Red, White and BOOM!

The anticipation of waiting
for full dark, for the lighting of red,

white and BOOM! of fireworks. The parades,
the picnics melted into July's

heat; the cool of eve refreshes as
families gather in one accord

to celebrate freedom and what it
means, to remember those still fighting,

those who've served for the 4th and ev'ry
day. Never forget as each mortar

thuds skyward and bursts overhead in
a salute for peace, brought to you free

at a price many paid too much for...
Now - sit back. The show's about to start.

(c) 2008, Karla Dorman.

Carnival Come To Town!

Weary. The rusted bones can barely
hold up the weight of those wanting
one last scream of fun before the
carnival leaves town. The pennants
droop into the dirt; the air dusty with

the last aromas of cotton candy and
fried foods lingers in the nose. The
barkers shout last try last try to win
a prize; the ride operators run their
charges in their sleep. Bone tired.

But after the carnival closes for the
last time, new life: as the Midway
comes down, it is born again down the
road: bigger. Brighter. Better than
ever! New paint; new bulbs; carnival

come to town! Exciting attractions
everywhere you turn; eyes can't get
enough. Stomach fills itself on this-
can't-be-good-for-you-but-it's-sooo-
delicious! Time for the Tilt-A-Whirl,

no, the Scrambler, no, the Zipper, no,
I wanna ride the Twister! Let your
food settle first: Aww, MOM! You're
taking away all our - above all the
frolic are the memories of childhood.

(c) 2008, Karla Dorman

Goodbye, Forty Eight, Helloooo, Forty NINE

... held onto you as long as I
could, but you were too slippery -
you slid through my fingers and fell
on the floor. Body too old to
bend over, pick up, so must leave
you where you are. Going to be
strange, when asked, "How old?" to answer
in higher numbers than I'm used
to saying. Goodbye, forty eight,
helloooo, forty NINE. (Nearly a
half century: ahhh, now why did
I have to think of it like that??)

(c) 2008, Karla Dorman

Fractured Fairy Tale (Poem 2,500!)

ONCE

there was an old woman
who wrote so many poems
she didn't know what to do.

She labored! She sweated!
In pain she brought them forth: this
the only life that she knew --

they arrived in a rush
of tears, singly, at first. Then
they started coming in twos --

these babies of hers. And
then more and more, all fathered
by an overactive Muse

who sat back while she slaved
over the page. No rest for
the weary; she has no clue

on where to find it -- so,
let her present number two
thousand five hundred to you!

(c) 2008, Karla Dorman

Three More For My Daddy - I Miss You!

FROZEN

Could rewind to before, when
I still had him in my life -
when I could hear him, smell
him, fear him and love him -
watch busted. Numbers frozen,
stuck forever on May 28. The
memories sweep through my mind
like a second hand and stare
like hours from the mirror - I
am my Daddy's girl. Not big
and strong like he was, keeping
time - I miss him so very much -

THE FATHER KNOWS

A little girl cries
because her Daddy
passed away not too
long ago. She feels
lost. Alone. Frightened
without his presence,
near. This is when she
feels Heavenly arms
enveloping her
with a gentle hug,
a reminder from
a Father Who, from
experience, knows
what it's like to grieve ...

FATHER.LESS

... the happy sounds of celebrating
as children everywhere fete their
Daddies, giving cards, ties, other gifts
in appreciation. What about
those that don't have paternal guidance
or their loved one has passed on? We, the
father.Less. It's just another day
to be reminded that they're not here ....

all (c) 2008, Karla Dorman

Whaaaat? Me? 49??!??

Whaaaat? Me? 49??!??

... not YET. Don't rush things. Have
a couple more days before that age
arrives on my doorstep. Going to
make the most of forty eight while I
still can: won't see that any more
after Thursday. Another year come
and gone --- where does the time ...
go? Can tell you --- went the way of
the dinosaurs. Look in the mirror, a
stranger stares back. Who is she?
She's so --- old. Not ancient, but not
young, either. Some wrinkles. Grey
in the hair. Mean, she looks familiar,
but --- oh, my --- she. IS. Me! Not
complaining: wasn't expected to live
past birth. Grateful to be here. But:
Whaaaat? Me? 49??!?? Knew it
was coming but it got here too fast!

