Two Earths, land and
ocean
perfectly disguised above.
Deadly.
Needed for life.
One Ocean. Four names. Only one.
Awesome is insufficient.
Look both ways when lost at sea.
Mind the gaps in the Marianas Trench.
The third line alludes to the song, “A Horse with No Name” by America (band).
Rhythm is fascinating
to humans, animals,
even natural things
like rain can capture
the human heart and soul.
Even now, the natural pat-
pat-pat of my foot
absentmindedly comforts
my mind and soul.
A cat purrs out sounds
as birds sing their tunes
and the dancer begins
to move her feet.
Some days
the lyrics move me,
Other times,
it’s the beat
and I move my feet.
Look both ways at the lyrics and the music.
Mind the gaps where one saves the other.
I do so enjoy watching these dance videos with a step or two of envy. 🙂
On NaPo day eight (yesterday), we were gifted twenty little “projects” from which we were to construct a poem. If you would like to see that list, follow this link, where you can also see how other poets handled this assignment.
Thunderstruck Dream
I was sleeping deeply and dreaming peacefully. Without warning
outside,
thirty meters from my head,
boom!
David’s deity-voiced metaphor
of frightening lightening, and roaring thunder were rude,
but effective wake-up calls.
God’s anger jolted me.
I calmly rose and charged outside.
There I inhaled the quiet storms.
The odor of thermite filled the black darkness.
Reduced pressure tugged at my body hair.
I could hear charred silence
dipped in white-hot phosphorescent fire.
I felt my limbs move in voluntary equilibrium with my brain.
Electrified air was warm but slowly cooling.
As time passed, normality moaned.
I felt the slow, shimmering return of colors.
Was Zeus passing through central Texas
early that morning? Did Jupiter ambush my restless night?
Was the storm deistically unsourced?
Must a been my own deep dream that caused the storm.
So hard of hearing am I, that I cannot hear thunder.
But I heard that.
And I felt it rock my body in a not-so-good-way.
I smelt like I wanted to be alone.
I’m old as dirt, but not so common as cornbread. Anyway,
maybe so. Can’t dance, never could sing much,
and that thing’s too wet to plow.
The rolling dark clouds of despair reached out to all of me;
body, mind, and soul, which made me feel good about
the inevitability of death.
The pull of sky lifted me away from gravity,
above the earth I floated, and I could see everyone and everything.
Mister Bill was as intended, above and beyond — away from it all.
Storms do not wake the dead but they will always be
part of nature’s plan for life on Earth until
there is no more planet,
no more sun, no more rain.
Certainly, it will be the loud sound of pungent silence.
In the end it’ll be the end, but no one will know.
C’est la vie.
After thunder has spoken. Petrichor stands in the senses.
It says things are better now,
not just that the storm has passed, but because it was here.
Boom! Awakened or not.
The storm was near: too close.
Now it’s there. It’s not here anymore.
So, sleep well.
Look both ways if you sleep in total darkness.
Mind the gaps—those long spaces between he naps.
Today’s Napo assignment was for me to find a short(ish) poem I like and to rewrite each line. I was to replace as many words as possible with words of opposite meaning (antonyms, perhaps). Then, polish and publish. Done! Right? (Sure.)
Since I’m caught up, I’ve made this Monday’s Rune (likewise the next three Mondays), so only one post per day for the remainder of April (except Saturdays, maybe, I hope). I may try to add other touches, like voiceover or videos, but I prefer my blog page relatively clean.
I chose two very short poems from Favorite Inspirational Poems (A Revell Inspirational Classic). My rewrites are italicized following the originals. I took the additional step of using a poetic theme opposite of the original poem. My voiceover is all four poems.
I Never Saw a Moor
by Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)
I never saw a Moor —
I never saw the Sea —
Yet know I how the Heather looks
And what a Billow be.
I never spoke with God
Nor visited in Heaven —
Yet certain am I of the spot
As if the Checks were given —
you always knew his name
by bill
you’ve seen many deserts
you’ve seen the wilderness
never will you know how sand feels
nor how the wood-gnomes dress.
we’ve spoken to dark angels
and had our time in Hell
then still we don’t know shit
clearly, I’ve lost my fucking will.
***
The Steps of Faith
by – John Greenleaf Whittier
Nothing before, nothing behind, the steps of Faith.
Fall on the seeming void and find the Rock beneath.
Nothing before, nothing behind,
Fall on the void and find the Rock beneath.
Nothing before, nothing behind.
ambles of atheism
by bill
everything behind, everything before, the ambles of atheism.
rise from below in clarity and lose the slip above
everything behind, everything before
climb to the valid and forget the void above
everything behind, everything before.
***
Look both ways to see what the poet says.
Mind the gaps in both the literal and ironic.
It’s Monday.
Absurd Salt
Nothing is forever,
yet, the only thing that can never really be
is exactly nothing, that which never was,
and we can never really see.
We are here—together
only for a moment.
Then, the moment’s gone—forever!
Never to be again.
Everything
changes.
Our world is what was not before
and what will never be again.
We cannot capture time’s illusion.
There is no perpetual, everlasting life.
There is only this brief fleeting moment,
good or bad as life’s delusion would have it.
Look both ways all you want, but here and now, fear Sartre’s authentic freedom.
Mind the gaps for answers, but there is no objective truth.
