Like Father, Like Son

"Take the worm, just like this, and slide it on the hook, like so." The sandy-haired boy watched intently as his father demonstrated how to bait his hook. From the bill of his camouflage hat, the father unlatched a hook that had been stuck into the material. The boy reached out for it with eager hands, and after his third try, he managed to string the worm on the small rusty hook. It dangled at the end as he didn't quite weave it on all the way, but his father seemed happy with his work, so he was, too. 

"Now," said his dad after wiping his hands on his blue running shorts, "this is the tricky part." The boy copied his father's hand wiping, then stayed silent as his father explained the big cast that he  had heard about since he was a toddler. As he looked up at his dad, he felt a strong sense of admiration that he wouldn't understand until he had grown into manhood. Nevertheless, the excitement that rushed through him was unmistakable and made it very hard to keep from wiggling about, but the urgency to learn the procedure of this big cast was far more important than his childish urges. He would prove to his dad that he was ready to undertake this monumental responsibility that his grandpa's grandpa had passed down all the way to his father, and now him. It was a delicious mystery up until now. Now was the climax of the big secret- the turning point in his relationship with his dad. He may have kept from wiggling, but he didn't even notice that he was tugging at the toggles of his life jacket. 

The Appeal

My biggest dream seems to be an unreal appeal:

If I could shoulder the bolder of world disorder,

Compress the distress into a wall as mortar

Press down the brown goop that sticks and grips

Onto our people, our nation, of which an unbalanced ration

Are starving, swaying, undoubtedly paying

For lack of green, like money or land- more like sand

Sifting or drifting through fingers of calloused palaces

Known as the human body but these temples are shoddy

From dirty streets, not fit for elites with silky sheets.

As a class en masse, safe from harass and lambastes,

We must lift, shift, lend and tend to our fellow man

Who feel hollow and harrow imbued with sorrow

Not to mention hunger which growls like thunder

Bursting in their belly, cursing that Hell should be

Their only world. From ours they've been hurled

And left bereft of a beautiful life. There's nothing but strife.

I'd give a limb if I could fill to the brim a infinite pot

With coins, bills- the whole lot and offer grandeur to the poor

People who are people, part of us like the steeple of a church.

Let the world lurch into a rhythm of humanitarianism

And feel the real appeal of this dream so extreme.  

© Mikal Minarich

Ethereal Enchanter

Lovely, slender foxglove rendered so sweet

From your swelling bells come two tiny feet

Curled like the strings of hanging green beans

With Lilliputian boots weaved with grass roots.

Within the dewy petals, a little person lies,

Tired from her work that's more than half her size!

A twinkling of a bell marks her itsy-bisty yawn

As the light creeps in with the breaking of the dawn.

Up now, make haste, there's no time for delay

You must get started, you're only a teeny fay!

Encourage the sleepy forest to stretch it's creaky limbs,

To blossom in every corner, and make steadfast all their stems.

Unfold the timid petals, melt the stubborn frost,

Sing to the budding gardenia, there's no time to be lost!

Rustle up the leaves from the hollyhocks' bed,

Bring back the birds of paradise that from the winter fled!

Suck up the infant bloodroot from the stiff, cold soil,

Enliven the pretty irises without any toil!

Paint the dismal forest with the colors of the earth,

Dainty little enchanter, secret of ancient Peairt.


© Mikal Minarich

A Ghost of a Memory

On January ninth, my good friend Zachary Jasper committed suicide. There is no way to sugar-coat it because at the end of the day, he is at the end of that body of water fifty paces in front of me. When I look out, I see the scenery in sepia, with only a verdant grass to add a hint of color. To the left is a gnarled tree about three feet tall desperately gripping a slight slope with its tendrilous roots. A few stones speckle the slope around the roots and some of the grass to the right. Ugly, dead bushes that had once flourished with foliage now suffer the abuse of a inclement wind. This wind disturbs the serenity of the water's smooth surface which now laps aggressively on the land. One mighty gush from the back forces me to take a step forward for balance, and I find that I have a kind of momentum that encourages me on. It isn't everyday that I come to this place, nor do I come on the anniversary of Zach's departure; in fact, I have never been here in my life. I just happened to stop by when I saw the peculiar tree slanting over two large tire tracks. It's branches creates a sort of nebula of twisted, lifeless clouds with an illusion of a smokey edge due to the concentration of smaller branches that seem to fade out of the tree like dust. When I got out of the car, in sheer fascination of the grotesque tree, I was struck with the weighty memory of what had happened two years ago on this very day. Immediately I thought of the distance between Zach and myself and stood frozen with a disgusting feeling of having lost something invaluable. Following this feeling came the stark reality of death, the utter eternity of it, and the powerlessness us humans are destined to struggle with when faced by such an opponent.