Solitude breaks hearts
Yet may heal a thousand wounds
Only time will tell
Darkness cries softly
Find comfort in my warm depths
Embraced by nature
Torch away the night
Bring light to every corner
Lest I die alone.
Tag: poetry
Tipping Sacred Cows
Walk on the wild side
across the unpaved
alley where the bulbs
in the street lights
have long since burnt out.
Climb the fence clearly
marked No Trespassing!
Take aim at the sacred
cows, tip them over in
night’s pastures.
Skirt civilization’s
political boundaries,
imaginary lines etched
on two dimensional
world renderings.
Venture too close to the
edges, and if you’re lucky
you might fall into
the realm of the
heroically unsalvagable.
The Edge
I stopped at the edge of the forest, my feet toeing the line
Between sunlight and shadow, where squirrels scampered
Among crisped leaves, up and around the magnolias. No physical
Barrier barred my way, no fence or wall impeded, yet
My eyes lost focus in the dappling of the light, and I
Hesitated to stray outside the confines of the civilized
World, where the rose-scented wind had my back.
Take That, Emily!
I went out to fetch our mail last Thursday afternoon enjoying the brief walk up our driveway. We had one catalog and a bit of junk mail in the mailbox. No bills were in the mix, and that’s always a good thing.
The melodies of dozens of birds mingled on the breeze, and I spoke to a squirrel. They seldom speak back, yet I never give up hope.
As I headed back to the house I noted a curious clicking noise, perhaps one squirrel scolding another. Instead of going in through our garage I walked around the back of the house, hoping to surprise whatever critter was click clicking.
The instant I turned the corner I realized what was going on. A big, fat black snake slid away from me, and the birds had been warning one another. I should learn to speak Bird.
For the first time in my life I did not jump or squeal at the sight of the snake. Shouldn’t there be a medal for such an impressive show of bravery? Or at least a round of applause. Go ahead. I’ll wait.
Oddly enough I’d had Emily Dickinson’s poem, Snake on my mind this morning, so I snapped a photo of it from the website online-literature.com.
I will never be Ms. Dickinson’s equal in the art of poetry, but I calmly faced a snake. Take that, Emily!
The visitor looked much like this guy. I believe he is a Black Pine snake. Handsome, isn’t he? And quite polite.
Peace, people!
Ponderable
peace on the table
undiluted, unabridged
indescribable
a taste of freedom
delicious imagining
how sweet would it feel?
God in your wisdom
please grant the balm of world peace
all children deserve.
peace, people.
Something of Substance
The name meant nothing to her. She’d heard it murmured by others
once or twice, and whispered it to herself in the grayed shadows of night. But still,
the word was just a pair of syllables, having no weight or depth of their own.
Why then did she find her fingertips bruised, nails chipped and bloodied from
repeated attempts to scratch the letters into the stone she’d tucked inside her
pocket? Surreptitious strokes, thumb circling, reassuring.
Stranded
Somewhere between
I want to and I did
were a lot of dead
spots filled with
I can’t and
maybe I shouldn’t and
even girl, don’t you dare.
I got stranded once
on the island of
I’m not worthy, but
the good ship
I believe in you
saved me and brought
me to safety.
Peace, people.
Connect Four
The Stat Connection
Go to your Stats page and check your top 3-5 posts. Why do you think they’ve been successful? Find the connection between them, and write about it.
After fooling around with my stats page by going to a place that I didn’t know existed, I discovered that I do have access to stats that are more than a week old. I’m so pitifully unsavvy about accessing such things. Poor, poor me.
But to find my top-viewed and best liked posts I didn’t have to go back very far at all. All of these were published in 2016:
Without You http://wp.me/p4O8fw-1Gz
A Pauper’s Death http://wp.me/p4O8fw-1Et
Bathtub Follies http://wp.me/p4O8fw-1F1
Piano Player in a Whorehouse http://wp.me/p4O8fw-1Cs
I hope I’m learning to connect with readers more, and certainly I’ve learned how to interact with other bloggers in more productive ways.
Try as I might, though, I cannot find any connection between these four posts, other than that they were all written by me.
Without You and Bathtub Follies are both slice-of-my-life stories and have a bit of humor to them, but A Pauper’s Death is a rather mournful poem, and Piano Player in a Whorehouse is a bit of futuristic fiction set in a post-Trump presidency America.
If I knew what made them succesful I’d copy down that formula and sell it; although, to be honest they weren’t THAT succesful. One of these days, though, as God is my witness, I’ll publish a piece that gets more than a mere 55 hits. And then, I’m going to celebrate with a donut.
Count on it.
Peace, people!
<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/the-stat-connection/”>The Stat Connection</a>
FrogSong
I never knew I was a fan of frogs’ singing
until I moved into a home by a
lake.
Rough voices color the night while
mingling
with lights dancing off of the water’s
face.
In unison the choir stops to admire the
stars,
to imagine the sound of joined voices in
space
A whisper bounces back from galaxy’s
edge
ribbit! ribbit! echoing through the Milky Way.
Eleanor Rigby
Written in response to the Daily Post’s Daily Prompt:
This Is Your Song
Take a line from a song that you love or connect with. Turn that line into the title of your post.
“The Lyrics”
by Leslie Noyes
My head is
full of
lyrics
they roll
through
my soul like
honey and
thunder.
These words
soothe and attack,
seek and destroy,
reduce and elevate.
My only
defense
is to
join my
voice to
the melody,
dance
to the
beat,
or sob.
I’m reduced to tears every time I hear “Eleanor Rigby” by The Beatles. I’ve highlighted my favorite line.
Eleanor Rigby
Ah, look at all the lonely people
Ah, look at all the lonely people
Eleanor Rigby picks up the rice in the church where a wedding has been
Lives in a dream
Waits at the window, wearing the face that she keeps in a jar by the door
Who is it for?
All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong?
Father McKenzie writing the words of a sermon that no one will hear
No one comes near
Look at him working, darning his socks in the night when there’s nobody there
What does he care?
All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong?
Ah, look at all the lonely people
Ah, look at all the lonely people
Eleanor Rigby died in the church and was buried along with her name
Nobody came
Father McKenzie wiping the dirt from his hands as he walks from the grave
No one was saved.
All the lonely people (Ah, look at all the lonely people)
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people (Ah, look at all the lonely people)
Where do they all belong?
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Praying for Eyebrowz 