Perils and Pleasures of Trees

By D. Lark Lancaster

There’s a life-flowing rhythm to this place.

Faceless spirits come from way upstream,

Arriving with fear, looking for harbor.

They cry, they hope, they laugh,

As they tip a toe to test these waters

Safe yet perilously calm near the bank.

I greet them all; only those who will see me

Know I’m Eden’s tree, offering them change

And a sight more of good-n-evil than they want.

Their arrogance swaddles them in shadow;

The grace of labor’s fruit makes them naked;

They seek my shade as the sun burns and blinds.

A sentinel, I guard from the bank, I guide from drift.

Distance is said to deny the entanglement of too much care.

Still … their spirit-mists touch my leaves, my bark

Bringing renewing life, light, lessons and love.

Their visit laps and draws at my root-grip,

Eroding that which keeps me here.

Wake waters wash around me;

Their cadence coaxes a fall

To join their journey

To feel the passion

To become one

With the river

Its rhythm

Its hope

Its life

As faceless spirits come from way upstream.

— — —

A Beautiful Life

By Deborah Reed, for her mother

How do you sum up a beautiful life

A beautiful woman, a beautiful wife

A beautiful nana, a beautiful mother

In all of our hearts there will be no other

For she was the one who could make it all better

And no matter how long we will never forget her

Her strength was amazing, as a tower she stood

Loving us all as only she could

Her voice and her face we all dearly miss

Wishing just one more time we could give her a kiss

And tell her how much we appreciate her love

But she’s flown away like a beautiful dove

To a beautiful place with fields of gold

With beautiful angels who never grow old

Filled with endless love and spiritual bliss

Forever this beautiful life we will miss

— — —

Memory

By Kristin Emanuel

There are wrought-iron benches. One is lofted

Above the others, its surface like a

Not-quite reflection. Across the room, on the

Wall, reels are projected into

Perfect squares. She watches them

From the bench, loving each wordless

Recollection: the spin, the turn, and the

Premeditated

Collision of one image into another.

She doesn’t know that the film

Is catching fire. Its strips shrivel and

Drip their contents like lava; she is

Worshipping their

Remains.

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Wanna see your work in the Freekly Fiction section?

The Free Weekly is looking to publish local poetry, flash fiction and other types of experimental writing in its print edition. If there is interest, prompts may be issued. The published selections will be determined at the editor’s discretion. Some line editing may be made as necessary, however, rough drafts will not be accepted. Submissions containing gratuitous (i.e. artless) violence, sex, profanity, libelous statements or gossip will not be accepted. Longer submissions should stay below 600 words.

Submissions must be electronic. No PDFs. Documents should be formatted in Microsoft Word, TextEdit, or Google Documents.