Her name was Elizabeth Cracken, though most who knew her called her Liz. Neither particularly pretty nor ugly, she was eleven years old and lived comfortably with her family in the heart of London in East England in 1899. Her father and 18-year-old brother Peter made a decent living for the family, working for the manager of a shoe store in England.
I dozed off a little once it was morning, and woke up to stewardesses opening window covers and serving breakfast.
The captain’s voice came on, in a prim, polite British accent.
“Good morning, passengers, we hope you had a restful night. We’ve just passed over the Isle of Mann, and will be beginning our descent into London shortly.”
Isle of Mann…London…Whoa. I peered groggily out the window. The sun was just getting high enough to lose its morning softness, and I squinted against its growing glare, trying to see down through the patchy clouds.
Sobs shook my body and I could barely see for the tears in my eyes. The pounding of the horse hooves beneath me matched the pounding of my heart, as terror and sorrow consumed me.
During the ride, I faintly heard shouts, screams, and talking, but none of it made sense. The only thing that I could clearly understand was Daddy’s form fading from my view and a stranger gripping my wrist until it hurt. I didn’t know where I was, who my captors were, and what was going to happen.
September 23, 1680
My dearest Grandfather,
Note:
Hey guys! I wanted to let you know that this piece is not my work but my little sister's language arts poetry. She gave me permission to share it with you, plus I really wanted to share it with you guys cause I thought it was so good! I will relay any comments you wish to make to her. Thanks!
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This poem begins long ago,
A deer there was, in a meadow.
She stood and ate all sorts of leaves,
Only forest in sight, no shells, no seas.
It was a quiet, cool autumn morning. I watched as my eleven-year-old sister Mary poured water from the well into both of our jugs. Then we each took a jar to carry home, as we had done many times before. I was seven years old, old enough to help out around the house, Mommy said. Most other Jewish girls my age were doing the same, though, so I didn’t mind. In fact, I rather liked being grown up. Now that I was helping so much, I hoped my siblings would stop calling me baby.
I hear a song
ringing at every corner of the earth,
rung out from every human heart.
A quartet,
a chorus,
full in every part, but
empty;
rich with every swell, and yet it wanders,
imperfect in its beauty—
flawed even in the depths of each new chord.
Fractals
The Murderer’s Mask
The last party being so much fun, I'm happy to announce that Saturday September 29th I'm planning on hosting another poetry reading in Portland, Oregon.
Unbroken mists upon the water
Veil the island’s silhouette;
Just a shadowland, it caught her
Soul in its relentless clutch
With just a touch of violet
Amid an iridescent grey.
Alone, she stood and gazed far yonder,
Drawn unto the dusky light—
‘twas a sight to make one ponder
All the beauty of the world:
The water pearled with ripples, white,
When sunlight fades, when rests the day.