Author: Becky Kjelstrom

Calaveras Literarias: The Swamp

Denizens of the Swamp

Lindsey

I’m sweating for money.

Campaign is dead broke

Fox news let me whine.

But the South’s becoming woke.

 

Haunted look in my eyes

Tells the tale of my demise.

Sucking up to the Trumpster,

The act McCain would despise.

 

I’m glad John went before me

At my wake, he’d make no appearance.

Hang with the sick get the sickness,

That’s simple social science.

 

Susan

I’m concerned to death about

A woman’s right to choose.

But a battle with Trump’s twitter

Is a brawl I’d surely lose.

 

I’m concerned to death about

Pre-existing conditions.

But my donors say no,

That means tax additions.

 

I’m concerned to death about

The pandemic-vs-Trump

But I’m just too darn tired

To admit that he’s a chump.

 

Bill

Give me death

If I can’t have theocracy.

Don’t substitute it

With some shabby democracy

 

Trump can be king

Of the US of A

But I will be

God of the whole DOJ

 

When covid stops my earthly toil

Far right my spirit leans.

Engraved on my tombstone:

The ends justify the means.

 

Calaveras literarias: a poetry  form that is popular in Mexico during Día de los Muertos. These poems can be satirical or critical or just poke fun at the foibles of humankind. Initially they made fun of death itself, but later began to target political figures, government officials, and other celebrities.

Photo KrystianPiatek@krystian_piatek  on unsplash.com

Ritual

He appeared scrupulously unsuperstitious, but the smell exposed him, acrid, brain-curling. I startled him in the bathroom.

Grandpa dropped the burning envelope into the toilet. “Sssh. Tell nobody. The witch will know.”

After he died, I continued the family tradition, as my grandchild will. Burn all clippings, hair to toenails.

photo by chuttersnap at unsplash

The Octopus and the Diver

 

She hid in the depths of the sea, only emerging from her den of shells after he visited her many times, proving his trustworthiness. Dropping camouflage for her natural red, she aimed one eye at his two. Looking deep into his single heart, she revealed a taste of her three.

Becky Kjelstrom

art by Zo Razafindramamba at unsplash

Mujagui, Egg Ghost

When the girl found me, I carried no traces of humanity.   Unremembered, I became smooth as an egg.  Seeing me should have killed her. Though blind, she could hear my stories.  As she listened, my limbs and features reappeared.

I kissed her eyelids and dissolved, tethered to Earth no more.

 

Story appeared in 5oWord Stories

photo by Enache Georgiana unsplash

DNA

He was scrupulously unsuperstitious, but the smell gave him away, acrid brain curling reek.

I followed him to the bathroom. Startled, Grandpa dropped burning paper into the toilet.

“Ssh. Tell no one. The witch will know.”

After he died, I continued his tradition.

Burn all clippings, hair to toe nails.

Becky Kjelstrom

Trypophobia

The dream began as a once-a-nighter, but soon recurred many times night and day. Dreams of holes, large, small, deep, shallow, growing, shrinking. Waking in a cold sweat, skin burning through a thousand itchy pores. Holes consuming organs, bones and blood till nothing remained but endless dark of the universe.

Moon

No blustery wind

To stir up achievements past

Man’s footprint remains

Point of View

I had forgotten its fullness had arrived until I came upon its reflected shimmer in a rain puddle on the street.  Colors not evidenced in its original glow swirled in the eddies remaining after the violent intrusion of car wheels.

Image by Safal Karki via Unsplash