Submissions by ojhoff
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
SELF POEM
Published
12th Jan 2013 3:42pm
12th Jan 2013 3:42pm
I Imagine He Has Come To Rescue Me
I imagine he has come to rescue me.
My ear against the sand hears
The horse's throb. It comes closer.
The dark green forest is ghost-filled nowdays.
I am afraid. I go into the cabin to pack
That which is precious to me: mirror, rouge, and poems
And wait by the door. It will be all right.
I am afraid, but I also anticipate
The ride out of this place, close behind him
And inhaling the odor of the horse
For hours on end.
When he comes, he has this other woman with him.
I think back to the message he sent ahead.
We will be coming it said....
My ear against the sand hears
The horse's throb. It comes closer.
The dark green forest is ghost-filled nowdays.
I am afraid. I go into the cabin to pack
That which is precious to me: mirror, rouge, and poems
And wait by the door. It will be all right.
I am afraid, but I also anticipate
The ride out of this place, close behind him
And inhaling the odor of the horse
For hours on end.
When he comes, he has this other woman with him.
I think back to the message he sent ahead.
We will be coming it said....
#anxiety
#loneliness
#rejection
#horses
#myself
677 reads
1 Comment
NON-FICTION PROSE
Published
7th Jan 2013 2:28pm
7th Jan 2013 2:28pm
Scandinavian Cookie Recipes
But Doris, towelled from the bath,
Enters padding on broad feet,
Bringing sal volatile
And a glass of brandy neat”.
T.S. Eliot
(1888-1965) Poems. 1920
Spoken Norwegian can sound musical and lilting but the
phrase potet klub makes me cringe. Well, I guess
potet klub sounds just as good as the English word
dumpling. I wondered whether, when my small, white,
rural Minnesota Lutheran church planned its first
potet klub feed, Some people might show up not
knowing that one or two...
Enters padding on broad feet,
Bringing sal volatile
And a glass of brandy neat”.
T.S. Eliot
(1888-1965) Poems. 1920
Spoken Norwegian can sound musical and lilting but the
phrase potet klub makes me cringe. Well, I guess
potet klub sounds just as good as the English word
dumpling. I wondered whether, when my small, white,
rural Minnesota Lutheran church planned its first
potet klub feed, Some people might show up not
knowing that one or two...
738 reads
1 Comment
NON-FICTION PROSE
Published
7th Jan 2013 1:55pm
7th Jan 2013 1:55pm
My Refrigerator
My refrigerator is older than I am, and I am definitely approaching late middle age. It belonged to my grandmother, who called all refrigerators Frigidaires. I'm not sure of the brand but it reads CO-OP on the door. In all the years of owning this refrigerator, and it was passed down through the generations, it has never required repairs. The only thing I have had done is to replace the rubber gasket.
I don't think it is very energy efficient but the rounded shape is marvelous. Visitors exclaim, "Cool! An old refrigerator!" It has a tiny little icebox that gets a...
I don't think it is very energy efficient but the rounded shape is marvelous. Visitors exclaim, "Cool! An old refrigerator!" It has a tiny little icebox that gets a...
619 reads
0 Comments
FICTIONAL PROSE
Published
7th Jan 2013 4:31am
7th Jan 2013 4:31am
My Church Forced Me Into Sin
Do you think I'd have a chance at the secretary’s job?” I asked Char, eager to know where I stood in the selection process. My friend Char, a sharp-featured, self assured, no-nonsense redhead, was on the church council at Saint Matthew’s. We were sitting on my patio deck, enjoying the unseasonably warm spring weather while we sipped lemonade. I had set out a plate of pink sugar wafers. Char ate one but I didn't touch them.
"I'd say you have just as good a chance as anybody, Elvira." Char replied. "You have experience".
That sounded favorable. "Tell me again about...
"I'd say you have just as good a chance as anybody, Elvira." Char replied. "You have experience".
That sounded favorable. "Tell me again about...
1016 reads
1 Comment
SPIRITUAL POEM
Published
5th Jan 2013 3:15am
5th Jan 2013 3:15am
General Craziness
I am sorry
My novel took so long
To write..
I'm sorry it was fiction,
Not fact.
I could have taken
Fertility drugs
And a chemical peel
But still I would have been the author,
Not the heroine.
I tried to play the heroine,.
My illusions were stripped from me
By force
And hung out like long underwear
In the Minnesota winter,
Where they twisted
In the northern breeze,
And froze.
I was an idiot, living in a Hell
Of my own making
Stonewalled at every turn.
.
I will remember forever
The lies...
My novel took so long
To write..
I'm sorry it was fiction,
Not fact.
