Tag: Sylvane Friddell

Ghost Town

It wasn’t for nothing, that rusty truck.

You drove it to highschool on dusty days,

When the sky seemed closer to our ears.


We smoked burnt cigarettes in the parking lot,

Because we thought it would kill us faster

Than boredom, but here we are, still.


One time, you brought your dad’s beer,

And we sipped on chilled amber aluminum,

Til we drowned the taste in caramel milkshakes


I drink murky beer now, and I think about you.


When I turned seventeen, we went to the muddy creek

To paint the walls orange and to wet our tired feet

Thank -GOD- we wore good shoes.


You haven’t been around for three years,

Three years wasted on moving goalposts and

Falling short. I miss the rusty truck, and your coppery wit.


You asked me one day, under a rustic sky,

“If the whole world paused, would we be together?”

Ode to an Old Barn

It is a place where animals roam free

In the woods the first time 

I felt love 

Beneath those crooked and rotting boards. 

It could be breathing that came as the wind blew,  5

On one of many panic attacks, alone, 

Where my thoughts wouldn’t be heard or judged,

By anyone 

But squirrels, they drop their acorns on me. 

Maybe it’s the place with decay, wooden floors, 10

That reminded me I live at my lowest,

Without a home or love, the world’s sound, 

Filling me,

When air escapes my teeth.

Where I spent nights with too much 15

Music, drinks, friends, a place we all knew,

Before we became stained with red 

Grading ink or blood,

We grew too fast for the rainboots on our feet. 

This old wooden structure was home to animals, 20

Whether it be my cherished friends or wildlife, 

And like the smell of watery grass or the distant train horn

We remember,

Though deep in the woods your grave lies. 

Cherished frame of wood older than my painted nails,  25

You are where loam and soil became a sapling, 

A branch, grew leaves and fruit and bark, your wood now,

A mighty tree,

A tree for they who knew you best, me. 

Money

No more hollow than a blade of grass, 

You praise your crisp horde, 

The filth and bones of the noble morning shift,

Raising you on your feet of stolen ivory, 

You praise the view of thinly sliced emeralds.

NOVUS Literary and Arts Journal
Lebanon, TN