Hello friends! A little Sunday afternoon writing extravaganza – or perhaps more of a small digression on the ordinary – and I’m really not sure why I’m writing other than the fact that I do happen to have a bit of time and I felt it would be silly to waste it. Hence laptop open and all that. I really don’t have much to write about but from time to time it’s important to leap headfirst into the chasm without the benefit of any sort of extraction plan. It’s a bit freeing and even beneficial, I would argue, for strengthening the creative muscles that too often can lay dormant as one lazes about here and there. But now, in actuality, I am writing far too many words on nothing as a vacant look begins to grow in my eyes. I allow my imagination to wander afield but now I think I’ve lost her and wherever she is now, I suppose there isn’t any signal. It is a shame, really, when I think of all the wasted moments when I’m driving on the highway and my muse sparks to life. I construct a cathedral of perfect images and the moments that cause one’s heart to stutter in awe and disbelief. But that super structure is ethereal of necessity and given enough time – say, the ten minutes more it takes for me to complete my drive and pull into a parking space – the distractions of what some call real life creep stealthily in and before I know it, I see a puff of smoke upon the wind and pronounce in subdued tones the burial rites for that which may possibly be the greatest creation ever to grace the alleyways of my mind. Now though? I write about all and sundry in part just to drive away the growing dread that I have nothing of worth to say. At least I’m writing I tell myself. At least the words are pouring forth and if no one judges them to rank high in profundity at least no one accuses them of being bland. At least no one says this to my face. Behind my back, who knows. All the comments may be bandied back and forth and perhaps some harsh words on my output may trickle forth from time to time. Yet worse than that of course? The sheer apathy of most and the highest of likelihoods that in actuality no one says much of anything about my work at all. This is of course true and I write these words acknowledging the fact to steel my soul and grimly laugh and acknowledge that even what I love to write here and now does not really have a lasting place beyond the here and now. If I in self-deprecating humor poke at myself and acknowledge my lack of worth or art, does that mean I cry a little less inside? Perhaps. Is it worth it? Perhaps. Still my soul aches to know that I’ve written something beautiful, even if it just once or twice. I doubt I will live to see that day. But let not my bitterness cloud the moment, let not my weeping smear the panes. Instead, I’ll flick on the windshield wipers and allow myself to keep driving forward and I’ll focus on the taillights in front of me as I do my best to escape this pouring rain. Even in the mixed metaphors which clutter my writing it seems I can’t escape my own mediocrity. But to reference my above, is it still not better that I’ve written something? Look up above and see the sunlight breaking through. Do you happen to have a pen and spare piece of paper about you? I’d love to write a quick poem if you do.
Tag: creative
A Different Kind of Music
She sits on the porch in the fading light of sunset, a mug of coffee cradled in her hand. She knows it may possibly be too late for coffee but she cares not. The scent of coffee sparks her soul. The darkness draws closer and she looks out over the fields to enjoy the golden softness of the heads of grain before the curtain falls. It is good to rest this night. Her muscles are slowly untensing after the long day walking to and fro and hither and yon. A hot shower will be most welcome shortly, but not yet. Firstly the sunset must be enjoyed for the moment is not to be missed on a night such as this. The yellow light slowly turns to orange and threatens red as the sun slips ever further down the curve of the prairie sky. The clouds hug the horizon promising her very favourite type of sunset, the type where the garments of the heavens drape loosely about its frame. All the better to showcase the breathtaking beauty that is ever present but only rarely shyly seen. But enough of the sunset chatter, she thinks to herself as she breathes deep. She brings her other hand up to the coffee mug and she drinks. The wind blows across the treeless pastures and causes her to shiver. The sun winks and is gone. She lets herself sit a moment or two longer, slowly rocking back and forth in her chair. She plays a finger through her hair about her ear and considers. The thick book on the table next to her calls her name. But first, hot shower and cozy pajamas and then back on the porch to curl up with aforesaid book and a tall glass of something cold and dark. And she may even light a candle. It’s that type of night, a night for the prolonging of the beautiful and a lingering in the light. But first she must move her tired muscles. She slowly rises and turns to the house. Her hand on the doorknob, she looks back one more time to take a mental photograph of the way the porch railing silhouettes against the twilight. The night is not yet over, she promises herself. But now, shower time.
