Category Archives: Writing

When You’ve Got that Sinking Feeling…

I think my sink had a heart attack this week. I could be wrong, but the thousands of hours of medical dramas I’ve watched suggests otherwise. You be the judge.

***

Continue reading When You’ve Got that Sinking Feeling…

IT’S ALIVE!!!!

I’ve been living an absolute nightmare. For TWO WHOLE DAYS!!!

But finally, after a weekend of anxiety-drenched trauma, I am back to tell the tale. It’s mercifully short, but not, I think, an insignificant one to any who has experienced the horror. Mary Shelley only dreamt of such nightmares as this!

Continue reading IT’S ALIVE!!!!

Walking Buck Creek Trail

Walking Buck Creek Trail

A Remembrance–by K. L. K. Salazar

There was no plan before we left.

We just took off together—as if lured by sirens singing.

Beneath the stars, you steered me to the places that you love,

Made mysterious by the flare of rockets red glaring.

 

Through the cemetery and down the hill

To where the waters waited,

And the path was still and free of people.

 

We walked along Buck Creek Trail that Fourth of July.

Chasing fireworks just out of reach.

The flash bang of concussions meeting us in the dusk.

As slick, silent waters slid past a fallen tree.

 

Fireflies flickered, semaphore signals, beneath a gibbous moon.

When I was younger, I thought it was called a ‘Gibbon’ moon.

I couldn’t help but wonder…

Do monkeys dance, bathed by moonlight, thinking it is day?

Or does the Man in the Moon really wear a simian grin?

 

And how that mischievous moon loomed large.

A low-hanging pendulum ticking in the tree tops.

Playing peek-a-boo behind Earth’s shadow

While the jealous sun searched for its lover.

 

And then, we saw it

…A glimpse.

…A spark.

A sky lantern floating in the dark.

A flickering emanation

The softness of a scene unmarred until…

***BANG***

Followed by an emptiness–ears ringing

Eyes straining for illumination.

Then the skies rained down in jeweled profusions

Firecracker constellations.

 

And as we walked through the humid musk

Of night smells and sulfur from plentiful explosions.

Every inhalation left an acrid taste upon the tongue.

Around each curve we anticipated the next cascade to come.

But we never quite caught the pattern of their detonation.

 

When the pyrotechnics paused

We waited…wondering…

“Was that it? The last one?”

But no.

 

A serpentine hiss trailed an invisible propulsion

Launching upward, arcing toward the vault of heaven.

Earthbound, we held our breath in expectation…

Will it wither, fizzle, die?

Or will it flower, hanging time itself upon a belt of sky?

 

Silver streaks descended

Causing seizures of joy in small children.

Cascades of tinsel dripping down

From a dark blue heaven.

 

You laughed and pulled me forward through the night

Following an ever-moving horizon.

You never caught them–the man-made stars you chased.

But then, that was never your goal.

 

You wandered the night in search of adventure.

Tempted by the golden monkey moon winking down

As if sharing a cosmic joke before we departed.

 

Back through the cemetery we went

Where the little chapel hides in hedgerows

Sparklers briefly crowning trees with red, white, and blue tiaras.

And there was no tomorrow yet to fear.

 

There was only the night and the steps we took

While the fireflies danced to a tune only they could hear…

…in the dark

…on the path

…along Buck Creek Trail.

*-*-*-*-*

Fireworks 2020

Every time I tried to insert the above firework image into the poem, it mucked up the formatting. So, I’m tacking it here at the bottom. Mentally place it wherever you like in the above verse.

Buck Creek Trail - 4th of july

The author’s son, walking and recording fireworks on his iPad. Fourth of July 2020

 

Sundown – A Poem

SUNDOWN

by Kiri L. K. Salazar


Memory is the golden shore where summer waters lap.
Where sanded children shriek like gulls,
And mothers shade their eyes and search
The ever distant beach for tears or missing faces in the surf.

There the castles build and fall, where triumph tragedy becomes.
And sticky mouths suck greedy gulps of sugar-saturated pops—
Rainbow colors melting down.

See criss-crossed marks burned into skin which will no permanent memory make
To keep from repeating the mistake of measuring the sun by an SPF span.
Boiled-lobster faces whine and belated zinc is applied in futile effort to rewind time.

Gritted bodies, tired, worn but happy with a day’s respite,
Ride the chariot once more toward the sinking orb
Which threatens little from its perch on the lip of the world,
Leaving a flip flop token of remembrance behind.

You’ll find no ribboned concourse marking childhood’s end.
It is fleeting, passing, and no trumpet heralds its demise.
So, measure well those steps you take on burning sands
They will the hourglass wind down and scorch tender flesh
In haste to reach Lethe’s waters.

A picture of the author’s son, back when he was little…a hundred years ago.
Continue reading Sundown – A Poem

A Letter to a Friend

I began writing and was interrupted by life. This is an expansion of a letter I wrote in the time that came before and the inspiration that followed…

To my friend K____, who lies bored in a hospital bed waiting for things to happen. May the butterflies find you.

