Category: poetry
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2081
By D. Ryan Lafferty
The distinct hum of the highway droned on just past his window, perched above the once scenic river; the trees of Pennsylvania staring back at him from the adjacent bank. Three amber lamps burned like stars in some sort of fiery industrial constellation towering above the not so distant shore. The red and green lights of channel markers were awash in the ambient glow of streetlights that cast down without pity, stark rivers of yellowy white and caverns of deep shadow upon the rippling waves in the dark. A gentle rush of water, always flowing, streaming past and through; submerging, waist-deep, the massive pylons that held aloft this industrial leviathan of a highway. The endless and imposing concrete ribbon that bisected his once-beautiful view of the Delaware.
In years past, when his grandfather had been a child, there was no highway, no 295 extension, and no constant noise. That was before the skies were littered with traffic. Swarms of drones so thick that they often blotted out the sun as they buzzed and hummed in contention for the last scraps of open airspace. Tens of thousands of them per square mile; waves of what looked like mechanical insects all controlled by algorithmic machinations. A central brain so to speak, existing only in “the cloud,” the technological ether that seemed to be both everywhere and no specific place at all. Gone were the days when traffic jams and congestion were limited to the ground. How quaint, he thought. Now, the sprawling pace of progress had reached out and choked the very sky itself. The ribbons of road that cut through the land were now accompanied by scars gouging the water; the very air festooned with swarms of mechanical insects busily delivering the ad hoc baubles of an instant gratification culture. Life on the quick and cheap. Quality and beauty lost for convenience.
When he was a child, the world was forever hunched over, necks bent downward, staring into smartphone screens, but that was ages ago; eons in terms of technology. Now there wasn’t a single device in hand, not because of some miraculous moment of revelation where the world finally came to its senses, denouncing the madness and freeing society from the stranglehold around its neck. Of course not! Since the launch of InSite in 2060, the scrolling was all inside the optic nerve. Now, we could swipe with a simple roll of the eye; zooming in and “liking” content with the ease of an intentional stare. As the software upgrades rolled out, the need to overtly select or reject content became obsolete and “The Program” as they called it, made predicting content far more intuitive, more “organic,” as the marketing guru labeled it, though it could not be farther from the truth. The lines between mind and media were gone and it felt as if it had always been this way. He would be hard pressed to truly remember a time when there weren’t streaming ads flooding his peripheral vision or strobing under his eyelids as he faded off to sleep. Countless were the hours diverted from the meaningful tasks of living; lost down a labyrinth of endless rabbit holes online.
Over time, all the tedious little things in life were eventually handed over to the complex calculations of what the elderly had called AI. But, that was old fashioned. “The Program” was what his parents had called it after a generational ad campaign had seamlessly and inextricably melded the software with the modern world. Gradually, as time passed, the algorithm did the heavy lifting of selecting ideal friends, even in grade school. It decided for him, who would offer the greatest benefit, bolstering his, “highest probability of personal and financial success.” His education, his career, even his love life was completely dictated by the “rIthm,” as his classmates casually referred to it.
Society had never seen such an abundance of success. The busy, happy elite were thriving, but he couldn’t help but feel cut off from something; that he was missing a corner piece of his puzzle. The seeming perfection of his surroundings, the singular pedigree of his social circle made him feel stuck in some way; simply going through the motions. The first time he noticed how insulated his life had become, how alone he was on his proverbial island, it had happened by pure chance. On an average day, while returning home from work, he zoned out when driving. He had a terrible habit of turning off the autopilot during his commute. There was just something about foot on pedal, hand on wheel control that made him feel alive. The immediacy of it all, the control within his grasp, it seemed the only time he could really take charge.
The rIthm assistant reminded him to pick up laundry detergent; a rather large unplanned spill had caused him to deplete his inventory before the carefully calculated and anticipated order. The GPS feature was leading him to a familiar retail outlet on the good side of town, but a careless moment of deep introspection had let his attention lapse and led him to miss his turn, and then the next one after that. Not sure if it was the boredom or the angst he felt welling up inside him, he set out, exploring on his own, for what was perhaps the first time ever. A few zig-zagging turns down unfamiliar side streets led him even closer to home, but somehow to a place that the program had always avoided. A corner store with a parking spot just in front waited for him as if by pure luck or was it fate lending a hand? He felt a little chill run down his neck as he paused, hesitating for what seemed an eternity. How many years of following blindly had made this simple act of opening the car door a choice of life or death; growth or arrested development, staying in stasis forever? He slid back the latch and swung the vehicle door open wide and with one smooth motion, tossed his keys into his pocket. He tap-danced a one-two step, whistling to himself just in time to hold the door for a most captivating young lady with smoldering eyes and what he could swear was the face of an angel.