I could have taken
Fertility drugs
And a chemical peel
But still I would have been the author,
Not the heroine.
I tried to play the heroine,.
My illusions were stripped from me
By force
And hung out like long underwear
In the Minnesota winter,
Where they twisted
In the northern breeze,
And froze.
I was an idiot, living in a Hell
Of my own making
Stonewalled at every turn.
.
I will remember forever
The lies...
594 reads
0 Comments
SPIRITUAL POEM
Published
5th Jan 2013 3:13am
5th Jan 2013 3:13am
Getting Ready For Lent
The woman said, "I received the hidden message.
In reply I must say, my blindness was poetic conceit
Yes, there was the matter of saved seed
Which may or may not have been viable.
That answer remains unknown.
There was also the matter of a spring wound so tight
It seemed it must have release.
Do you understand?
Finally, I perceived a cowardice,
And it was not my own.
Now as I limp from the land of make-believe,
I leave footprints of blood.
I chose to delude myself.
There were windows that obscured the truth
And I chose not to...
In reply I must say, my blindness was poetic conceit
Yes, there was the matter of saved seed
Which may or may not have been viable.
That answer remains unknown.
There was also the matter of a spring wound so tight
It seemed it must have release.
Do you understand?
Finally, I perceived a cowardice,
And it was not my own.
Now as I limp from the land of make-believe,
I leave footprints of blood.
I chose to delude myself.
There were windows that obscured the truth
And I chose not to...
583 reads
0 Comments
SPIRITUAL POEM
Published
3rd Jan 2013 3:47pm
3rd Jan 2013 3:47pm
A Morning at Church
The sun through a pointed arch
Caught your silver chain, golden hair,
The white of holiness,
A bronze cross.
Candle flames danced orange.
Children gave us red paper hearts.
On the Day of Love we tend to love
Even though it’s only Jesus,
And, waiting to file out,
We dream of more.
Why do you linger? You're late.
The next group is waiting with open books.
But you stand there outdoors by your car,
Full sunshine on melting snow.
The rich attractive widow
Will not let you go.
In the light I see the ragged edges
Of the...
Caught your silver chain, golden hair,
The white of holiness,
A bronze cross.
Candle flames danced orange.
Children gave us red paper hearts.
On the Day of Love we tend to love
Even though it’s only Jesus,
And, waiting to file out,
We dream of more.
Why do you linger? You're late.
The next group is waiting with open books.
But you stand there outdoors by your car,
Full sunshine on melting snow.
The rich attractive widow
Will not let you go.
In the light I see the ragged edges
Of the...
618 reads
1 Comment
SPIRITUAL POEM
Published
3rd Jan 2013 3:23pm
3rd Jan 2013 3:23pm
aquamarine
700 reads
0 Comments
SPIRITUAL POEM
Published
1st Jan 2013 2:30pm
1st Jan 2013 2:30pm
Amethyst Mystery
705 reads
3 Comments
SPIRITUAL POEM
Published
1st Jan 2013 1:23am
1st Jan 2013 1:23am
Persephone
687 reads
1 Comment
FICTIONAL PROSE
Published
31st Dec 2012 6:38pm
31st Dec 2012 6:38pm
Last Summer on the Farm
The cabin we rented every year didn’t amount to much. It was pathetically small, smelled like mildew, and had no bathroom to speak of, except a sink and toilet behind a bi-fold door, so we ended up taking sponge baths all summer. My parents knew the owner of the farm. I think they felt sorry for that family, to whom the $300 we paid them meant a lot. I was miserable, sleeping on the living room couch and finding nothing to do except walk down the gravel roads and read books from the landlord’s collection. Some of those books were from the 1800’s. My mother teased me. She said, “By the time...
810 reads
0 Comments
FICTIONAL PROSE
Published
30th Dec 2012 8:23pm
30th Dec 2012 8:23pm
Bloody Valentine
Ever since she was a kid, Marcia would get the giggles so bad she almost choked. Her sense of humor was quirky. As a result, she was very lonely. Years passed and the internet was developed, and Marcia, still lonely, discovered chat rooms. One day, she thought of a chat name so ridiculous that she burst into laughter. Her fingers moved over the keyboard as she signed up, and in no time she had become Big Swedish Knockers.
An Instant Message popped up on her screen. "So what's the difference between Swedish knockers and Norwegian or German knockers?" asked the Mustang. ...
An Instant Message popped up on her screen. "So what's the difference between Swedish knockers and Norwegian or German knockers?" asked the Mustang. ...
740 reads
0 Comments
DU Poetry : Submissions by ojhoff
