Studded pinnacles standing, from which they leapt,
the worn, weathered stones of mountains dashed.
Sad, dark clouds morn, weeping memories that haven’t slept;
lakes carved by glaciers past, waves which with shore, clashed.
I thought I'd write a paragraph of a story. I'll add to it a paragraph at a time, as I write it. I'll try not to go back and change anything. It could be fun. Others could add to it if they want.
Lift up the night to awaken
on this mountainside
take sun swept slopes between glacier and tree
and watch the shadows march and ride
Born on the morning with the waking sun, the blackness gone, the fire of blushed excitement greets this sunrise, stretched over the hills below the mountain. Its actual name lost to a people whose wood homes long before rotted into the earth; trees now stood on their bones. A cold spring night had left a frost on newly budded branches and a bubbling stream fought its way out of ice. Beneath a blanket lay a young brother and sister fighting to stay warm. Nearby another blanket lay still, steaming as the sunlight marched on up the valley. Wolves howled, but no one seemed to care. Life had been too brutal. Yet the kids understood what they had to do.
Today they would leave their father, and carry his message home. He had said it could save them; they had seen enough to believe it. It had been two weeks since they had escaped the city, but the night before they had been spotted. In their flight their father had climbed this mountain, but hadn't made it far. The man that had been chasing them, had killed their father, but he had been wounded too, and lay licking his wounds further down. They had hoped he didn't make the night, but somehow they feared he had.
I walk-up to an old man
With broken crippled hands.
I inquire,
“Where is Harbor Street?”
and he responds,
“Two blocks to the east”
And with that I began to leave
but curiosity intervened,
I turned back and pressed,
“Excuse me, good sir,
it might be rude to ask
but I would like to know
how your hands were ruined so?”
A moment, maybe two passed
before he responded at last
“How is it your right
man, women, or child’s right
to walk-up to me and ask.
It is always the same question
and I tire of giving answers."
With that rebuke I made to give apology
and say, "I’m so very sorry"
but am I truly?
Why should I be?
“Indeed,” I retort,
"but is curiosity so bad,
should all people just live
their own lives rather
and to hell with everyone else?
I believe too many people
presume that already,
too many people believe
in just caring for themselves
and nobody else.
I ask you out of common courtesy,
rather than ignoring the obvious
and I ask you out of sympathy,
rather than out of
morbid curiosity.”
He then looked me straight in the eyes,
seemingly unmarred,
but in seconds his features slackened
and assumed a wearied resolve.
“Do you remember the war boy?”
I shrug,“Which one?”
The Old Man snorts, “Huh, they are all the
same to you, now aren’t they,
just words on a page.
Well, if you must know,
I was in the second one
and I was a captain
who happened to be following
another man
who thought he was John Wayne, too.
Poor chap, stepped on a mine
and was blown to bits
and…I received these (He raises his hands).
At times I wonder who got
the better deal?”
I observed him for a moment before
further probing,
“Do you think it was worth it?
Do you think you served
your country?"
The Old Man eyes narrow, “Umm, of course I served
my country, BOY,
and the worth that
was to me (He laughs)?
War is a waste, son,
a fucking waste!
Now leave me
and give me some peace.”
And so I walked away.
I had my question answered,
but ten more to ask.
With so much to brood on,
it wasn't long until I was two blocks east
on Harbor Street.
The ship of my life, the vehicle of my conscience self
raises its sails, tacks into the wind and keels over
as it leaps in one mighty bound
forward
toward the sun rising, the rays of which glare
off the rippled surface of the ocean
dancing
in a tapestry of peace in the wake of a malevolent storm
that marches ever closer
and any mention of the race freezes my inner being
with cold reality; the turtle and the hare
the past that I have walked
the future that I have yet to travel
the present course
west
to the edge of the world and over
to the edge of time
and over
to the heart of darkness
and over
to where we should meet again; at the end as we met in the beginning
in between all reasoning and cold reality
knowing nothing more than we did from the onset
nothing more but how we had met
alone
lonely in our meeting in the cold birth of meaning
of life, of living
of death and dying
lying now awake I taste the morning breeze of fate
and then and there I ready the sails and tack into the wind
a brave path toward a future horizon
blinking
Future paths whether they be straight or crooked;
long or short, they have misfortune of death;
they must end.