Dr. D. Ryan Lafferty is a local Bordentown poet, writer, and the author-illustrator of children’s books. To see more of his writing, visit http://www.dryanlafferty.com.
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Sobriquet
Duck and cover.
So much passive aggression, incoming,
steeped in your morning hello.
Curves in your body language malign and sear like barbed wire
beneath a surface of cool still water.Gently, I’m under fire, taking flack from side-eye artillery.
No bayonets or grenades in sight;
simply a coffee cup clutched in a manicured hand.
I shiver in your shade.
Chin to the ground, pressed under the heavy fog of war,
an illusion of retreat, of victory, but
I’m pinned down.
You Tokyo Rose.
Smooth talker, whispering sweet nothings in my ear.
You, with the smile of an enemy, sounding so very much like a friend.by D. Ryan Lafferty
DartanionPress.com
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Summer Storm
The loudest voices in the room shall pass like rolling thunder
which punctuates the hot summer storm.A brief booming terror, a startling moment of sheer surprise,
and then the quiet exhale of lasting peace; an enduring calm.Daylight breaks in silence, with whispers of the dawn,
each shadow cowers, vanishing from sight,
trembling in fear of the new day’s light.By D. Ryan Lafferty
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Dream Makers
When we go to bed, they are just arriving, hot coffee in their hands, stretching and yawning as the machinery in the warehouse switches on.
Deep in the heart of the cerebellum, they rush into action,
for they are pros, each waving scanners and tapping single handedly on keypads, racing from stack to stack.They are honey bees,
fervently dancing from aisle to aisle as they touch and go.
Some robotic counterparts assist, for they can access the hard to reach corners for the little things: names of hamsters and of goldfish long departed, the faces of great uncles on his father’s side, nothing too heavy.Rented vans filled with half-sleeping monsters are just arriving.
They scratch away the tiredness with their chipped claws
and groan at the prospect of another long night’s work.
Some check their teeth in the mirror while others tighten up the laces on their tennis shoes, getting ready for the chase.The fears and nightmares are the best sellers
followed only by dreams for a better world.
I don’t mean wishes for peace and prosperity, of course, but rather for a kitchen and bath that belong on the cover of Better Homes and Gardens.
The kind we see on TV, covered in all the amenities of the good life.Dreams from our younger days lie in the farthest corner, gathering dust,
rarely ever observed in the hustle.
Free overnight shipping keeps things hopping around here.It’s rumored that full automation is on the horizon and that,
one day soon, drones will do it all. Too many accidents are slipping through the cracks these days and dreams that were never intended for some are delivered by mistake. Most people notice the error and return them right away,
but one group is beginning to cause concern.It seems that when the artists happen to receive the wrong merchandise;
they’re never willing to send it back.
No matter how many times we call.by D. Ryan Lafferty
Note. Originally published in the People Papers column, Literary Crumbs, February, 2024.
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Divine Geometry
How is it that the bend of her tail fit so perfectly in the crook of my arm?
Her nose, chin, and whiskers tucked into the palm of my hand.
That long shaggy ear draped over the side of her sweet, aging, puppy dog face.
Her soft coat like an heirloom throw, pearled and even;
handwoven patterns aligned in a timeless harmony.
We rested so soundly, as if it were meant to be.by D. Ryan Lafferty
Bordentown, content, dogs, local poet, lyrics, new poetry, NJ, pet poems, pets, poem, poems, poetry, puppy poetry, unrhymed poetry
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On Mischief Night in Bordentown
There was a chill in the air that late October evening. The amber glow of streetlights bathed the sidewalks in a river of shadow; the damp sweet smell of old fallen leaves loomed heavy on the wind. Tommy Dobbins had just turned 13 the month before, and this was his first mischief night out on the town. Jessie was supposed to meet him in his backyard on Second Street, but that last text message gave the code for “caught by Mom and grounded.” They’d planned this for weeks. Carefully hiding shaving cream cans, pilfered from upperclassmen’s gym bags, swiping half rolls of toilet paper, piecing together a whole carton of eggs by sneaking two from each family’s fridge and storing them in the mildewed garage. It was supposed to be easy. The boys saved every cent of their lunch money to buy the other supplies, but fate decided to interfere, or rather it was a clerk at the drugstore in town who had questioned them; piecing together the intended purpose for their odd shopping list. The boys decided to cut their losses, leaving the goods, along with their pride, at the counter. They managed to slink out the automatic sliding glass doors without causing any more of a scene. The plan called for backpacks, loaded for bear. Black sweats and a hoodie, ninja style, with gloves to avoid leaving any incriminating fingerprints. This was a mission, a rite of passage, it was all figured out, down to the last detail, but now the plan had changed.