(c) 2008, Karla Dorman.

Needed: Monster Slayer

The air so still, so heavy, so ---
yellow. Matches the chicken
streak down my spine, closes
'round the throat with hands of

fear. Not again: this is my life,
running from storms, both real
and imagined: just one time, I
would like to run toward: feet

programmed to turn the other
way, looking for somewhere to
hide. Never liked terror-filled
skies, full of light and noise ---

always had Mommy and Daddy
to hold me. Compared to the
monsters on the Plains, those
of youth were nothing: these

guys are serious: their mouths
roaring with wind and rain, arms
pitching hail and tornadoes,
reaching out to snag my ankles,

determined to pick me up: my
parents can no longer save me.
Have to confront the monsters
on my own: just don't know how.

(c) 2008, Karla Dorman.

The Ogress Chronicles: Dinner Is Served

(As ever, for Charlie and Cryssa)
---------------------------------
Daddy rolled his eyes when he
saw his little girl piling clouds
like potatoes on his plate. Higher
and higher the towers went until
the touched Heaven's ceiling; the

tops spread out in anviled beauty
in the last light of sunset. She had
always had a flair for the dramatic
--- she got that from her mother,
as well as her purple velvet eyes.

She hummed as she worked, a
study in concentration: she wanted
it to be perfect, since she ruined
Father's Day: she still felt bad
about getting the car stuck in four

tornado holes. She'd already
made pea soup and the meatloaf
was just about done. Clouds would
be a wonderful side dish. There!
Finished! She turned around, and

there he was, tears running down
his face. She never loved him more
than she did at that moment --- she
gave him a hug that lasted forever
and then said, "I'm starving, let's eat!"

(c) 2008, Karla Dorman.

Followed

Night after night, the
skies lower, turn black.
With a shrieking roar,
the clouds snatch me out
of the nice dream I've
been having and fling
me into the storm.
Screaming awake, I
see my nightmare has
followed me into
the day: the skies are
lower, turning black:
as long as I don't hear
the shrieking roar, I'll
be okay. I hope ..............

(c) 2008, Karla Dorman

Witch's Brew

The sky boils, a cauldron
that could rival any witch's
brew. Clouds curdle, s p i n
overhead, stirred by purple
bolts of lightning -- thunder
cackles. Sirensong plays a
melody I had hoped to never
hear again. The witch laughs
to see such fright. (You should
have seen the sky!) Awakened
by storm this Thursday morning:
thought I'd be with Dorothy in Oz!

(c) 2008, Karla Dorman

This Is Your Shame

Ribbons of valor,
of service and Purple Hearts
will not put food on

Veteran's tables.
The strings get caught between teeth
shredded on medals.

They will not nourish
stomachs cramping from hunger.
They will not ease the

pain of injuries
or nightmare sweaty dreams; they
will not pay the bills.

This is your shame. You
deny them what they have earned:
good medical care,

a liveable wage
and the respect and honor
they rightly deserve!

And yet Congress gets
a yearly cost of living
increase ... did they serve?

Are benefits they
receive more important than
those who've paid the price?

(c) 2008, Karla Dorman

Memory, or Lightning Safety

There's a charge in the air; one feels the
atmosphere r.amp up for something huge.
Suddenly, all is white hot light and
bullet.crack of thunder --- the tree falls,
a casualty of war in the
skies. (It was my favorite, the old
maple that had stood faithfully on
the border of yard and woods --- the
one that gave me summers of climbing
pleasure, the one that blushed vivid red
in Autumn, the one the raccoons made
a home in. It exchanged its life for
mine, took the shot in my stead --- never
got around to thanking it until
now. Thank you, Tree. I could have been --- you ---)

(c) 2008, Karla Dorman