Our story is not always ours to write, pages for the mighty pen
to scribe a tale of glorious battles, loves and a terrific end.
We but live in the shadow of chance encounters: confrontations,
meetings planned, meetings canceled.
Our control is oft used without thought;
a curse of all. We murderers of fortune, dash our dreams on false insecurity.
If only our future was met with open arms. If only it could be;
We could farm our gardens of life and live in prosperity.
But this future is by nature, an act with no second take.
And we portray our purest, poorest, sweetest, most tasteless characteristics
in a comical drama that only God finds amusing
and we but muse about.
He suffers. He suffers the truth. It is like a lie, this truth, a lie that lingers in his heart like a disease. It defies his attempts at dislodging it. It knows his every move. It reads him like a book, but for the language he does not understand; the words that have no meaning, but the emotion, the expression tells the truth. And for his suffering, he suffers still and will always. He listens to the wind and whispers back to gods that turn a deaf ear. He’s a man who has lost touch with definition, a man who thinks himself an artist (of life), this man who cannot draw. His existence is that of a stick man. Through life he wonders down a straight road on pavement just dried. He dreams of detours. Yet he is afraid of the lie...that tomorrow is today, that all missed yesterdays can be made up tomorrow, that fortune leads to redemption. This lie is the truth that he suffers, this lie he tells himself to quell the heart of him that weeps to be alive. The truth is, he can stop suffering. He can spread his arms made of sticks and reach for the sun. He can live if he only has the will to submit to what has been and accept that anything can be. He can father a forest or he can rot and feed the weeds. His choice is his own.
So is yours?
A blank page
lines but no words
I scribble
just to
riddle the page
unclean
but still no meaning
no Madge to show me
the way
to clarity
I bleed frustration
by balling up the sheaf
of paper
an invitation to failure
A new page sits in front
of me
Only clean now
I press on
but I think
no genuine thoughts
no light shines through dense clouds
no sunshine
brightens my meaningless
day
with insight
So instead I draw a picture
I’m not
an artist
but in this picture
I see
beyond the farce
Again, after a moment
I concentrate on
another
blank sheet
somehow becoming entangled with words
obscene!
naked and alive they primp and preen
sentence after sentence
I write down my dream
and it makes sense
these footprints into my past
that I leave for others
at least they make sense
to me
and no other, maybe?
But that doesn’t matter
not at all
I am like a empty bowl. The world without my breakfast. Today I pick up the paper and start to read. What I see is a world full of change, some good and some bad. Of course the paper paints the bad in brighter, more flamboyant colors. I create and develop ideas and I hold on to them, they capture and haunt me. I cannot leave them without defense? A struggle begins within based usually on false information from without. Based opinions full of their own agendas. Shouldn’t I see the facts for myself? Wouldn’t that be more productive? Or instead should I remain a pessimist? Always questioning. Always listening with a scowl that hides a growing smirk. How can I be aghast to ideas? I guess I am afraid. I look around and what I see is not a pleasant sight. It is scary. It is sad. More than that even, it is us and not at our best. Look at war, look at death, look at change and destruction. This nature even? We live next to a parking lot instead of a living breathing forest that provides for us. This nature is more an entree now. We consume it and feed it when it befits. So much is flawed and yet here I am. I am questioning. I am developing a sense of determining for myself the truths. I am reaching you see for a more optimistic outlook. It appeals. I grasp at straws maybe. With spoon in hand I find breakfast tolerable and the comic section even laughable..
I look at everything and I see so much. How then can I ever hope to measure up to even an infinitesimal inch in comparison? My flaws are many, my lessons that and more, and success seems like a faraway mountain or a sea followed by a shore I can never venture too. To me this success is the ability to fully express myself, my ideas, my dreams, and everything I have seen and may see in the future to come, however short or long that future may be. This, I tell you, is my sole desire - that of expression. Complete and uncut...
Fate plays the chords of my life
and I listen
for I cannot play the instrument
of my demise
I but continue my mission
through the years of my life in disguise
knowing that one day I will reach
the end of my days
and hear the symphony play
the tune of my life in completion~
