Helen provided ‘search‘ as today’s prompt and many great tunes pounced into my mind. But, in the paragraph following she said,
‘As always, you can go your own way and post a song that has nothing to do with the prompt.’
I think Go Your Own Way is a search of a sort. Lyrics and credits are in the video, but Lindsey Buckingham wrote this Fleetwood Mac tune well-done here by the cast of Glee.
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Click the SLS image to link to Helen’s blog.
Look both ways and mind the gap.
‘You did that?’
“I did!”
‘What was it like?’
“What do you mean,
what was it like?”
‘You know. How did it feel?’
“It depends.”
‘On what?’
“On what you believe. If you
believe it, it’s okay.
If not, it’s nuts.”
‘Ah. So, how did it make you feel?’
“It felt good.
Not like sex good.
More like a friendly smile good.”
‘Oh. That’s not much.’
“No?”
‘Just a smile?’
“Ok then, fuck you.”
‘Why’d you say that?’
“How’d it feel?”
‘I’ll take the smile.’
“That’s what I mean.”
‘Let’s have sex.’
Big Smile.
Look both ways. Have lots of sex.
Mind the gaps. And smile.
© Bill Reynolds 9/2018
Glad Dad
this very day it’s been about
those many years you called me out
by a that tag without a name
with rules never quite the same
i must admit and i’m truly glad
yet sometimes i was very sad
the years i called my father dad
now it’s this time for me to add
it was easy as you may see
in the game of one two three
to wish the better for me to see
dad is neither simple or free
days were good yet sometimes bad
i still love my kids to call me dad
my special treasure to be had
their father’s name my greatest fame
Look both ways and mind the gaps.
The 29th (of 30) NaPo prompt challenged me to write a poem based on the Plath Poetry Project’s calendar. I was to pick a poem from the calendar, and then write my own verse that relates to it.
If you don’t know anything about Sylvia Plath, you should. Click on her name to link up. I selected her poem Poppies in July (click for link to analysis) because the city I live in is having a Poppy Festival today. Also, reading the poem and learning about Sylvia’s life was deeply moving.
Poppies In July (by Sylvia Plath)
Little poppies, little hell flames,
Do you do no harm?You flicker. I cannot touch you.
I put my hands among the flames. Nothing burnsAnd it exhausts me to watch you
Flickering like that, wrinkly and clear red, like the skin of a mouth.A mouth just bloodied.
Little bloody skirts!There are fumes I cannot touch.
Where are your opiates, your nauseous capsules?If I could bleed, or sleep! –
If my mouth could marry a hurt like that!Or your liquors seep to me, in this glass capsule,
Dulling and stilling.But colorless. Colorless.
© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes.
Little Cactus Flower of much despair,
Your short life, a sad bad mad dream.
Your song of pity plays on. Oh lord, I want to touch you.
Deeply reaching your inferior, I want to know your pain.
Misery and pain surround you,
dear yellow flower of agony and sorrow.
Surrounded by cacti, as you are,
I cannot save you in life or death.
I can only see your pain today,
Through words you left of such sorrow.
May your pain be gone, your love remains,
O’ Little Flower of despair.
Yellow, green, red and blue,
I see them now, and I think of you.
(Bill Reynolds, 4/29/2018)
Live and learn and lean both ways, looking for our Cactus Flower.
Mind the thorns and shun the needles, the gaps are there for all to feel.
The day 25 NaPoWriMo prompt encourages me to write a poem in the form of a warning label about myself.
For humor, I decided to twist the prompt a little. I also added too many warning memes for the same reason. Sorry. I hope you laugh. I did.
When I flew airplanes for the US Air Force we used (and carried with us while flying) many technical instructions, called tech orders. All military flying has similar things but may call them something different (i.e. Navy is NATOPS because thou shalt not out acronym the US Navy). The most important of these weighty volumes, now probably carried electronically, was titled a Flight Manual (dash-one in AF jargon). If yer familiar with this, you’ve prolly guessed where I am going.
My poem has three parts: warnings, cautions, and notes. (We had to memorize warnings and cautions.) I am using the same definitions in my poem.
