Listen to a podcast of Russell Bradbury-Carlin’s “The Plan.”
The Plan
A Dutch woman, who had meticulously planned her own funeral after the death of her husband last year, died next to the grave in Amsterdam where she wanted to be buried. – Reuters
Her will spilled out of her purse,
a parchment with points to be followed –
details of music, mood, and space,
the specifics of favorite passages
to be read in a particular order.
She planned and prepared their graves
as she had their own bed each night –
which blankets to keep them warm,
(he ran cold, she hot), the hardcover book
on her nightstand (cover set aside
so it wouldn’t crease), small glass of water,
box of tissues – just in case.
She fell on her unmade bed of soil,
next to the sapling tree she had planted,
with hopes its taproot would grow
and bring them together again,
cause them to drink from the same
warm rain showers – just as they did
on hot summer days, heads tilted back,
hands held tight, sipping the fat drops.
Listen to a podcast of Russell Bradbury-Carlin’s “Watt’s Brook.”
Watt’s Brook
With trumpets blaring, Zeus, god of gods, called Daniel Reed Porter III to His Heavenly Pantheon…sickly as a child, his parents often contemplated drowning him in Watt’s Brook…(where) they deposited other trash…His cremated remains will be scattered on Watt’s Brook. – Obituary written by deceased
The voice of the brook spoke to me as a child,
(like the dead speak to the living),
the cloudy trickle over oil can and gray rock,
an oily mix of upstream debris,
crumbling bread crust and shattered egg shells.
The stench of the brook filled my bedroom.
It crept across our yard and lingered in my nostrils,
for the remainder of my life.
I was a ghost before I died.
I seemed to pass though people’s lives as a blur,
leaving no residue, no mark.
Even lost to peripheral vision –
I was the one you turned and bumped into.
I once thought I had the power of invisibility -
stand still, breath shallow, and I became a bent shadow listing against the wall.
My ex-wife held me tightly at night for fear I’d fade,
and awake in the morning to find my cooling indent in the bed.
Like Watt’s Brook to me I want my final words to make a lasting impression
and to be read while I stand at the feet of the gods
About the author:
Russell Bradbury-Carlin lives in Western Massachusetts with his wife and son. His writing career started and sputtered after he published a poem in a small journal while in college. He put writing aside in order to let his life meander somewhat aimlessly with stints as a Deadhead, a furniture salesman, a house-cleaner, and a world traveler. Eventually he found his way back to the world of writing He began with poetry and humor writing (though not humor poetry nor poetic humor). His poetry has been published in Rattle and Freshwater. His short fiction has been published at McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, Pindeldyboz, MonkeyBicycle, and Apt23. An anthology of his literary humor, A Brief Conversation with My Hair, is available at Amazon.com. You can find more at www.russellbradburycarlin.com