Counsel
What say you to the charge that is laid before you this cold winter night? Dare you take up your own defense, dare you take up your pen in furious denunciation of the rumors that now stalk the land? Your hand shakes in barely concealed rage. You cannot quite the believe the furor that has been unleased. In this modern age the news travels lightning swift, does it not? Even lightning is slower than the venom that has been unleashed in service of your doom. Will you actually try to fight back this night? You put your head into your hands and slowly slump down in your chair before the fireside. Your phone is on the table next to you, it is no use. Anything you see now will be naught but further acid upon the wounds that now etch themselves down your face. Your tears no longer flow. But perhaps there is one who may take up the case. Perhaps he would. Just maybe. You have no strength left in you and no vigor left in your mind. You have been smartly disarmed and in totality unmasked. There is no other option. You raise your head and breathe deep. You look to the window and see the snow swirl gleefully down. Your hand trembles. It is all arrayed against you, is it not? You are not spotless after all. But who may rise in your defense? Who may clear their throat and speak out against the lies that bind? Who may take your cause for their own? It would be perilous, possibly life threatening. Yet there is one who may just step into the breach. You raise your hand in silent supplication. A knock sounds at the door.
MKT
He walks down the sidewalk in time to a tune only he can hear. It’s been in his head, in his thoughts, in his dreams and even now if he tries he can hum it to drown out all the other melodies that strive for supremacy. He sweeps out his boot across the grass that springs up before him and he halfway skips across the street. The half-broken neon sign beckons him onward for a tasty sugary treat. But not today, old friend, not today. Instead he hums those bars he heard a few hours ago at the opera and thinks of the life that he calls his own. There are little prickly bits here and there of course and it’s easy to snort and roll one’s eyes at the perky hellos he’s given on any given day. Yet rather wouldn’t it be better to dwell on those things that are miraculous in and of themselves? The moonlight glancing upon the surface of the bayou, the cold air giving cause for wearing turtlenecks, even yes those bare branches that testify to the possibility of coming spring. Isn’t his life rather swell? He raises his eyes to the heavens and sighs at the impossibly perfect clouds that float afore his gaze. He walks on down the sidewalk and lifts up his thoughts in prayer. A fellow traveler walks from the other way and meets his eyes and so he offers up a bright hello! A genuine smile replies.
Fondly She Says
They sit around the table talking of all the delicate things of life. They speak of loving from a distance and friendships severed and high drama now converted to a steady well-banked fire. On the table is laid a feast with one large pot of meat and sauce and other smaller bowls with various accoutrement and at the end sits a plate of sliced bread still slightly steaming and a small dish of butter invitingly placed nearby. It may seem slightly unnecessary to take the time to describe the food and its placement on the table yet does it not add to understanding the back and forth of the hands that go here and there as various bits of this and that get added to bowls as the conversation carries ever on? I am attempting to paint a scene and sometimes I prefer to let my gentle readers fill in the dialogue for themselves if only they see the staging well described before them. So yes. Back to the table at hand. The four friends talk in a way which indicates kinship or union of some kind, even if it can also be seen that they do not know each other as intimately as family might. Yet there are smiles that linger on one face long after an encouraging word has been said and no one is looking in his direction. What is it to share your heart with another and know that it is being seen as true? This is rare, is it not? I know I crave such. But now I leave the table and glance at the tea kettle that already is near at a boil. Four cups on the counter with tea bags placed within. A glance into the living room where sofa and comfy chairs sit and I can imagine them sitting there with cups cradled gratefully in hands, steam rising to caress joyous faces. They sit as I knew they would and then of course the continued chatting about life and death and the divine amidst the mundane of which we everyday breath and see. There is nothing grand to be said about this whole evening of course, it is just a small homey scene. Yet perhaps are not those the grandest? I think so.
