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: muse
Potter
grey clouds float across early velvet sky masking
the curious eyes who peer down from heaven
and at the kiln site she sits and works
apart from all her peers who sleep even now
the jar lies at her feet and she bites her lip
seeing every flaw again as if for the first time
yet the memories well up in harmony
and she again strips back its layers
peels the skin and gouging deep
will she hit flesh this time? perhaps
but the armor is not superficial
and her target is deep within
again and again she in anguish runs her hands
across the unfinished work
what next she says what next
I am the pot and the pot is me
and her hands show the blisters of fervent effort
somehow still not enough
she drops her hands and her shoulders shake
this jar will never be a masterpiece
if she has anything to say about it
and she drinks a swallow of the contents
of the thermos at her feet
help is on the way she hears in the voice
that floats on the wind
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.
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.
Accommodations Must Be Made In the End She Says with Not a Bit of Condescension
There are little moments that make me quite happy. Some of them involve the way my skin warms when the sun hits me through the leafed branches as I lie on my back and look up at the sky on a summer afternoon or perhaps the goosebumps that erupt on my skin as I gaze across the ocean on a blustery grey evening. But other moments are slightly less tangible and involve my racing thoughts as I sit upright at the opera as the waves of music gallop on past my head in unceasing grandeur and more noble beauty. For some reason even in moments of beauty where the light stands still and I tilt my head to consider the momentary state of the union in my inner parts I still somehow find room for the various factions in my mind to toss taunts back and forth across the divide of consciousness. Sometimes I stretch my hand out and try and craft a perfect moment where all parties come together in delightful harmony to dance a reel and fill my heart with the kind of joy that comes but once a blue moon or so. But what am I really saying? Is it foolish of me to rank moments and consider that some are decidedly less memorable? What about a moment like now? There are moments like the present where my fingers flex and groan across the keys of this laptop and I toss back football commentary to my brother and listen to my sister sigh as she reads eternal words and sips her tea. Moments like this are not to be sold for any price.
A Moment of Music
She sits at the window looking out over the courtyard in all its wintry glory and wonders why the vista before her looks so grey in a way it never quite has before. The cobblestones shine in the remnants of the afternoon rain and though it looks like there could be a rainbow, as hard as she tries she cannot quite make one out. Rainbows are fickle creatures, really. So the view before her dazzles in shades of brown and grey and even some dirty white here and there where some of the whitewash applied last fall still sticks to the fence around the square. Why did they even make an attempt at that, she wonders. A solid black wrought iron fence looks much more dignified after all, a white coat atop simply an unnecessary fanciful gilding, really. But her thoughts wander. She usually liked the dreary days, the days when the fog shimmered in front of her face and her hand disappeared when she held it before her. Those foggy days all seemed hushed and still and her thoughts belonged to her alone. It was glorious. But this day her friend the fog had fled and she sees the wet and dirty square for what it is, a faded dream of a once proud city. Perhaps that was why she feels so sad. Her own dreams dance before her eyes and she is not too proud to deny the tears that swim up to meet them. And so the girl looks out over the square and tries to see the beauty that had once met her there every day. Those were beautiful days really, those when she sat underneath the springtime blossoms and written poetry in her little notebook. Those days would come again they would say. She knows that of course. But right now she doesn’t quite feel it. Feelings are fickle creatures, really. Perhaps someday her heart would ring again in a resounding symphony of colour. Perhaps someday she would write again of summer and waterfalls and green grassy cliffs looking out over a far ocean. But for now she sits at the window and can do naught but pray.
On the Porch
It is at times like this that I wish my pen wrote with richer ink. It is a sad thing that so often does my mind take flight and dream on the sublime in the moments when the cares of life swoop in and remind me of other more meaningful tasks on which I really ought spend my time. Of course yes, it would be lovely to write. But shouldn’t you start dinner prep? The carrots and potatoes will not chop themselves, oh no. And what is that you say? You have a poem running through your mind that you’d like to put down to page? Well, I hope you have a decent enough memory, for now it’s time to take the car to the shop and take care of that nagging issue you’ve neglected for far too long. Why is it that the time which then presents itself finally for a creative purpose is then taken up by conversations with loved ones? Of course they are far more important than the words you wish to enshrine in this moment for eternity. Aren’t they? One can acknowledge the truths of which I’ve said above, but still the heart weeps for the lost moments. But are they lost? The moments of life, of chopping vegetables on the cutting board, of driving a creaking vehicle through the quiet autumnal beauty of the late afternoon, of laughing as your sister tells you of the absurdity of her day – are not all these the precious sands upon the shores that your feet walk day to day as you breathe deep this salt air and look to the brilliant blue of heaven? I would argue that to hunker down and bunker oneself in that longed for cottage on the English coast in order to write your magnum opus would in fact be a cutting off of self and denying those little moments that thrill the soul even if in the moment they seem just the same old same old ordinary ticks on the calendar that seems to never get any less full. A foundation has been laid and now the bricks are being laid on quietly but surely. These bricks are laid with care and each one lovingly put in its proper place. Without such bricks, what is the setting but a cold marble portico upon which a banquet of plastic dreams is cunningly set forth? No I shall not abandon this simple life. I will keep on laying brick after humble brick.
Still yet. Can we not find rich beauty in these small mundane moments? I would argue so, even now as I wait for my love to walk back through this door and cheer me with her voice this quiet November night.
Unbroken
A tilt of earth,
A veil of lace,
A song of mirth,
A dance of grace!
Upon the wild mountains,
Throughout the misty streams,
A midst the towers stalwart,
Living forgotten dreams.
Whither goes the songstress?
Whither goes the sage?
Who now wields true justice?
Who to end this age?
A flight of laughter,
A bout of tears,
A leap of logic,
Pray bless our years!
Living in the lowlands,
A midst the droughts we kneel,
Throughout the pits most fey,
Upon a dream most real.
Who to dance upon the altar?
Who to tend the fires above?
Who to linger in the glories?
Who to dance the songs of love?
Once more the anthem rings,
Once more shall herald sound,
Once more the light triumphant,
Truly, the lost is found!
King of Kings and Lord of Lords!
Almighty Father above!
Jesus, Saviour, Redeemer!
To Him all praise and all love!
Upon the mount unveiled,
Throughout love strewn stories,
A midst the mist of dreams,
Living now, true glories!
A rift of time,
A song of seas,
A lilting rhyme,
A kiss of peace!
Something Weird 