Warnings are operating procedures, practices, etc., which, if not correctly followed, could result in personal injury or loss of life. Cautions are practices that could result in damage or destruction of equipment, loss of effectiveness, or long-term health hazards to personnel. I will add hurt feelings, pain, and tears to the list. Notes are things essential to highlight. The folks who write that stuff don’t just make it up. One never wanted to be the reason for a warning, caution, or note being added to a tech order. But this is supposed to be about me. I used third person, casual.
I – Warnings
Irrationally defensive of loved ones.
Capital punishment opposer,
…but willing executioner, if necessary.
45 years with US DoD, never kilt a body,
…but might try anything once.
Game to breaking rules & taking chances,
…not tough enough to be too stupid.
Drives safe and wears seat belts,
…but known to play road-rage roulette.
II – Cautions
Given to fits of laughter for no reason,
…or at the most inappropriate times.
Thinks snarkasm should be Olympic sport,
…it’s his only chance for a gold medal.
Sheepishly grins at who thinks him harmless,
…often delights in being misunderstood.
Understanding & compassionate listener,
…until your whiney-ass is drama royalty.
He don’t hunt, fish, play golf, or ride a Harley,
…he writes poems, loves animals, & gots a soft heart,
… he’ll edgimacate any who sees it a weakness.
III – Notes
Thinks blunt synonymous with
…clear, concise, and brutally honest.
Loves to use foul language at random.
Likes to argue without knowing why.
Thinks Irish are the soul of humor.
Is way past old enough to know better,
…pretends to no longer give a shit.
(Bill Reynolds, USAF, Retired, 4/25/2018)
Can’t you see, Ah, Lawd, can’t cha see wha’ dat woman’s been a-doin’ ta me?
Look both ways, my way and yours.
Mind the gaps, cuz Ima’ways right.
It is not always the impressive awesomeness of the fantasy creature that gets me. Sometimes it’s the story of how it came to be that I find most interesting. I was gunna go with something different today, but when I read about this one, I simply had to tell you about the Minotaur from Greek Mythology. Seriously, who came up this stuff?
With all the family drama, jealousy, hanky-panky, and bestiality, here is how it all went down. Minos, king of Crete, fought his brothers for rule. So, Minos asked the god Poseidon to send him a snow-white bull. Seeing this, his brothers would back off. The god sent the bull and it worked. But then Minos was supposed to kill the bull to honor Poseidon. Minos had a better idea, and that’s when the trouble started.
King Minos decided to keep the bull cuz he thought it was cool. So, King Dum-dum kills another bull thinking this sea-god will not notice or care. Greek gods can be so persnickety. Not just any dead bull would do. It had to be the pretty white one. Poseidon was pissed.
To get revenge, the god does a thing so that Pasiphaë, Minos’s wife, gets the beasty hots for the white bull. You with me? The king’s queen falls all lusty-love for this freakin’ horny bull. Today, this shite would be all over youtube.
No bull, white or not, is gunna do the dirty deed with the queen, lusty-love or not. So, Queen Pasiphaë had a very skilled crafty guy name of Daedalus make a hollow wooden cow. Can you see where this is going?
It must have been one fine piece of work to fool the bull into climbing on board and hammering away. Anyway, the queen climbed inside it and for the rest of the story, I suppose you had to be there. All I can say is Poseidon had an insane sense of humor, if Greek gods did funny things.
The child born was the monstrous Minotaur. The baby was not so cute with the dad’s head and a mostly human body. Pasiphaë nursed him (don’t get sick on me), but he grew and became a ferocious vile creature, being an unnatural (to say the least) offspring of a woman and a bull.
Minotaur devoured humans (preferably children every few years) for sustenance. Minos, after getting advice from the oracle at Delphi, had Daedalus (builder of the wooden cow) construct a gigantic labyrinth to hold the Minotaur and that is where he lived until he was killed by Theseus.
Look both ways.
If there is a bull in the field, do not climb the fence.
Mind the gaps as you cautiously walk around.
And do not piss off any Greek gods.
The day eight poem prompt of the 2018 National Poetry Writing Month challenge was for me to write a poem in which mysterious and magical things occur. Last year, I wrote a long poetic story with a slightly different, yet similar twist. You can read it here.
