The Fisherman
I throw my line here and there
Good, bad, it doesn’t matter what I catch
All the colours of the scales are beautiful in my eyes
Some think fishing is for fools
To sit and wait
Perfectly still
For things to happen
Days and years
The line is a funny thing
Sometimes the waters muck things up
The silver line breaks
But away I go
Casting it out again
“Look at that fool,” they say.
“Holding a stick at the water’s edge.
She is mad!”
And on they go, their faint shadows diminishing before my eyes
That are razor-sharp focused on that line
That really does move this time.
Freedom
Purple stripes upon my back
As fat as a Christmas Goose
A sacrifice
To feed hungry eyes
The air around me whirs and dirs.
Time slows
I go
Faster still
On the horizon
A fat noose
Hangs from a Sycamore tree
And it seems to say
”Run faster, girl! Run on!
There will be no celebration for you here!”
So I carry on through these black nights
And dark days
That will bring me to my home
Someday
And freedom.
m o n o c h r o m e j u n k i e † 