Showing posts with label employment. Show all posts
Showing posts with label employment. Show all posts

Friday, February 24, 2012

Stellar Appellations

Friday Fiction is hosted this week by
Karls (Karlene Jacobson) at Voices...
Head over for links to inspirational fiction.

Stellar Appellations
by Beth LaBuff

An aging brick façade, sat decomposing on the lane,
Held a rusty pock-marked door that was weather-beaten, stained.
Inside, a single dangling bulb launched shadows in a hall
That pointed to a doorway, set mid-center on the wall.

Inside the room, Sir Abram toiled while fifty years accrued,
His livelihood for fifty more if wishing stars held true.
Sparse furnishings—a single desk presided o’er the space.
“Twas daily here, Sir Abram’s methodology took place.

The walls and ceiling of this room were painted midnight blue
With tiny starlight pinpoints plotted—prompting easy view.
Beside each tiny stellar point, in pristine script of white,
The name he’d chosen to bestow upon that distant light.

A list each morn, with newest stars was tacked up in the hall,
And by day’s end, each star was named and charted on his wall.
He’d satisfaction in the fact that each star known to man
Had carefully received a name by his own thoughtful plan.

Each working day Sir Abram rambled down that shambled lane,
Regenerated once again inside his starred domain.
As father with his children, he recited starry names,
Then when at rest, sat at his desk, a job well-done—acclaimed.

At mid-point of the fifty-second year of his employment,
A shadow loomed that dimmed his light and halted his enjoyment.
It seemed a ruthless act, to slide a pink slip ‘neath his door,
But there it lay, a bearer of bad tidings on the floor.

“The Appellator, Bureau Office, Stellar Appellations,
We hereby give you notice of our budget lacerations.
For due to lack of funding, we inform you to our sorrow,
We’re shutting down this office; it’s effective on the morrow.”

So voila! Unemployment, his reward for fifty years!
This pink slip proclamation predicated life to veer,
At workday’s end, he offed the lights— symbolic— darkened-day.
But satisfied each star was named, he sadly trod away.

Despite his melancholiness— new stars that offer light,
Though still unnamed, regardless, go on shining just as bright.
And if uncharted nor assessed—the distance from our sun,
These unnamed stars, unfathomed lights—still have been named by One.

***
He determines the number of the stars and calls them each by name.
Psalm 147:4

Look up at the heavens and count the stars...So shall your offspring be.
Genesis 15:5

© Beth LaBuff -- January 2012

Friday, September 25, 2009

It Doesn't Get Much Better


Friday Fiction is hosted this week by
Sherri @ A Candid Thought.
Be sure to stop over there for fabulous fall fiction!

It Doesn’t Get Much Better
By Beth LaBuff
Topic: Retirement

Sunday
The morning sun shone lustrous
On a charming Cape Cod house,
Seated in the dining room,
The Mr. and his spouse.

He sipped his steaming Eight O’Clock.
His mouth sanctioned a grin.
He pondered both, retirement
And his years-of-service pin.

As he perused the Tribune sighed,
“It doesn’t get much better.”
They, arm in arm, took off for church
With Bibles and her sweater.

Monday
He broke the fast before the sun,
Though no alarm was set.
His brain still time-zoned, nine to five,
Some things—hard to forget.

His day stretched out before him,
He had an inspiration,
He’d help the Mrs. ‘round the house
To show appreciation.

And in his fervor pointed out
Art, crooked on the wall,
A crystal glass with smudges, while
Dust bunnies roamed the hall.

He hovered while she vacuumed,
With cleanliness—obsessed.
He checked for dirt on window sills—
Employed the white-glove test.

Tuesday
The town library’s many books
Would help him find a hobby.
He carried home a cookbook on
How to Prepare Kohlrabi.

And Tennis for the Seniors Set,
Ten Steps to Play Guitar,
Gardening for Imbeciles,
and Maintenance for Your Car.

He knitted on her project
From two till three o’clock,
But read the pattern upside-down—
Knit sleeves into her sock!

Wednesday
A tennis outing with the boys.
She sighed in her relief.
A morning detached from her spouse,
Her respite would be brief.

The score was love to forty
When their game came to a halt.
He toppled o’er the base line,
A penalty—foot-fault.

The balance of the day he spent
Reclined upon his chair
While she applied an ice pack
To the bump ‘neath his gray hair.

Thursday
He urged his spouse to take a break
Then lit the barbecue.
Their pergola went up in flames
Thus went his grill debut.

The bad news, with the flare-up,
The steaks were grilled pitch-black.
The good news for the novice chef,
His eyebrows would grow back.

Friday
A junket with the boys out to
The lake, with pole and bait.
To hook some walleye, perch, or pike,
To grace his dinner plate.

He brought the pungent stringer home
And cast it in the sink.
To have a go at cleaning fish
‘Bout drove her to the brink.

Saturday
He changed the auto oil, but
It splattered o’er the lawn.
The next time that she drove the car
“Check engine” light flashed on.

Sunday
Their Cape Cod seemed to shrink that week.
It bound her like a fetter.
She’d scream out if she heard again,
“It doesn’t get much better.”


He sipped his morning Eight O’Clock,
Pondered past week’s enjoyment.
She snatched the Sunday Tribune ads
To contemplate employment.

***
© Beth LaBuff -- September 2009

inspiration from:
Proverbs 16:31
Gray hair is a crown of splendor...


written for a FaithWriters.com writing challenge