The Good Thief


The good thief they call me
the penitent
how can anything good come from…
am I penitent?
was I?
I was certainly sorry when I was caught
a few years ago I wouldn’t have been
but time and the sludginess in my aging fingers
and wine
too much cheap wine
sizzling on the tongue and smothering the mind
dulling the memory
the images that flit
of when I had a proper name, Rach
and chased lizards with the other boys
and looked up at the night skies and tried to count the points of light
before the fever swept across the sands like an evil djinn
minds emptied and raving
I shut tight my eyes and jammed my ears with rugs
to shut out the screams
yet the silence was infinitely worse
empty tents mocked me
now you are less than nothing
an orphan
Nameless I wandered
learning hard the cunning ways of the road
food was something to be grabbed on the fly
under a table
in a garbage heap
I found later that other hungers could help
older women with pleading eyes
greedy merchants
I was strong
I thought I was free
and if a few nights in jail was the price I paid
what of it?
the door always opened eventually
and I walked back out into the sun
until my hungers got the best of me
disguised behind a pair of dimpled cheeks
rosy round like a sweet pomegranate
and laughing mouth
eyes flashing promises
that her words wouldn’t
they threw me into the lowest level
where the doors only open once
and only one way
escape there would be
of a sort
I screamed I reasoned
I begged
finally my mouth ran dry of pleadings
and I sat there waiting
a husk
with no expectations
the walk was fiercesom hot
the pain so intense
so boundless
that the cool light invading my shrieking mind
surprised me
words fell from my lips
that surprised me even more
and then I was in and of the sky
with lifetimes rolling and unfolding before me
in a single moment.





This was written as a submission to a contest for the incredibly almost-ridiculously talented Uvi Poznanskys”Rise to Power” contest. If you have not read her work yet, please take a look at it, you will not be disappointed.

ps – I came in 3rd!  whoohee!!  😀




About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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3 Responses to The Good Thief

  1. Iris Orpi says:

    Oh how you flow! Loved how the images seemed to morph from one to the next, and the voice here was so solid, like, by the end of listening to him speak, I felt like I would recognize him the next time I hear him. 🙂 This was both a fable and some kind of literary impressionist painting.

    Congratulations on getting the third prize and may the coming year hold more successes and inspiration. Cheers!

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