Lone Mountain Park

by Wylde Abandyn 02/23/15


they met in the park at dusk one day

two people shaped cutouts

darker than the shadow cast by the looming mountain

behind which the sun hid its face

ashamed as it was to witness such a personal moment

of internal pain and public discovery

 

she pushed a wheelchair draped in mourning black lace

he guided a baby carriage with the hood fully engaged

she spun him a yarn about her sickly old grampy

he told her a tale of single daddyhood

from within the draped wheelchair and the hooded baby carriage

silence

 

by the time that soft wind kicked up

the one that blows away the ashes of day

(night’s breath, she said grampy called it)

they were one in spirit

 

the next day, the garbage guy shook his head

as he tossed the perfectly good wheelchair

and brand new baby carriage

into the back of the truck

“You never know what you’ll find at the park,” he’d tell his wife later

 

Dreams: Crowd


I dreamed that our next door neighbors were having a construction party to build a windmill in their backyard. Dozens of their guests started coming over the wall and invading our yard. Adults were milling about and at least 20 kids were sitting in rows on the ground. I went out and told them to leave. As they were doing so I noticed that a couple of dogs had jumped the wall and I called to our dog, Rocky, to come in. He didn’t listen (no big surprise, he didn’t listen in real life when he was alive, either) so I went out again and he ran off around the side of the house. I cornered him near a weird side door that doesn’t actually exist and screamed for Steve to let us in. Then the dream flipped and we were in a giant motel room that had a deep desert valley running through it. Steve and some girl Jennifer (one of the guests from the next door neighbor’s group) were way ahead and there were people on horseback behind me who kept screaming, “Jennifer, don’t ride Big Red! Stay off Big Red!” I could see that there was a horse up there with Steve and Jennifer so I started screaming it, too, since I was closer and hoped maybe she would hear me. I somehow caught up with them and Steve was taking photographs of Jennifer. I waited at a little table until I realized I had to start work and told Steve we had to go. He ran out the door and I yelled I need help gathering all my stuff. I couldn’t figure out why my mini camera bag was there on a shelf. It had a book inside it and four onions stacked on top. The whole thing was ruined because the onions were rotting.

Creeping Lifebloom


Like vines that crawl across the garden wall
Experiences change me all the same
Cascading like a frozen waterfall

I hear the cadence in the shadow’s call
That tintinabulation set aflame
Like vines that crawl across the garden wall

Every time I try to break my fall
I seem to interfere with my own aim
Cascading like a frozen waterfall

I crave the pointless rapture of it all
Enlightenment enmeshed with friends and fame
Like vines that crawl across the garden wall

But what of penance, will it me befall?
Could I be cursed with sentimental shame?
Cascading like a frozen waterfall

My memories lay tangled in a sprawl
Those hopes and dreams that finally became
Like vines that crawl across the garden wall
Cascading like a frozen waterfall