Continue reading A Letter to a Friend

First Words

rock garden words 2

Cave paintings tell the oldest tales.

Charcoal impressions of a Neolithic age.

Ancient stone stories echo authors past.

Symbolic of the writer’s rocky path.

Once pried from cold, hard stone

You ask yourself, were they there all along?*

*-*-*
rock water melt snow

First Words

by K. L. K. Salazar

 

What siren song do fissures sing?

Elusive, mutable—so close, yet out of reach.

Can anybody hear you? See you?

Or do you speak only to my soul?

 

 

Hidden deep, in crevasses unknown.

Only found in shadows, on lichen-crusted clefts.

Under a winter’s sky—cold and blown.

A resonance of stone.

Falling, hitting, frozen things.

Echo shots creation brings, broken and rebuilt.

 

Etched in deep, where all words hide.

Unexpected meaning lies, unrefined,

Inside. Pitched to black and deeper reaches

No one knows what they may find.

 

When broken from the rock, words flow.

Released like melting snow

Warmed by sun’s beat.

Through erosion, exposition unfolds.

 

While I am weathered

Glacially slow.

Imperfections reveal

Dreams fragmentary and unreal.

 

 

Part hope.

Part defeat.

Cemented with faults.

I am stratified

Awaiting metamorphosis.

rock garden

 

Asterisk Bedazzled Footnote:

*I wouldn’t ordinarily have a footnote to my poetry. But I’ve never had this happen before. I don’t know what to call that little slice of word jumble at the top. I tried leaving it out and that felt wrong. I tried putting it in…even wronger. Is it a foreword? A prelude? A prequel? I’m not sure what to call it. So, I’m not calling it anything. It just is. And I hope that is enough.

Bunny Town Show Down

While I was surviving the past six months, fun events still happened. They just were overshadowed by the dark cloud looming. Now that the storm has passed, everything is sunny skies…or should I saybunny skies?

*

It was high noon in Bunny Town.

When trouble showed its floppy ears.

Some folks might say, he was itching for a hare-raising fight.

Others believe, the dastardly bunnies had it coming.

The lone bunny rider looked honest…honestly dangerous.

He dressed all in white…except for the mask.

Clemson Cadbury
Quite a quiet furry fury, indeed.

 

Clemson Cadbury—Clem to his friends—rode into Bunny Town one fine day.

He was wanting to put up his lucky rabbit’s feet and ease his saddle sores at the only hopping joint in town:

The Rabbit Hare Saloon

IMG_8281
Where the phrase “Hare of the dog” takes on a whole new meaning.

The girls at the saloon were of the heart of gold variety.

They made a rabbit want to sit up and pay attention.

To push his fuzzy-tailed luck.

Bugs Bunny Drag
“Who was that masked rabbit?” The girls at the saloon swoon as he goes by.

But Clem only had eyes for the sweet, sloe-eyed school marm who taught the A, B, C’s of being a bunny.*

His heart belonged to that fair damsel–Flory-Dory Flopsalot.

Flory-Dory Flopsalot Headgear Bunny
A fragile flower of the Topeka, Kansas Flopsalots.

Clem would have happily laid his hat—or his heart—at Flory-Dory’s feet for her taking or stomping there upon.

But Flory-Dory’s uncle was the local sheriff and he put no faith in lone rabbits who just moseyed on through his town.

So Clem spent his lonely hours, pining for his true love, and sipping dandelion sarsaparillas at the Bunny Bar Saloon.

Until the day he tangled with the Black Bunny Banditos!

Peter Rabbit School
Who knows why town founders put the Peter Rabbit School right next to the only bar in town? You’d think they’d have thunk that through a mite!

Clem didn’t know, when he entered that bar that fateful day, that a gang of hardened thugs were also looking to play.

They were bad bunnies with bad attitudes.

And they didn’t care what kind of mask a bunny hid behind.

The Black Bunny Banditos
The Coney Brothers: Bippity, Boppity, and Beauregard—were wanted county-wide by the long-ear of the law. They were trying real hard to live down the sweet names their momma gave ’em. Particularly Piebald Beau—who threatened anyone who tried to tie a ribbon around him come Easter time!

Clem was nursing a carrot-infused herbal tonic and the saloon honey-bunnies were taking his orders—hopping to get whatever he wanted.

The three black-hearted bunny banditos entered the saloon.

Their tail spurs jingled as they hopped.

Bippity tried to snag his favorite coquette–Odette.

But Odette was batting her lashes at Clem.

Boppity yelled for his bunnymondaine—but Desbegonia had no time for the ruff-necked, lop-eared cur.

No, Desbegonia was dancing to and fro, making Clem watch her as she’d go.

Then Beauregard stepped through the door and stood there watching a minute or more.

He waited. He wanted. But his flowery filly—Daffydilly—was not to be found.

