Micropoetry Monday: Opposites


The Shutterfly edition

Bubba was checkers on the front porch,
Barron, chess in the parlor.
For the former,
the kings ruled the board,
the latter,
the queens,
but for 99-year-old Smithy Norville,
anyone who could move backwards,
or diagonally
had the all power,
for they could cut a rug
like Fred & Ginger.

He was the king of mugshots,
she, the queen of Glamour Shots.
She helped him make love to the courtroom cameras,
even as he taught her how to BOLO for Bertha,
who fancied herself as Bubba’s main squeeze.
His photos ended up on his momma’s fridge,
even as her gilt-framed portraits ended up over her father’s fireplace,
illuminated by candles on the mantle,
which explained why Lefty Shakes & Merlynne Munroe were
the way they were.

She was the Countess of Persiflage,
he, the Earl of Earnestness.
She was as funny
as he was funny-looking,
& they made a living off each other—
with her making fun of him
& he,
making her life less fun
with his habitual heckling.

Fiction Friday: Micropoetry from the Book

One could have worth
without being worthy,
for worthiness was measured
in deeds—
done & undone—
& how many days till one’s
last repentance.

Mother had spent her life atoning for her adulterous sin,
but it was David who ultimately paid for it—
a sort of accidental Christ.

Caitlin was a candy-colored musical,
Mother, a film noir,
but I, I would become the Greek drama
that would unfold with each retelling.

According to Mormon doctrine,
King David had been barred from the celestial kingdom forever,
but my David had sent no man to his death
for coveting another man’s wife.

Mother spoke of the beach—
that place we seldom went to.
She spoke of a memory there,
of her wishing not to die,
but for another man to die,
so that she could live with another.

Fiction Friday: Novelines

There were 30,000 or so residents of Green Haven—none we knew intimately, yet they knew us, & saw the lie that would someday become a truth.

David was a New York liberal in Christian conservative Florida—an oddity. However, in the enclave of academia, he’d found his place.

I felt like Ariel—a fish out of water—who wanted to be a part of their world, but I’d have to take up the Cross, with y’all on my lips.

Caitlin was the Audrey & I was the Marilyn, at least from the neck down.

Maxwell Manor was David’s home, & our little hideaway from the world that seemed strange to us, with its extreme religiosity.

The Nolan women and “that Dalton man” were known as “those Godless Northern folks”, or carpetbaggers, even though we had lived here for years.

We weren’t born-again, buckle-of-the-Bible-belt Christians.  David & I believed in Something—we just weren’t sure what that Something was.

I was the Jacob, Caitlin, the Esau; it wouldn’t be birth order or genetics, but a lie that sealed my inheritance.

Violet Girard, the First Lady of Green Haven—a gracefully aging Liz Taylor—loved David, for he would paint her as she saw herself.

David didn’t see Christianity and the American way of life as superior to anything else.  I daresay now, it was because he’d never known anything else.

Logline for Because of Mindy Wiley An Irish-Catholic girl coming of age in the Deep South during the New Millennium finds her family splintered when two Mormon missionaries come to her door, their presence and promise unearthing long-buried family secrets, which lead to her excommunication and exile.