CAROLYN OLESEN

Carolyn Olesen is a singer, dancer, actress, and songwriter has taught dance and children’s theatre for the past 15 years. She has written prose and poetry for years but never got off her behind to submit anything to anyone for publication until now.

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BETRAYAL

Betrayal moves in on you like some malignant prizefighter,
drunk with zeal, dumb, heavy feet plodding with surprising speed
across the mat, fists clenched inside those silly-looking gloves
that belie their power, while Betrayal grins stupidly, black eyes gleaming
with the eager lust to hurt, to hit, to destroy.

You maybe have time for one quick prayer before the first blow hits you,
pleasegodno,
and it is always to the gut that Betrayal strikes first,
dead center, whooshing the breath from you,
agony and nausea taking turns with their respective torments
while you gasp for air, uncomprehending.

Your hands start to shake as you see him wind up for that second strike,
this one a haymaker hammerblow to the head, and you stagger,
then fall, as bright neon words Fool! Sucker! Idiot! Betrayed!
dance in circles around your brow, like cartoon birds that sing and flutter
as the poor doomed sap sprawls on the floor, blank crosses for eyes,
tongue hanging askew as twinkling carnival music lends its horrifying irony.

You roll over, the blood of your commitment dripping from your mouth,
staring in dazed wonder at the splotches of red that form incongruously pretty patterns
as they splatter to the mat, and you push yourself up, slowly, slowly,
struggling for balance as you try to regain your footing.

But Betrayal, in his gleeful anticipation of your pain, still lurks behind you,
pounding one gloved fist into the other, waiting for just the right moment,
when you think you are firmly on your feet again, to launch another assault.

The nightmare seems unending as blow after blow rains down on you,
head and stomach and back and even off-limits loins, as you skirt and flinch
and cross your arms over your head and curl yourself
into a tiny fetal ball in a futile effort to shield yourself
from knowledge that will beat you,
down to your knees,
leave your bloody psyche in a quivering, trembling heap.

Shock setting in, numbness permeating your soul,
you watch Betrayal's victory dance through puffed and swollen eyes,
too wounded to cry as he struts and prances, arms clasped overhead,
to the rhythm of the cheering throng, and you have time for one more
useless, useless pleasegodno before the realization of your
utter and humiliating defeat glares down at you like
relentlessly bright auditorium lights.

SOUL

When finally I brushed the last of those
bright fluffy love-clouds from my eyes,
I beheld the shriveled, shrieking panic of your soul,
and at first recoiled in horror
at the tiny, trapped beast,
careening blindly against the walls
of knowledge and light.

Then pity overwhelmed me, and I
reached forth, soothing fingers,
crooning gently, and the
wildly flailing creature's howls
rose high, like searing flames,
scorching my hands,
forcing me to withdraw
and leave you, lost and trembling,
in the dark chaos of your own choosing.

CONSULTING WEBSTER'S

"I'm not sure what love is," you said,
and I ran to the Webster's to see
what it was
I was feeling.

(1) strong affection, it said.
Strong? oh, god ...
Like the wind today in Iowa,
that blew the stoplights sideways on their wires,
made the supple spring trees
bow down to the ground,
it rages
like a winter storm.
And perhaps the sunwashed glow
the sound of your laughter brings,
the shivering rush at the mere thought
of the tender touch of your hand,
might be considered
affection.

(2) warm attachment was next,
and I thought that "warm"
was far too pale a word, like
comparing an inferno
to a candle's gentle flame.

And Webster said,
(3) attraction based on sexual desire,
and I could only grin
like a fool.

(4) said, a beloved person,
and I thought of how your sorrows
are like knives in my heart,
your delight in my company
is like the surprising gift of
unexpected sunshine in February,
your presence in my life
exploding, desert rose bursting into fullness,
a startling slash of red against the drab and barren sand,
and I thought,
yes, beloved,
you are.

(5) defined it as,
unselfish loyal and benevolent concern,
and, no, I am not unselfish,
but my loyalty can be as strong as steel,
steadfastly enduring, like
the pyramids, or the ringstones
of the ancients.

And finally, (6) said,
a score of zero in tennis,
and I thought of how refreshing
a love with no scorekeeping would be,
no trick shots against the heart,
no petty flaws racked up on a card,
no surprise backhand slams into the net.

Closing my faithful Webster's,
now confident that I knew all about love,
I raced to the phone
to tell you that,
according to Webster,
I do
indeed
love you.