Night Witch
For years I negotiated my labyrinth of life.
Then one day the path all went dark,
It filled me with alarm and I shook with a fright.
Burning deep within me watchful eyes I felt,
My temptation was rising to the oldest of times,
fear continued to grip me, from within and without.
She was the blackest of darks, that witch of the nights.
Her gaze was upon me when I opened my eyes,
I was blinded by flashes, visions of the enchantress.
I saw in her wonders worlds of exquisite pleasures.
She came from the magic of the eternal hereafter.
Without moving her lips, she spoke directly to me,
“Return with your love, to the darkness and danger,
back to my universe we can travel with ease.
Give over your being to my mystical kisses,
my promise of love will grant all your wishes.”
As she reached out and touched me,
I felt pain and wondrous pleasure,
Yet, drawn to her I nodded my answer.
She took my hand, and with a rapturous laughter,
I saw in the distance her dragons and castles.
She marked our arrival with thunder and lightning.
I saw in her army both imps and her glories
All served at her pleasure.
Now was I there, her newest found treasure.
To me she said, “Through pain and with suffering,
you’ve found a new realm.
Transition, dear man, as best that you can.
Give over your being to the queen of this land.
And she shall make you our king,
if the pleasures don’t kill you.
Together we’ll dance, for our love and our glory.
Let’s begin to write this wonderful story.”
(Bill Reynolds 4/8/2018)
In the labyrinth of life, look both ways for witches of the night.
Mind the gaps.
In the end, my truth will bind me,
at that end, is when I’ll see
my unmasked face torn to tatters,
ain’t my truth what really matters?
For now, the lie is here with me,
he dwells within, filled with glee.
In symbiosis, we have confirmed,
I love the lie, he’s unconcerned.
Then he waits. The lie is clever.
He tells me that I’ll live forever,
a power he grants me over Truth.
Can’t you see? The lie is smooth.
For now, I provide the lie a home.
I hide the lie in every poem.
I wonder why. Is this the Truth?
I ponder lies, my poor excuse?
Then, one day I must cross over,
that is when I will discover
the lie has been a deceitful lover,
posing as my different drummer.
Death is light on another shore,
Truth has always loved me more.
The lie be gone, but he’s no ghost,
he’ll always find another host.
In the end, and since my youth
I’ve lived the lie but known the Truth –
at this parting there’s no dispute,
the lie has been, my personal truth.
My mask removed,
my face exposed,
my inner Truth has been disclosed:
both truth and lie were parts of me, but only one could set me free.
Bill Reynolds, 8/20/2017
Look both ways, to the lies and to the truth.
Mind the gaps, but there are many of both.
A few weeks ago was the 33rd anniversary of the movie, The NeverEnding Story, being released to theaters. I wrote this little ditty to relate to the moral of the story, as I see it today.
Moonchild
The mantle of truth is a heavy coat of many colors,
it gives warmth and freedom, but not love, friends, or quiet.
I can wear it out for all see, or keep it secretly private,
hidden away from the flak and dissent of others.
During this never-ending search for the best,
I face many challenges, and risk the love of others.
Do I seek such love, or a truth not of any lovers?
Must Falkor guide me on my never-ending quest?
When it’s only a story, is it also a myth?
At the Magic Mirror Gate, what truth have I now?
What is it within me, that this story won’t allow?
Are love and truth the same, or is it the Oracle’s kiss?
I find the impossible hard to defend.
The nothing is within me, but I’ll take my stand
for the dream of truth to my last grain of sand.
No seeker would stop with this as the end.
We deny then accept, it’s hard to compile,
the path is a clear one for all who will stay,
it may not be possible, at least not today.
Make Fantasia all truth, son of Moonchild.
*Bill Reynolds 7/31/2017
On your never-ending story, look both ways. Mind the gaps, they’re not myths.
My favorite lines from the movie (and the youtube clip):
G’mork: Foolish boy. Don’t you know anything about Fantasia? It’s the world of human fantasy. Every part, every creature of it, is a piece of the dreams and hopes of mankind. Therefore, it has no boundaries.
Atreyu: But why is Fantasia dying, then?
G’mork: Because people have begun to lose their hopes and forget their dreams. So the Nothing grows stronger.
