said, his eyes still closed and giving up nary a twinkle hope, “there’s no money in this seasonal gig of ours anymore. We’re in the overnight delivery business more than production, these days, anyway. I pay you what I can and what you’re due”

“But what about the little folks like me and Louis Petites, Pablo Conciso, and Enzo Piccolemani? We’ve been with you since the beginning.”

“I know, Kenny. And believe me no one appreciates your hard work and all that stuff more than I. But times have changed and you guys have just not kept up with the Real World. I mean, look, it’s been a year since all this Occupy hooie has come and gone.”

“Well, we only heard about it here when Arthur Littlefield’s cousin from the States visited this summer.”

“Yeah, well it didn’t amount to more than a pile of beat-downs, a few rapes, a goodly number of ODs and arrests down there, too. I don’t want that here, understand? Though the first and last of that list could be arranged.”

Kenny couldn’t believe his ears. If the rest of the world could only see this side of the Old Man…

“So here’s the deal,” the Old Man said, laying a finger to the side of his nose, “I’ve kept you guys around because of all your years of devoted service, but since that has as much value as Blitzen poo, you either go back to work or I’ll replace you with Inuit temps or maybe some Finnish Saamis. Those guys know reindeer like nobody’s business and will be happy with Comet and Cupid milk and veggie burgers.”

“But what about Christmas?” Kenny said.

“What about it?”

“All our work, everything we’ve done for like centuries around here.”

“You mean those kitschy wooden pull toys and stuffed baby dolls you’ve been making for the past 200 years?” He laughed his jelly-belly laugh again. “So glad I never had satellite TV put into your quarters. Look, they just aren’t in demand anymore out there in the Londons, or Johannesburgs, or even in podunk, shit-heel four-way stops like Dilly, Texas.”

Kenny snapped at that, and tried crawling over the desk to get hands on the Old Man.

“Security,” the Old Man said and nodded to the hulks standing in the doorway. Kenny was hauled out of the Old Man’s office, tossed like a doll into the snow and the Occupy North Pole movement ended during one break time in September of 2012.

And, with the failure of Kenny and his colleagues in the newly formed newly organized NPLPUWC (North Pole Little People United Workers Cooperative) to break the anti-union hold the Old Man had on his business, 800 little men in tights flooded the carnival, Renaissance fair, shopping mall and midget wrestling workforce worldwide.

Meanwhile, his bottom line bulging a little more, just like his December waistline, the Robber Baron of the Borealis was able to stash a cool extra $1.5 mill of his image royalties and what he laughingly loved to call “Elf Overhead” into his Cayman retreat, ho-ho-hoing all the way to the bank.

©Joseph Hesch 2012

Five Sentence Fiction ~ Devotion

Nick Barbara


Distance (Photo credit: las – initially)

“You’re a hopeless case, you know, and not even a Lourdes of Love will ever make her give it up for you,” I said to my love-struck and somewhat drunk buddy Nick.

“Now that’s where you’re wrong,” Nick said, his face taking on a beatific—or insane—glow, “and when I tell Barbara again how I really, really feel, she’ll have to come back to me.”

Nick flung the apartment door open and ricocheted down the stairs, leaving a doorknob-shaped hole in our wall and tracks of any sane sense of propriety behind him.

I knew where he was headed, so I followed Nick’s path to Barbara’s folks’ house, where they told me he’d already left to find Barbara…at her new place.

And I found him sitting with Barbara, his chin firmly fixed to his chest, her hand leaving his shoulder, there on the steps of St. Stephen’s Novitiate, and I could tell the paths to their respective objects of devotion had crossed and moved on forever.

© Joseph Hesch 2012

Lillie McFerrin

Here is my latest Five Sentence Fiction offering, based on a prompt from Lillie McFerrin. This week: Devotion.

Bump and Twined

8. Console Me

Console Me (Photo credit: That One Chick Mary)

Sometimes space,
that area surrounding your body,
seems to shift and crowd
your bumpy head,
your skinned shins, and
those hands best kept to yourself.

And, because we collide with these
nomadic bits of fractious flotsam
and nocturnal predatory furniture,
these boundaries of palpability,
you can end up hurting your
outer self.

That’s the difference between
outside space and inside space.
When we hurt inside already,
we barricade things around our minds and
virtual hearts, surrounding ourselves
with dragon-teeth redoubts of solitary dark.

Often, I think the best cure for cracking
that shrouded and buried space within
is to enclose it in something soft without,
maybe like the arms of someone
whose heart and mind are open, too…
Or, with the right entwining, will be.