I am Alone

I am Alone

 In the beginning, it was not too bad

Stay at home

Do not travel out

If you must stray, mask your identity

Distance yourself socially, seventy-two inches

An arbitrary amount

No visitors allowed

Lock your doors

My silver hair reveals my risk

Essentially, I am not needed

I am alone

It was not too bad, in the beginning

Hidden in my favorite chair with a bottomless mug at my side

My fingers flash across the keyboard

Dreaming the Great American Novel

Sans endless interruptions

Straying from favored chair to over-stuffed sofa

I binge watch romantic comedies,

(Tell no one, I plea)

and apocalyptic sagas

 Until now becomes tomorrow

Potato chip dust covers my shirt

Being alone, pants are optional

Alexa serenades me with golden oldies

As I eat breakfast for supper

Meat without veggies

Chocolate morsels topping every meal

Two glasses of brandy

Shame on me

It is not too bad 

Being alone

Days grow into weeks

Sunday or Monday

Who really knows?

My novel untouched, glares accusingly at the vacant chair

In my remoteness, I have misplaced the remote

No images

No sounds

Alexa left me too

My cupboard is bare

I wander out, donned in anonymity

Seventy-two inches has never looked so far

No meat

Heaps of veggies

If I must

I return Home

Carrying my bag, wearing my disguise

Shuffle, shuffle

Day seventy-two

Alone begot Loneliness

Painless labor

It was not too bad

Before

The Stone Carver

The Stone Carver

Rested upon their backs

A burden of memories

They traverse a river of tears

Seeking his skilled hands

To memorialize the fallen one

He is the Stone Carver

Silently, the artisan listens

As their story unfolds

 laced in anguish

For the one now forever gone

Taken from them in a distant land

Draped by an emerald jungle

Rugged mountains

Or blankets of sand

Fighting for freedom 

A sacrifice too young

The carver bids them farewell

As their story ends

Sitting at his workbench

His artistry begins 

Calloused hands touch a canvas

Of white granite stone

Hammer and chisel carving each letter

Declaring the name of a hero unknown

Droplets of sweat and forlorn tears

 mingle with dust

Recalling the names

Of the ones carved over the years

Never has he seen their faces

Or heard their call

Chiseled into his heart

The reason they fall

Toiling beneath a yellow light

Sounds of silence fill the night

As the name of a hero is given life

Eternally ascribed on a field of white

He is the Stone Carver

As a Running River

As a River Runs

 

A babe cries in the night

Lumbering through weary eyes

She comes whispering lullabies

Cradled in loving arms, he suckles her comfort

Hushing twilight’s call

 

As a river runs,

 the years pass by

Standing side by side, holding his small hand

Before entwined shadows

A mountain of bricks loom

Overflowing with colorful quills,

picture books, 

new-found friends, and hopeful promises

He lets go

A mother cries

 

As a river runs, 

the years pass by

Scraped knees

Blackened eyes

Busted elbows

Broken hearts

She will mend each one

With a mother’s care

 

As a river runs,

 the years pass by

A babe cries his first breath

A new name

Grandma

She shows her son how to hold his

 

As a river runs,

 the years pass by

Chocolate chips

Peppermint candies

Cake for breakfast

Secret words

She delivers each one

With a grandmother’s care

 

As a river runs,

 the years pass by

A fractured family stands hand in hand

A gilded casket filled with memories

A drape of sorrowful flowers

Wet with morning mist

A babe cries

A Red Dress Night

 Excerpt from my latest collection of short stories-"Guinevere’s Lovers"

“He will kill you.” She whispers. The ancient stone walls hide her words, capturing her rapid breath sounds, and I pray, concealing my pounding heart. Through a narrow cleft, I can see him pacing — pacing endlessly.  Across the great chamber, the King’s guardians, in contradiction to his incessant wandering, stand motionless, one stationed on each side of the veranda’s entryway. There are no suggestions that her words have revealed our hiding place.

Her trembling hand falls upon my shoulder. Looking to her, I can only detect the contours of her face; the darkness of the small antechamber so thick it presses against her skin. She speaks again. Fearing he will hear this time, I place my fingers upon her lips, shaking my head. Struggling to restrain my quavering hand but failing to do so, I quickly retreat. She must not share my fear, although he will cause her no harm. This despot of nature, who has murdered so many, melts in her presence like a hoary waxed candle. Patient! I pray she hears my thoughts. He will soon depart. Battlegrounds beckon his royal presence.

From the King’s chamber, a disturbance pierces my heart! Soldiers have burst into the room; their cumbrous armor clanging loudly with each stride, resounding from wall to wall. Medraut addresses the King, his hurried words muffled by my hidden sanctuary. In the antechamber, our breathing has become one — we wait. Moments later, the King, flanked by the soldiers and my brother, at last set off.

“You must go now,” I whisper, still fearing detection. “He will bring you no harm. You are his wife.”

“And you are his son,” she speaks as if no other could hear, “he will kill you.”

“I would lie beneath the dark soil of Camlann before he shares his bed with you again.” Taking her in my arms, I kiss her lips. Her bouquet fills my mind with remembrances of our beginning. A time before the King… before my father knew her beauty. I long for her to be mine.  “You must go now before he returns.”

“What did Medraut tell him?” she asks, her face pressed against my chest. “Do they prepare for battle without you?”

“It matters not to him. My brother’s desire for the throne is no secret. He will entice the King to ride into battle, ignoring my father’s infirmities. We need you, my King, he will boast. But Medraut knows I will not allow such danger to fall upon my father. In my absence he plans the death of the King. I swear on my life, I will stop him.” 

“You love your father,” she whispers. “and yet you would die to keep him from me?”

“I would die to keep any man from you, dear Guinevere. My father’s kingdom is in peril, but to see him die at the hands of my brother...”

“It shall never be.” She searches for my eyes, hidden by the darkness. “It is you who must go now. You must stop Medraut. Halt his evil plans. I will never love your father, but I cannot see his kingdom fall.” She stands, “He is old and nearing his natural death. I will wait for the day that you, my true love, sits upon England’s throne.” Placing her hand upon my cheek, “Go, find Lancelot. He will help you. You must kill Medraut.”

You can find this and other books by J Hirtle at https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B005RQ45S0