Atreyu: What is the Nothing?
G’mork: It’s the emptiness that’s left. It’s like a despair, destroying this world. And I have been trying to help it.
Crazy hair piled up high framing piercing eyes of molten steel,
eyes with a warning smirk of dark trouble and danger
should one touch the shadow of her magic,
thus revealing a turbulent tormented storming soul —
Her wildly pursed red lips inviting living spirits to approach,
still suggesting thoughtful caution of a forbidden mystery,
before approaching near he hears her bittersweet
calling voice echoing deep within his chest,
from the savage throbbing and quivering in delirious frenzy,
he sees dark powers flashing from her black fingertips.
Within her passionate realm a shining moon and stars,
safe from the unrestrained bedlam of magical battles, the sky
enlightens their whirling and spellbound excitement,
dancing into dark night sounds of rapturous laughter;
echoing sighs and resounding venomous frightening cries.
A vehement sorceress casting spells with her thighs,
“Relax, dear man, my sensing pleasure is the rendering
of your haughty spirit into a new submissive being,
tamed forever by your seductive enchantress.”
As she raged, he endured her loving, pounding thunder,
In his toil and trouble, the fire of the witch’s cauldron bubbled,
yet her maddening deadly cries of passion calmed his fears.
Brilliant flashings in darkened skies; fair and foul scents of burning flesh hover;
his body now scorched and red, his mind mixed with passion and mania
as their unrestrained magic erupts into an abyss of souls, nothing but dead.
Yet, willingly he knowingly gives over his being,
his soul, and all he is, was, or ever will be, to her mystical dominance.
Her dark, unconsoled audacious spirit reigns over his battle lost, hers won in the fog of filthy air.
Underground, her biting and pulling him into this night of pain and pleasure,
he is now terminally seduced by this lovingly brash and ruling mistress.
Painfully submitting his pride, his manner, his life and being,
seeking the comfort of her mystical kiss
as he witnesses to her power and takes in his pain,
he kneels before the touch and the torch of his witch, worshipping at her feet.
In his delirium he experiences euphoria – the ecstasy of pushing aside his anguish and agony,
as she hovers over him and conjures the revoking of his pain at her whim by her will,
she elevates him from the torturous tedium of a miserable existence of sheltered boredom
to a triumphant cloud of comfort and challenge, now subjected to random
spellbinding musings of a mad mistress molding this man into her mate and lover;
expunging his pain with the pleasure and purity of the magical realism produced by fantastic
fantasies as they dance through flames of orgasmic delights devoid of depressing doldrums.
She promised lives of incarnate pleasure and pain;
he as her servient lover, she as his muse and provocateur;
together they sail and they fly through time and space,
he enthralled by her power, she his bellwether to the underworld of a mysterious life,
entrapped by the freedom making two dark souls one bright god and goddess,
master and mistress of all roads and all kingdoms,
their love and mating shall live forever as the forbidden man and his queen of all witches,
never resting or sleeping while forever seeking a peace from their lives of tempest-tossed wonder.
When sounds of the night excite; when the crashing of thunder, lightning, or rain are right;
listen for cries of lovers in pain seeking the pleasures of the witch and her inamorato.
Bill Reynolds 1/24/2017
Night or day, look both ways. The gaps can harm ya, mind them all.
My original idea for this came from the Eagles’ song, ‘Witchy Woman.’ I wanted to “poetic” this idea up further to something about loving witches. Then, ‘Black Magic Woman’ by Santana, while not much for lyrics, bewitched my spirit with his awesome sound. As my imagination drifted, I considered (and used) scenes of the witches from Macbeth. I imagine ‘non-wiccan’ male relationships with a female witch (wicce) to be one of forbidden mystery, good and bad, light and dark, yin and yang. I can’t imagine the witch, no matter how loving, as anything but aggressively dominant, unyielding, yet still caring, nurturing, and protecting. I wanted a struggle. I tried to shed as much of my witch stereotyping as I could, yet keep the drama of the loving, in-control, witch-bitch that captured my thoughts. Is this poetry or prose, fact or fiction, fantasy or reality? Do you want to be either one of the two? Both? Neither?
Some soft witch music would be nice to close.
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