For mid-September, our fantastic Mistress of Friday Fictioneering fantasy, Rochelle, poked us with the picture of Pincushion Hakea flowers provided through the good graces of Trish Nankeville.
The lovely photo inspired my memory, and I considered a quote by Henry David Thoreau that Rochelle has posted on her blog in the past, it’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see. Some say it was written as, “The question is not what you look at, but what you see.” (From the essay, “Walking.”) Whatever—close enough. What you see is a good theme.
I’m fascinated by the work of people who see around us the things I miss: the artists and photographers who’s work I often borrow to enrich my world. Through their art, I get to see what they see: a lovely natural world.
Click on Trish’s photo of the red pincushion flowers to be transplanted into Rochelle’s blog where you can learn how to set your roots into the Wednesday, Friday Fictioneers writer community.
Genre: Autobiographical Fiction
Title: Thoreau’s Pincushion Hakea
Word Count: 100
***
We walked the path near the lake. Jay was a talented amateur photographer who did all his own film processing.
He said, “It’s like hunting. Look there. What do you see?”
I replied, “Weeds and stickers.”
We knelt and he spritzed water on the weeds.
“Look closer.”
I looked. “Wow. I didn’t even see the flowers much less that spider’s web. Now it all glistens.”
He said, “Everything is a subject or a scene. I use other things, lighting, angles, and point of view to enhance it. I do more in the lab. It’s the beauty of nature artfully staged.”
***
Look both ways. What you see matters.
Mind the gaps for the hidden fruits of nature’s beauty.
Written for dVerse Haibun Monday: Give Me Shelter, 8/26/22.
Competitive Cooperation
Soldiers, farmers, and lovers all seek the same shelter. Protection from nature’s miseries is ubiquitously sought and taken. Adapt or die. Respect not given wisely results in lessons learned only for brief periods.
Her glorious beauty shows in the warm sunrise that follows the night’s frightful, unsheltered story. The singing bird allows for the climax of thunder as from lightening, all seek cover. Even snakes warm in the sun.
Rain or dry seasons, Nature judges the foolish lover, the seeker of warmth without cover, harshly. Live and learn; learn and live.
respect nature first
awesome beauty is the beast
take cover or die
Look both ways when seeking escape or shelter.
Better to mind the gaps and wait for the storm to pass
than to win the latest Darwin Award.
Click here to find more Haibun.
Wednesday
at the park, the
San Gabriel River slow flows as
trees, grass, and gardens grow,
ducks and squirrels search
while dogs wander;
people—few kiddos play,
adults do nothing—just relax while
idle athletic fields recover, empty
picnic tables under shade; and
boulders and benches go unused,
feel the summer zephyr, nice,
some souls are alone, but
I’m with you.
It’s Wednesday. Recover.
Relax. Everything else
can wait.
Look both ways — up and down stream;
mind the gaps for crossings over to another side.
Sometimes just go and be — hear, feel, and wait and see.
Howdy, Y’all,
I think the a/c has been running since May. It’s August now, driving hotly through a summer of record temperatures and daily threats of more Texas power grid snafus. I just missed being born in this horrible month, but I know several who are so saddled. Yes. I should be grateful. Maybe I am, but.
I’m also somewhat non-clinically depressed and worried, not about me even though if I ain’t dead in ten years, I will be in twelve and if I leave the world better, will it be good enough?
Fourteen billion eyes, ears, and feet, for now; and I only ask for a couple dozen or so to be alright. Go ahead. Ask. How’s that workin’ for me?
Half of humanity seems nuts and hates the other half who hate back. There’s a hypothetical, conjectural god who seems completely cavalier about it all and is dismissal about unbridled slavery, too. They insist I stock credence and believe. What? Why?
The most important thing, apparently, comes conveniently after, and it’s not heaven. It’s hell. That’s where August takes all three-hundred and sixty-five days and nothing was last or is next and some guy keeps asking, what if this is as good as it gets? Ever?
Sweet dreams are made of this,
Amen to that,
Bill
PS: Everybody’s looking (both ways) for something. Mind the gaps for what some of them want to do. Who am I to disagree?
The Eurythmics have an interesting history.
I woke to a surprise this morning when I discovered that the Maven of freestyle, the Mistress of the breaststroke, and the Madam of fictioneering, Rochelle, had slipped in a prompt photo I took out in the wilds of my daughter and son-in-law’s west Texas grange.
Click on the remnants of the greenhouse to spread over to Rochelle’s blog camp so you can grow your own stories of 100-word micro-fiction.
Genre: Horticultural Fiction
Title: Greenman Phish-heads
Word Count: 100
***
What happened here?
The well-water went bad years back. The plants died. Now it’s only what grows naturally: mesquite, cactus, and other wild things. The Green Man makes his home in there now.
What’s over there?
That’s Uncle Billy’s Phish Camp. That’s Julie’s cat house over to the left, and that big building is the main house.
Green Man isn’t real.
He’s real. Come back next Spring and you’ll see his magic. It’s beautiful. Get in the truck and I’ll show you the business end of the Greenman rebirth. Maybe you’ll meet him. It’ll make you a believer forever.
***
Look both ways and learn to grow new beginnings.
Mind the gaps as you turn tragedy to treasure.
Greenman is all thumbs.
It’s never too late.
Our Literary Journey 