Thanks to Lillian for hosting the bar and suggesting OpenLinksNight for favorite sayings. Mine was by Eric Hoffer, “The search for happiness is one of the chief sources of unhappiness.” My poem gently follows that theme.
What do I want?
What do I want?
And you, the same?
Is it happiness?
What exactly is that?
Heath and wealth
Both common goals
But is there more?
What is enough?
Love, perhaps, or
in my perfect world?
Let’s compare notes.
You show me yours
And I’ll show you mine,
In the balance it hangs
Every important thing
about life and time.
What do you want?
And, for me, the same?
Look both ways for love and opportunity, but look within for love.
Mind the gaps for unhappy steps.
Today’s dVerse Poet’s Pub prompt for poetics is Looking out the window, provided by Peter Frankis. While the challenge was to take a picture, post it, and write about it. I adjusted time a bit. I used a picture I searched for and found that my wife took of me through a window, 48 years ago. This idea came to me quickly and I could not let it go.
The Window Behind Me
A window from the parlor to the covered front porch
of my parents’ home, a memory of chewing paint off the sill,
of watching adults sit and talk and wave as neighbors walked by.
For eighteen years, my view of the world outside
where wind blew, rain fell, thunder clapped, people sang,
cars passed and honked. Life beckoned me to the stage,
through that window.
What was I thinking 48 years ago? My young wife and new son
in the window behind me. Our future? Was I talking or listening to
a passerby? Was I thinking of losing that hair as it turned gray?
Four-years military—done! College degree, done! Responsibility
branded me an armed man. Was I up to it? Did I have life,
or had it taken me?
Would the photographer still be my wife after 54 years? Would I have two
more children and would they be in their forties with more kids?
Would I build two careers and retire? Would I write poetry?
I had time. I knew I would live forever. I did not even know what I didn’t know.
Now, I know. Some I wish I didn’t discover. A window from the past
reflecting the future. The present me, right here, right now, today.
I want to say, relax, you’ll be fine.
Look both ways through every window.
Mind the gaps and cracks.
Sounds and shots signal long, hot, dry August days
in El Paso, Texas, at Walmart,
where hateful hearts sang out in murderous joy.
Supreme white-hot hate hammered home death
& destruction to familias con niños.
Pathetic politicians paraded past.
Look both ways into the hearts of men.
Mind the gaps. If you see only good, look again.
Explicación: Next Monday, 3 August 2020, marks one year since 21-year-old gunman and homegrown Texan terrorist, Patrick Crusius walked into a Walmart store in El Paso, Texas, with his legally purchased assault rifle and murdered thirteen Americans, eight Mexicans and one German, and randomly wounded 23 other innocents, including children.
Many thanks to Rochelle @Rochelle Wisoff-Fields-Addicted to Purple for herding us through Friday Fictioneers, even while on a vacation visit. The challenge is to write a story based upon a photo prompt, today by Jean L. Hays.
With fewer than 101 words we are challenged to contrive a beginning, middle, and an end.
Title: Whisperer Bay
Genre: Animal Fiction (Allegory)
Word count: 100
I rowed my skiff into the bay and leaned against the seat to vegetate under the stars.
There was a nearby splash. Something bumped the boat. Then again.
Then a voice. “Relax. Don’t talk. Just make sounds.”
I could barely see the head of a dolphin looking at me.
I spoke. “You can talk?”
Again, “Don’t talk. Make sounds. I don’t understand speech. I cannot talk.”
I thought, I must be dreaming.
“No. Some humans understand echolocation sounds. You do.”
I thought, I understand you and you me.
“Come back this time tomorrow. Plan to stay longer. I’ll explain then.”
Relaxed attention sees both ways and perceives concealed secrets.
Mind mental gaps.
Lannan banished him to Marfa, city of minimalist art,
in the hinterlands high-plains desert, a Trans-Pecos cowboy patch
in far west Texas. Controversial, wrangled, and angry (bless his heart),
Bloodaxe English poet Peter Reading endured being sacked
For having gallish cheek, remaining ununiformed 22 years,
being poet, For the municipality’s elderly,
as a mindless weighbridge operator and lover
of fine wine and birds, with gruesomely ironic humor.
Peter and I were born on the same Saturday,
he in Liverpool, I was not.
His revenge – Marfan and Shitheads.
Look both ways for hammering truthful humor
and light romantic comedy.
Mind the gap, said the man to the day tripper.