wb :

Stethoscopes come and

Stethoscopes go

But you were special 

Somehow

Plum coloured stem

Rainbow diaphragm

I misplaced you 

A few hours into this deep indigo night

Lost

In this forest plot

I believe there was a sunset

That I missed a few hours ago

Tied up deciphering muffled murmurs

With a yellow plastic stethoscope 

Like a boomerang

Out of the blue you found your way back

Like a Chinese New Year

Angbao 

They say

It’s not about the stethoscope, it’s about

What’s between the years

But I

Beg to differ

====

an old one. but one of my faves. haha

i resolve not to pine
over the apples
not to let tart
comments get to me
to set the dust dogs free

to find someplace
that produces those
love letters
or perchance somewhere
one can roost
free range

in the middle of this spring
clearing
to find some time
to watch the sky turn
orange

"I feel sad, write a story to cheer me up!"

I looked over the tops of the stacks of books at her pout, almost comical in its childishness. Time didn't leave its trails on her; her eyes twinkled as tender as the day we met. Mine were perhaps a little duller now, but she thought nothing of it. I shifted my gaze back to the books, glanced across the gilded letters on the worn leather spines.

"Well, there are many stories here that are nice to read..."

"No! I want you to write one!"

"Surely you haven't read them all?"

"I haven't! But it doesn't matter, and my name's not Shirley!"

I chuckled and shook my head, and the beginnings of a smile crept into the corners of her lips. It took hold soon enough, and she couldn't bear to hide her glee.

"So, are you going to write one? Mmmmm?"

How could I refuse? But then, I thought, she ought to work a little herself.

"Come over, why don't we write a story together?"

It must have been her plan all along. With a grin from ear to ear now, she lightly stepped over, drew up a chair, and sat down beside me.

"Alright, where do we start?"

A story is a strange thing, fragile as a fledgling, beautiful as it buds, grotesque as it grows, silent in its suffering, and divine in its death. I wanted the story to be hers, as much as one might "have" a story, anyway.

"Well... we need to start with the sad parts, I think."

"Why can't we start with the happy parts? Hey, this is supposed to cheer me up, you know?"

"Yes, but everyone knows what the happy parts feel like, mmm? It's the sad parts that are different for everyone."

"Can't I have just happy parts, anyway?"

"Well... if you don't know what sadness is, how can you feel really happy, instead of just... pleasure?"

While she was mulling that over, I pulled up a piece of paper and two pencils, and drew a little dot in the center.

"That's our beginning."

With a few flourishes, I drew a few spokes from the spot.

"And that's where our sad parts are going to be."

"Shouldn't we have a line instead? Like, a... time... line?"

"Memories don't work like that, you know. They don't go in a straight line. They obey their own laws... and since you're making the memories, you get to decide what happens to them."

She took the sheet of paper from me, squinted melodramatically at my crude drawing, then turned the sheet to the other side. She drew another point in the center, but instead of spokes, she drew a two-armed spiral coming out from it.

"I think I want these memories to... to circle out from the... back into the beginning."

She held the pencil up, and, staring into the air, absentmindedly touched it to her nose. Then she looked down again, and put a little cross on the arm on the right.

"That's where the sad parts are going to start."

Her forehead scrunched for half a minute or so before she turned to me again.

"What sort of sad parts do you usually put into stories?"

I sighed. It wasn't quite easy to describe.

"Uh, as I said, the sad parts are different for everyone..."

She rolled her eyes and pouted again, but turned back to the sheet of paper, still pensive.

"I think that I'll put in... loss."

"What sort of loss?"

"I don't know! Mmm... loss of... you said that time doesn't matter when we're writing it, right?"

"That's... right?"

"Alright then. I'll put in a loss of the future."

I raised my eyebrows at the thought. She stared at me and sighed, as though I were a silly skunk.

"You know, when people make decisions, that's it. That's a loss of all the other futures that might have happened. And you know what's worst? It's that you don't know what you've lost, and you never will. And you'll always wonder."

I paused in thought, my hands almost-unconsciously finding each other, and my gaze fell to my lap. She soon went back to smiling and sketching on the sheet, the scratching of the pencil soothing the strands of my senses. At length, I looked up with a little worry in my eyes.

"How could anyone be happy like that?"

She laughed at me (and she said, said she) with a smile like the rose in June.

"How could you ever feel really happy, knowing that you would be happier or sadder in the future? Mmmm? When you don't know what will happen, then you're free to enjoy whatever you have as much as you want to."

It was my turn to smile. I knew then that she would be a great writer of stories.

"Well, I think I can leave the rest up to you now."

She looked up and smiled at me, and those eyes!- as tender as the day I lost her mother. I rose and stretched a little, and went to get myself a drink. After all, stories don't just have a beginning- you have to watch them as they grow up.

-~-

Written for a writing prompt on Reddit:
https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/3u2e9u/wpi_feel_sad_write_a_story_to_cheer_me_up/cxbaj8e

sometimes you can tell
it isnt meat to be
some are too nutty
others are always in a jam

sometimes it's obvious -
someone who sets
the lab on fire
isnt good at baking exactly

true, life's not a picnic
and anyway
there's always the threat
of dengue

sometimes all goes smoothly
but the glucometer reads HI
or you discover
a cavity

sometimes you find the perfect
gingerbread
but the season is over;
it's too latte

Russet leaves and sunset eaves
Calm the heart and quake the knees
Like some melodious disease.

Always the first iniquities
Are the sovereign bonds and the equities
That titillate the intellect
With just enough of fict and fact,
A mediocre tease.

And then, with promises of ease,
The deeds and debts to properties
That one half-willingly contracts
And half as willingly forgets
Upon the payment of the broker's fees,

And the termination of the lease.

---

The spilling amber paints its ease
Upon the cracked mahoganies.
First your hands, and then your eyes,
And then your mind will tell you lies,
Even your gilded vanities.

And with their careless vagaries,
Years on years in every crease.
Clouded eyes and candleglare
Trace each callus, trace each care
Measuring your disabilities.

When did you turn your faculties
To petty things as these?

---

Beside the bottles and the lawyer's sheaves,
Familiar faces, faded memories:
The hanged man, Justice, Temperance,
The hierophant, the empress,
And the lovers- now the divorcees.

Tender laughter, ever may it tease
Your pains away.
Let it linger, let it stay
With the comfort that it guarantees.

Still- wherefore, whence, and whither these
Pangs and pains, o these regrets,
With your philosopher's degrees?

---

Rugged hands that wait on ragged knees
Warm themselves upon the sunset leaves.
Moving with their careless vagaries,
Years on years in every wrinkled crease
As they trace the cracked mahoganies.

Beside the bottles and the lawyer's sheaves,
All I have left are faded memories
And half-forgot philosopher's degrees,
The measure of my disabilities.

Just ask the lovers, now the divorcees-
Only comfort has its guarantees,
And those are merely gilded vanities.

Always like some melodious disease,
Tender laughter- ever may it tease.