Tommy felt a shiver run down his back as he cut down the alley at Railroad Avenue and made his way up Prince Street. He snuck to the first floor window of a darkened house and pulled out his bar of Ivory soap, to feverishly scrawl an emoji injecting, “ice water in his veins” and a four-letter word that would have made his grandmother blush. His heart nearly pounded out of his chest as he successfully pulled off his very first prank. Truthfully, it looked more like a dopey cartoon dog holding a ray gun, but he was proud of his creation nonetheless. Tom stepped back to snap a picture of his deviant masterpiece. In an instant he winced, drawing a quick breath through tight teeth as the phone slipped and the case bounced hard, twice on the ground. Instinctively, he bent, just in time to sink below the sweeping search light from a black squad car, on patrol, looking for vandals. Woop woop! An explosion of red and blue burst into every leaf and windowpane on the block as another police car raced by. “That was close! Way too close…” he thought as he darted down the steep slope of Walnut Street and dipped further along the winding path behind the creek. The streets were too risky, he’d have to cut across the wooded treeline that sunk beyond the houses, past the cemetery, and onto the railroad tracks, to circle his way back home. He assured himself repeatedly that he was anything, but afraid.
There was an eerie silence as he stumbled through the dark, skidding and tumbling down the sheer cliff toward where the old train tracks intersected the Riverline light rail. Thorns shredded his hands and knees, even through his clothes. He let out a yelp as he crashed into a bush at the foot of the hill. All was still, as if mother nature collectively held her breath. Two shadows, which were darker than the night that surrounded him, rose up before Tommy. The outline of two men emerged from what he thought was the horizon. They were looking for whomever had made the noise. They moved swiftly and quietly, but seemed oddly disjointed, somehow twisted up, mangled, and misshapen. His eyes were playing tricks on him for sure. A chill ran down his spine, it almost made him shake.
“Psst… hey! Get down! They’ll see you!” a hushed whisper came from the tall grass to his right. Tom slunk down instantly to see the face of a younger boy, he had to be a grade or two behind Tommy. This kid must have been tough to be out on his own at ten or eleven years old, he thought. Tom blushed in his brief embarrassment. “They’re dangerous men. They’ve been staying out here for the last three days, and they’re real mean.” The younger boy looked worried, but seemed to know what to do. The steam whistle of the night train sounded off in the distance, the ghost train, as it was called by the locals. “I’ll dash out to distract their attention and when they follow me, you run for it, the other way!” “But, they’ll catch you!” Tom replied. “Not on their best day!” his new friend chuckled, “They can try!” “GO!” he screamed and ran like the wind. Tom stood there, frozen for a second, blinking in disbelief. “Run already!” his new friend shouted and laughed as Tommy booked it on home.
The golden sun peeked above the mists of the morning; it was Halloween. He hadn’t really slept, wondering about that kid, hoping he had gotten home safely too. Tommy didn’t know his name, or where the boy lived, so he opened up his Chromebook in homeroom at school. He searched online for any news, hoping he would see a report of those men being arrested. He steeled himself, dreading the possibility of reading about the child being attacked in those backwoods. As he scrolled through the endless search results, a faded image caught his eye. It was the boy from the night before; the same reckless, friendly eyes, the same roguish smile. It was an old fashioned newspaper clipping from the Register News. It read, “Boy slain by vagabonds, two killed by train, October 30, 1923. Police intervened and tried to apprehend the men but they misjudged the speed of the passing locomotive and were instantly mangled. Officers tried to save the boy, Henry Folger, but his injuries were too severe. Just then, it dawned on Tommy, as the school bell rang for his first period class. Henry, the boy who had saved him, just the night before, had passed away a whole century ago, right down to the day. He shivered as he played through the images in his mind; snippets of events that couldn’t possibly be real. “Next year,” Tommy thought, “I’m just gonna stay home.” Mischief night just didn’t seem like it was very much fun anymore.
by D. Ryan Lafferty
Note. Originally published in the People Papers column, Literary Crumbs, October 2023.