Except, wherever Clem was around!

Daffydilly sang sweet serenades to woo her beau…

(But not the rabbit by that name, no!)

Beauregard spit out his cheroot and hollered at his boys to scoot!

“No interloping jackalope claims our pieces of fluff!” Said he.

And off behind the saloon went the three…

Bippity and Boppity waiting outback

Clem had no clue when he stepped outside

An ambush awaited his white-tailed hide.

But Flory-Dory knew!

From her chair near the window, she’d watch and sigh, whenever the handsome buck went by.

So, when the school marm saw her rabbit in trouble, she called for the sheriff on the double!

Sheriff “Lefty” Cottontail.**

@bun_the_rabbit_619 Websta Instagramer
Sheriff @bun_the_rabbit_619 courtesy of Websta Instagramer

Sheriff Cottontail was none to keen to confront the three rapscallions—despite their lawless ways.

He was a laid-back lawman who let other people’s bullets do the talking.

Sherrif Piebald McGee
Sheriff Cottontail demonstrates his floppy philosophy of ‘laying down the law.’

But Flory-Dory wasn’t letting her lily-livered uncle get away with that!

“I’ll take on those ne’er-do-wells myself, iffn I have to!” Said Flory-Dory.

If she’dve had a spittoon nearby, she’dve spat in it for emphasis.

With this incentive, Sheriff Cottontail, decides it’s better to fight like a rabbit, than to be shown up as all fluff and no tail.

He hops to Clem’s side in the nick of time.

Sheriff Lefty (pictured right) and Clem 

Bunny Duo
This weirdly appropriate duo brought to you by #Bunnyfest #Ameliaisnothavingit # Deskgram

The dastardly Coney Brothers had trussed Clem up in baling wire and dangled him by his stubby tail over a vat of sugar syrup.

“We’re gonna dunk you neck-deep in this here sassafras barrel.” Piebald Beau promised Clem. “When they find your sorry sack of fur, all will think that you fell in to get a drink.”

Then in flopped the Sheriff, long and fat, and squashed those Coney brothers flat!

It warn’t no time at all before the bad bunny brothers were rounded up and thrown into the hoosegow.***

But Sheriff Cottontail knew, it wouldn’t be long before those bunnies were back bearing a grudge.

The Black-Hearted Bunny Banditos

IMG_8290
Bippity, Boppity, and Beauregard Coney were hardened by a life of crime and no amount of time spent stamping state license plates could sway them from their cattle-rustling ways.

 

So the sheriff hired his niece to be his stalwart deputy!

police bunny
MissBunz Policing Bunnytown! Care of the SchertzPoliceBlotter

Flory-Dory rescued her hero from a sticky fate and cut him free.

Clem caught Flory-Dory up in his fuzzy embrace and they nuzzled noses.

It was quite the scandal.

And into the sunset, as he rode away, Clemson swore that he’d come back and marry that gal someday!

Asterisk Bedazzled Bunnynotes:

*The bunny head mistress taught the children their A.B.C’s: Always. Bring. Carrots.

**Sheriff Lefty was so named because, if you weren’t careful, he’d let himself get left behind in a gunfight.

***Hoosegow—to all you city slickers out there—is the clink, the slammer, the yard, the pen or, as it is otherwise known, jail.

_____________You read this far bonus____________________

Honestly, I’ve never had so much fun as writing this post.

Here’s a few oddities I discovered while looking for bunny-related miscellany:

Bunny Cowboy Soundtrack performed by Neptune Bunny here:

Long-Eared Drifter

I won’t even try to explain this. You just have to watch it to believe it.

Bunny Wedding Trousseaus available at Grandma’s Originals

And if you want to know where I captured the pictures that I didn’t pilfer online, check out Klackle Orchards in Greenville, MI when fall rolls around again.

 

Tick-Tock, Time’s Up.

For thirty seconds today, I thought my dishes were all clean.

*Tick*

As my son’s bus pulled up to drop him off,

*Tick*

I was putting the last cup in the cupboard.

*Tick*

The sink was empty.

*Tick*

So was the dishwasher.

*Tick*

I sometimes wish I could hit a “Pause” button.

*Tick*

My son would freeze, mid-step, off the bus.

*Tick*

The grass would not grow, undoing my work mowing in 90 degree heat.

*Tick*

And I could breathe deep of the scents of life.

*Tick*

The smell of the thyme the mower blades edged along with the grass.

*Tick*

The newly-minted caulk from the resealed tub.

*Tick*

Signs of progress, and yet…

*Tick*

I can’t help but wish I could stop the hands from moving.

*Tick*

The To Do list never really stops growing.

*Tick*

That the unpaid bills could wait just a little bit longer…

*Tick*

Life is like an insistence bomb.

*Tick*

It goes on whether you want it to or not.

*Tick*…*Tick**Tick*

You just have to ignore the *ticks*

*Tick*

Or suffer a case of time disease.