Inkblot

It’s the monster’s forest, they say. Deep within it, he lies sleepily protecting his domain. Many villagers have been killed trying to take the forest down for their advancements, and it is happening again. This time the villagers want a road to connect them to the newest village just beyond the forest. They should go around, but they will try and go through but will inevitably die.

An army of men gear up in rusted armor that hasn’t been used since the last time, their ancestors tried to enter the monsters forest. They march onward with pitchforks, broken swords, and some rope. (What they are going to do with rope, who knows? The monster will only snap it.) They continue to march towards the forest. The hill starts to shake as the monster’s face slowly rises over the forest and stares down the makeshift army. They make their demands, and the monster moves out of the woods and down the hill towards them. Fear taking hold of the villagers, they run back towards the village, their flight is cut short by a swift annihilating blow from the monster’s tail. The beast looks over to me, and I hear his voice inside my head.

“Do you want to try too?” He says exasperated.

“No, I’m content leaving you be.”

“Good.” the monster turns and settles deep into his forest to sleep until the next wave of progressive villagers come to the attack with the same rusted armor and broken swords.

Blocked

Poems stuck in the branches
of everyday thought
stories stifled by anxiety.

Calling for inspiration
in the dead of night
yet no muse comes.

Torn and crumbled pages
litter the floor.

Exhaustion takes its toll;
the brain won’t cooperate.
It darts between ideas,
like a cat chasing a laser.

Oh, phone.
Oh, YouTube,
it’s research.

Two hours later.

Kitten videos,
still research.
The mind convinces itself.

Crumbled over the desk,
nothing,
squiggles,
make sure the pen is working.
Splatters form when it doesn’t.

Random thoughts come,
writing them down
because at least it’s something.

Something
is always better
than a blank page.

Kim Sealock
9-1-19

Collection

He must have a collection
of metal cat food bowls,
that line his den,
that he has stolen
from my back porch.

I curse his name
when I come home
to one less
cat food bowl.

That makes five
that have gone missing.
I know it has to be
Bandit, with his
love of shiny things.

It’s eleven o’clock,
and I’ll catch him in the act;
running off the porch
with a bowl clutched in his tiny hands.

He stares at me
from under masked eyes;
he drops the bowl
and runs up the closest tree;
looking down upon
me in hopes I’ll leave,
so that he can add to his collection.

I sigh and shout,
“Not this time, Mr. Racoon.”

Kim Sealock
7-20-19

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