Sara Abend-Sims is a poet and writer of fiction, who has degrees in teaching (Visual Art) & Counseling from Uni.SA. She exhibited her art work for more then two decades before jumping ship and diving into the deep waters of Words. Sara is the recipient of the first prize in North Adelaide Community Literary Award, 2009 – Migrants’ contribution to our community, for her short story Keep your lid on and the Campbelltown Council Literary Award, 2015 – The Art of Deception, for her short story Murder Mystery – the best entry for Senior and overall categories. Two of Sara’s poems are published in the 2015 Friendly Street Poets Anthology – She doesn’t smile and Hula hoop.
Saturday at the gym
she enters the local gym
trim, light-footed, strong
she passes well-toned others
who beam a welcoming smile
she ties her hair, stretches, bends
holds her arms in a boxing pose
she jumps and charges fast and hard
her body – supple, mind – alert
she thumps her strikes right and left
a forward blow she pounds with might
she hops and bounces, flexing arms
hitting once then twice and thrice
the punching bag is hanging loose
rounded, heavy, black and red
accepting the barrage of her fists
with dangling, swaying, heavy-calm
she aims and hits a certain patch
his face projected on the red
his teasing grin and greying skin
with cancer spreading far beneath
she doesn’t have to be so nice
okay to drop the martyr’s mask
she can afford these kicks and blows
just here, right now, where no-one knows
jazz mania in blue
blue lights flicker, blink, flash
a furious pace of conversations
is followed by your eyes
the external drive signals traffic
in non-stop staccato rhythms –
electronic codes within hair-wires
connect intersecting data
motherboard’s metal screws
bridge unseen pulses
transmitting jazz-mania
jazz-mania in blue
the lights in your brain, darling
are differently pulsing
your links are of other codes
the flickers and flashes
reach other shores
of other hard drives
no jazz but roundabouts
hard drives as in hard
terrains of melancholy
eyes – flat, dreary, empty.
lips – an upside-down u
your words – like raindrops
in overflowing gutters
waterfalls trickling mumbles
‘i can’t, sorry, I can’t, no’
the charge in your brain
has no luminescent blue
only black, just black,
all colours sucked into one
into a tangled marionette
trapped in a coffin-cage
confined by tarnished walls
and squeaky rotting lid
you’re a king
crowned by labels
studded with pills
conscripted into the system
harnessed by
a kind of kindness
with brain’s chemistry altered
into loops of jumbled words
on better days of grace
it’s grey with cut-out holes
you glance then at the sky
that seeps through rustling leaves
you let some random sunrays
warm your heart and mine
with glimmers, possibilities
yet mostly it’s clouds
gutters, blackness, gloom
and when i reach
to stroke your hair,
to rub your shoulders –
your skin and body’s warmth
are here
but you, my darling you
have disappeared, vanished
gone
or –
have you
just have you
escaped
and left me here
alone?
punctuation marks and capital letters
i’m the kitchen hand
he’s the chef
the expert
the artist
you’re the diner
the chef is sacked
no chef
no expert
just you and me
kitchen hand and dinner
i invite you
to become the expert
the chef
the artist
i lay the table
then bring out utensils
and hot plates
i scatter ingredients
glowing ambers and zucchinis
bright stars and parsley
olives and history
leafy greens and waterfalls
rusty holden cars and tomatoes
pollution and feathers
red petals and sand dunes
clouds and jet black hair
night and ochre terrains
cobwebs and national identity
regrets and cherries
marshmellows and blue moons
you reach out
then pick some
for peeling and chopping
grilling and frying
you ask for garnish
i bring capital letters
you request condiments
i offer punctuation marks
and you mix
create
design
arrange
discard
observe
change your mind
invite others
place lines at a whim
choose words
insert capital letters
or not
place punctuation marks
in creative positions
or not
you play – eat – enjoy – digest
and i watch