Elizabeth Faris

Addiction

Where is my addiction?
The creases of my palms
give no more hint
than the tiki gods that sit upon
orange and pink clouds
forbidding to share their wisdom.

It seems to be hiding,
this addiction,
like a mischievous child
afraid of icky cough syrup.
I say to myself,
“Do not be afraid.
This addiction
apparently tastes like bubble gum.”

Even after endless prodding,
my addiction
does not show itself
in any form.
I give endless prodding up.
I guess I could simply sit next to
this lonely rock.
Saddened,
I wished I had a lake at my beckon
to watch this rock skip joyously
across cool waves
waiting for a playmate.

Sitting there
like cool waves
I search my immediate space.
I imagine my addiction.
Rubbing my thumb on my fingers
I sense the smoothness
of the thin lined sheets,
the smell of fresh ink,
the sound of creativity blasted
spilling itself everywhere
line after line
sheet after sheet
word
after
word.

Like the rock,
I feel as if I’ve been skipped
out to sea.
Feeling the sun fresh air
carrying me across
those playful waves
I embark on a word journey
but wait,
I need a cigarette.

Damn addictions.
Tick, Tick, Tick
They make me tick.

The Release

Two nights ago
the dark began to wail
like a delicate child
raging from a skinned knee.

In His new comic book
it seemed God
had transformed into
Electricman.
Harsh bolts
began bleeding from His palms.

Seconds passed,
and God bellowed.
He was a roaring lion
announcing his presence
to His kingdom below.

The roaring ceased.
The great superhero
huffed
ceaselessly.
The outside maple
bent at his will.

Piercing and unannounced
came the sterile tears
pleading with hope
or a lesser wail
and calmer maples.

Lying there,
cushioned by trapped feathers
I heard Him.
I felt his release.
So powerful,
I began to pray
innocently adding
to another wailing eve.

White Tears

It’s snowing like rain.
Flakes so big
they nourish dryness
as I stand mouth open
asking the sky
why are you crying?

The snowfall
is like rush hour.
Flakes swerving in and out
determined to find
either a cold place to melt
or a child’s smiling face
as she imagines
her glorious snowman
while humming the tune.

The child is taken
to a hot chocolate den.
I see her in the windowsill
by a lit candle.
She’s blowing
her pool of cocoa
round and round.
Frustrated, and with two hands
she sets it by the candle,
put her elbows on the sill,
and watches rush hour.

Someday down the road
like this raining snow
she’ll weave through the traffic
hoping her destination
will be her child’s warm face
watching the sky cry.

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