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The Earl of Cardigan
Casual Friday found me sitting in yet another meeting at the office. A gray room, the droning hum of stale central air; the barely audible snick, tick, tapping of laptop keys, and the random neon strobe of wireless mice. High glass walls look in over a long table dotted with coffee mugs and sweating bottles of water; as if there were something to see here beyond this motley crew of office folk, those whom no one else would hire.
Free, we were, from the constricting ties and laced up shoes. Those torturous conventions of the button-down work week. This whisper of something very much like freedom softened the camaraderie in the room. Each of us donning denim, draped in indigo hues, and nestled in very soft sweaters. It was always so damned cold in that office, as if lowering the thermostat somehow dialed up productivity.
As the West Coast partners took over the video screen, a vaguely familiar face with the twenty-dollar haircut touts our business of the day. His cable knit cardigan distracts my heavy-lidded eye. He speaks in terms of touching base and circling back, unpacking what is in our wheelhouse, et cetera, et cetera, but his neighborly sweater steals the show.
It is said that the style of garment in question was made famous by James Thomas Brudenell, the seventh Earl of Cardigan, who famously led the charge of the Light Brigade in Crimea so many years ago. It is also said that his troops wore waistcoats of a similar aesthetic. The mental picture alone is enough to make me chuckle, imagining Fred Rogers and Cliff Huxtable riding gallantly into certain death, jolting me from my unintended slumber. My boss shoots me another dirty look from across the room making me sit upright again. I’m awake! Another speaker steps in and I slip back into my daydream where one can’t help but notice how scandalously close the Goodwife Two-Shoes is standing next to Mayor McCheese. Maybe I need to find a new line of work or just maybe, no more late night scrolling before bedtime.
by D. Ryan Lafferty
Note. Originally published in the People Papers column Literary Crumbs, June 2023.
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Walking in Circles
I remember, as a boy, seeing an elephant at the circus. This was not one of those large specimens draped in tapestry, standing on the shoulders of other Goliaths, but somewhat smaller; a medium-sized pachyderm if there is such a thing. This one, my little giant friend, was a kiddie ride of sorts. For ten dollars a child was able to sit atop his broad back and pretend to steer the creature while a man guided them both by a leash. My brother and I had the rare choice between him or one spiteful looking camel. My brother chose the camel, but I took the elephant.
While the camel trotted away, being ornery toward some other kids, I waited with the gathered families in the line and watched the poor elephant slowly walking in circles, tied to a stake in the ground. The earth at his wide feet was trammeled from constant use; a well-worn path to nowhere, familiar and unending in this too-small enclosure fashioned out of scraps of picket fence and rope chains for crowd control.
I was frightened by the size of this gentle beast, lumbering about, for I was still very small and the world seemed a large and scary place. When it was my turn, my father lifted me on high and I noticed that the elephant’s humongous ears were pitted with thousands of tiny scars. The strange man guiding him held a short wand with a sharp hook on the end. It reminded me of a tarnished metal hawk’s beak and I put it all together in an instant. I never saw him actually strike the animal, but even at seven years old, I knew. The soulful eyes of the creature looked deep into mine and I saw his pain. It was more than the scars. It was more than the shame of carrying the whining, ungrateful, sticky, youth of his captors. It was the look of one imprisoned for life with no hope of ever escaping his endless routine.
I asked my father, why this massive beast didn’t just pull the skinny stick out of the ground or break the chain and tear off through that shoddy fence and into the world (more out of my fear of being trampled than concern for his liberty). He told me, “Son, an elephant never forgets.” He explained that when a baby elephant is born in captivity, the owner ties one end of a rope to his front leg and one end to a stake in the ground. The tiny elephant tries again and again to pull the seemingly immovable stake from the earth and break free, but he finds it impossible. “He tries and tries for years and then one day, he just stops trying.” I realized that as the elephant grew, the memory of past struggles, past failures kept him from trying again even though now fully grown, it would take little effort to yank that twig from the ground. His chains are no longer made of metal, wood, or rope, but of doubt and resignation.
As an adult, I often see others tied to their own personal stakes in the ground, still walking in endless circles; never realizing that they too have been more than strong enough to break free of those chains from long ago. It starts with seeing the rope and the stake for what they are, what they have always been, mere memories of obstacles standing in the way, just waiting for us to pull them out of the ground so we can run off into the world, unfettered and free from those self-made cages of our own design.
by D. Ryan Lafferty
Note. Originally published in the People Papers column Literary Crumbs, May 2023.
Literary Crumbs: Poems & Short Stories to Savor by D. Ryan Lafferty 