Pride Strides Afore
a dance to the death they say
i welcome it
bring it
the dance or the death?
no answer given
only my lips move slightly
in the beginnings of a
smirk
across the floor stands my opponent
well oiled, prepared, painted well
here i stand alone and sad
without a petal to my name
she tosses her bouquet of roses
and out i shimmy
we shall see who conquers
in this dingy bar under the
neon lights
Fare Thee Well
She stood at the window gazing with calm equanimity across the chaotic void. The last ship had launched and the fiery remnants of its wake still glistened and yet her face did not display any trace of tears though she knew she would never see her love again. She stood for several long slow beats of her heart feeling her body pulse to the rhythm of the station’s reactor. There would be time to mourn later, of course. There would be nothing but time and she would struggle to know how to fill it. But for now, for this moment, she wanted to feel her union with him as a still present reality and to admit to separation would be akin to standing over her own grave. She refused to think of the long years that stretched before her. Instead, she felt the press of his hand on hers and the lingering touch of his lips. She remembered the small smile that graced his face as he had turned one last time before walking down the gangway. She let his final words ring in her ears. They would meet again, to be sure. But it would be on the other side of space and time. She would see his face again in a place which she now saw only vague outlines of in her dearest dreams.
And now comes the long march. Now comes the cold dark of the unknown years which stretch afore her. She must fill the void with the little graces and beauties that she had spent so many years cultivating in fertile soil. Now comes the refining fire and the test of faith. But the void is too vast for her to fill with the finite scribblings of a weary heart. Yet still it must be filled.
Juliet let her shoulders relax and she sighed a mortal sigh. And in the light of the star filled sky she felt tears begin to fill her eyes.
Styrofoam
so many of us feel hollow inside, a pinata gaudily painted
and fated soon to burst
and though there are those who hoot and holler and proclaim
all is merry all is fine
the hollow ones know that the fuss is all for show
for at the end of the day the glitter and feathers
are cheap camouflage for the cracks that gape open
when she sobs her emptiness into her fingers tapping
up again and up again and up again
the phone reveals nothing new but why not a little more
but if we are hollow all
and even the full ones uneasy bite their lips
perhaps there’s more to this?
then what does this mean if we’ve written off the story
and decided the author’s all for show
i make all my decisions
autonomy and free will and agency
those fine guiding lights
i’d rather be my own
even if it means i call myself a hollow one
who cares if i’m all alone
close your eyes and don’t look to the horizon
there is no shore that beckons that’s only imaginary rain
cry and feel alive once more and scream the chorus
and paint yourselves up again
Witness
the moonlight shines down slantwise upon the eastern wall
neglecting to reveal the refuse strewn down its base
but a few words from a recent traveler remain
i love you my darling Em
and then a scribble from a scoffer
that may or may not be profane
but in the stillness of that 3am hour
there is one who looks down the alley
and reading the prophecies decides against
so she leans against the corner and lets the streetlight warm her
and pulls her scarf closer now
A Far Country
She sits at the table and looks down at the scrambled eggs that sit on her plate. What is she waiting for? She slowly moves her fork in the general direction of the eggs. The fork stops. Her head rises. She looks at me. I don’t look at her. My eyes dance sideways. What do you want me to say? This conversation is not something I think I can handle just now. Am I ok with that? Maybe not. Is she ok with that? I don’t know. I don’t ask. My head drops. What of these eggs? Are they too dry? Perhaps. I take a bite. She opens her mouth.
And then it all spirals. I wish I could describe it to you but really this is between me and her. And I am not sorry to say that it goes far better than I ever could have dreamed. We talk of constellations and stars and dreams of the far beyond. Though there is still a degree of separation, I see a path through the thicket. On the other side, a river flows. I hear the water laughing all the way down to the sea. Let’s go, let’s go. I extend my hand to her. She somehow shockingly surprisingly for no reason that I could have foreseen places her hand in mine. These promises are bound with thicker cords than gold and finer threads than silk. A unity of three parts you say? You’re not far off.
Something Weird 