{Originally Published on Secret Agent Mama}

Oh fiery colors, how short your stay,
Merrily tantalizing my sense of sight.
Against the blue sky, as if to blaze the way,
Towards the promise of a new day, bright.

It is in autumn that I reflect the most,
The end of the year spinning my mind around.
Like the trees that wait again to host,
My thoughts pause to absorb the sound.

Through the standstill, I look forward and back,
Considering past, dreams turn to a future of hope.
I wonder: Are the trees hopeful while they lack?
Or have they just found a way to cope?

My mind it is filled with worry and doubt.
Though my heart, a hopeful tree, dreams about.

{Originally published on Truth Is Freedom.}

A daily ritual for 40 years, the door swinging open on creaking hinges. At first that noise had bothered him, but now it was a comfort. Something familiar. Step, shuffle, 12 steps with the right leg and 11 shuffles with the left foot. The distance hadn’t changed, but the numbers had slowly increased through the years. The door closed behind him, a creak followed by a thump and then the snick of the oiled latch springing home.

The rows of faded post boxes covered the rear wall of the foyer; many were empty now, holding only memories. The labels spoke eloquently of times when hope and promises filled the room, but that had changed as the world forgot the sacrifices they all had made. The key ring dangled from his right hand as he reached his destination, and with gentle chimes his gnarled shaking fingers slid the worn brass key into the lock. A turn, the door opened, and the letter was revealed.

He tilted his head to one side and caught his breath. Was this finally the one? He reached in and withdrew the envelope addressed to Occupant. A clink and the post box closed, and he dropped the keys back into his pocket. He turned, step, shuffle, six steps with the right leg and five shuffles with the left foot as he made his way to the table bolted to the west wall. There was a clunk as he hung his cane on the edge, 8.5 inches from the right end; the silver eagle’s head was worn, but the engraving, 41st Regimental Engineers, could still be seen on the band.

He set the letter down, three inches from the front edge and directly in front of him. He fumbled for his reading glasses and hooked them over his ears, left side first, then the right. With his left hand, he withdrew a penknife from the inner pocket of his overcoat and turned the letter over until it rested perpendicular to his waist. He flicked open the blade, the shimmering cover said congratulations on your retirement; the sharp steel made a soft hissing noise as he slit open the cream colored paper from bottom to top.

Originally posted in Goodword Editing.

(Scroll down to find the audio link to hear the poem read by Marcus Goodyear.)

for David Tulley

The pianist plays alone every time
learning not to let the world decide
when he creates and when he rests.
Studios, concert halls, practice rooms
hallowed, not hollow, never empty.
The walls, the chairs, the carpet tremble
with potential decisions. Synthetic
fibers of carpet twist together,
their friendships forming expectant
berber curls, their voices hushed
waiting for the performer’s approach.

{Original Post in The Master’s Artist}

Editor’s Note: This short story was written for a competition run jointly by the literary journal, Relief Journal, and Baker’s acquisitions editor, Dave Long. Jeanne says of writing this story, “I poured a bit of my soul into this story. I can honestly say writing it changed me, so if it accomplishes nothing else, that’s a good thing.”

What’s Left of Destiny

“Where’s Jack?”

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Calhoun. Jack is close by.” He maneuvers her wheelchair around a pale amber puddle in the middle of the linoleum floor, shooting a sympathetic smile at Sam, the mop-wielding janitor.

Sam returns the smile and the sympathy, then nods at the wisp of a woman in the chair. “Evenin’, Mrs. Calhoun.”

Everyone around here knows better than to call her by her first name. That privilege belongs to Jack alone, and it’s been almost three years since she’s heard him use it.

“You’re a good man, Sam,” he says over his shoulder as he continues down the hall. And he means it.

Folks say Sam was a local baseball legend in his youth. Could have made it in the majors, if only he hadn’t suffered that shoulder injury. If only. Now there’s a dead-end road he’s traveled more times than he can count. No. There is no if only. For whatever reason, Sam’s path landed him mopping up unidentified bodily fluids in a place where most peoples’ minds exited stage left long ago. And he does it with cheerful dignity. You gotta respect someone like that.

As for his own path, for the moment it leads to the door at the end of this hallway. These days he tries to take things one at a time.

He taps lightly on the door. When no one responds he opens it and pulls the wheelchair inside. An oversized tub dominates the room. He twists the stainless steel knobs, adjusts the temperature, then squats in front of the shrunken form seated in the chair. “Ready for your bath, Mrs. Calhoun?”She raises her head from its usual lolled position. He knows that look. Fear mixed with defiance. She darts her eyes as though looking for a way to escape. “Who are you? Where’s Jack?”