The Card
by Mark Stellinga
Source: Phonetical Imagery (2004)
I went to the five and ten cent store
with a handful of nickels and dimes,
Paused by the old brass cash register,
though I'd seen the thing hundreds of times,
And, just like a lot of his regular customers
had to tell old Mr. Breece,
Of all of things in his really old store,
that was my favorite piece.
Then off on the hunt as I strolled through the aisles,
like a fun little trip back in time.
When I came to the greeting cards,
neatly displayed,
so many were written in rhyme.
I've always liked reading the greeting cards,
it seemed they would brighten my day.
The birthdays, the weddings, the holiday ones,
Such wonderful things they would say.
When all of a sudden, I found I was reading
a card that was in the wrong place.
And before I could stop, I could feel my heart
pound, and the smile disappear from my face.
Who in the world would put this kind of card
in the slot where the brithdays should be?
so I put it back where the darn thing belonged,
with the last cards I wanted to see,
The "sympathy" cards, the ones about death,
and I almost wished I was blind.
I quickly read more of the happier ones,
but the "death" one just stuck in my mind.
It worked like a poison, slowly but surely,
I knew it would ruin my day.
And I still remember the sadness I felt
as I angrily went on my way.
It wasn't the fault of the kindly old merchant,
or the tender words penned by the bard,
I blame the stinker who chose the selection,
then heartlessly misplaced the card.
----------------------
The Saga of Margie and Tim
by Mark Stellinga
Source: Phonetical Imagery (2004)
1
We all have known love as a child one time
gazing for hours, whispering in rhyme.
So very important, so urgent things seemed
A thought never known, a dream never dreamed.
2.
And the wonder and hope in the fragile young eyes
of our little romantic (he desperately sighs),
reflects from his face 'neath a full yellow moon
where the eyes of our lover now lay,
though he knows that the moon won't betray him,
he finds it has nothing to say.
3
So down on on his knees top a pillow he crouches,
suspecting a tear and a sigh well in place,
the sleepy young beggar repeats his confusion,
the light of a candle distorting his face.
4.
wide eyed and anxious, a wonder of life
with a small bedroom window to frame.
"Margie", he beckons, (he feels his heart pounding
each time that he whispers her name)!
5
Then gently he leans through the small bedroom
window, spilling his curls on the sill,
gold in the moonlight, soft in the moonlight,
as it drifts through the evening so still.
6
Then neatly arranging his small satin fingers,
he nods with a puff to the light.
(nobody knows that he peeks while he's praying,
for praying with all of his might),
7.
he's entirely alone now, no moon or a candle
bewildering our big little-guy,
and when he has finished, expecting an answer,
he gazes again at the sky.
8.
But only the breeze in the warm air of autumn
so gentle and soft to be heard,
is witness to what he is searching his heart for,
all in that magical word.
9.
He sits without moving, though nothing before him
will capture the answer for which he must search.
He knows that adrift on the winds of the evening
theanswer is out there, and falls from his perch
10.
to the arms of the sandman at the edge of his bed
and has no more than whispered his prayer,
when all of a sudden, from out of the stars,
on the warmest and sweetest of air,
11.
sails the faintest of murmurs, and he thinks he has
heard her, so embracing the moon with a glance,
he expectantly leans from his window and
searches, hoping for only a chance,
12.
a chance to be certain, to know she is calling,
to know she is calling for, "Tim"
Now he stares at the moon and cries,
"Margie.....I love you!"
He's sure she is calling to him.
13.
But it's late! There are stars all around him,
He's confused. Though he's happy, he weeps.
He curls up with a smile, though he sniffles a while
and he drifts with his dream,
as he sleeps.......,
------------------
Available in print edition.
--------------------
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Poet from Iowa
Spring 2005
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