%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 Thoughts destined to be washed away by the tides of life. |
|
I've been studying my cover photo for a while now, and it seems to me that it is more than just a photo of what is there that can be seen, more than just three white rocks stacked on a beach. It contains an important question about the future, about what happens long after the photographer has gone. What will happen to our pile of stones when the tide comes in? Will it topple or has the architect built this structure at a safe distance? I don't know what will happen to these words that I stack here on the sand. They may prove safely distant, or they may be swallowed up by a rush of self-doubt. They may be here for a season. They may lose their balance and be scattered by the shoreline, or be hidden away under shifting sands. Perhaps someday, the tides of life will reclaim them. Or maybe that's just a bunch of poetic, romantic nonsense. After all, this is just a blog. |
| Today is April 23, Shakespeare's 461st birthday. For sure and forsooth, this fellow is long in the tooth. In his honor and as a tribute to his longevity in the world of literature, here is one of his sonnets about advancing age: That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou see'st the twilight of such day As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by and by black night doth take away, Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, As the death-bed whereon it must expire, Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by. This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong, To love that well which thou must leave ere long. Personally, I love theb"bare, ruined choirs" and am always sad to see the buds on the trees in the spring season. |
| Opening random files in Google Docs can be interesting. One can view the version history and see how the writing changes and evolves. Then, I often edit and rewrite after I copy the item into my WDC book so that the original Docs version is different from the posted one. For instance, this poem started out being about our human sensibilities and how it was decided that lobster should no longer be on display in supermarkets in order to spare their feelings before we kill them, but the social/political angle was not the real story. The real story is the lobster's viewpoint: Indignity Mighty lobster waves ‘the crusher’ his fearsome, serrated claw antennae twitching, mouth seeking as he crawls over the confused masses. Only the tape and the glass prevent him from grasping the tongues of young children stuck out at him in disrespect. I do think that it was the lobster-eating public that felt more guilt at watching their dinner being penned up in a tank than they did at boiling it alive that caused supermarkets to put the live lobster where they can't be seen. But this has robbed a whole generation of children of this up-close encounter with what my grandson calls "sea creatures". Humans are always doing things that they claim are good and charitable but in fact, only make them feel less guilty. I don't like being stared at, it's true. It's a very uncomfortable experience. But I would prefer it to being boiled alive. |
| I can remember the days when I used to get up at 4:30 am to write. Ideas desiring to become words drove me from my bed and sat me in front of the flickering light of an old CRT monitor, a fan blowing on the open side of the PC tower in order to prevent it overheating. I remember so many fumbled attempts to make coffee before my eyes even opened and the coffee pot I destroyed by making coffee without water while virtually sleepwalking. I don't know what fueled that need to write. Was it inner turmoil? Passion? Competition? Whatever it was, it's gone. I no longer engage in emotional shouting matches with myself that eventually become poems. No flashes of brilliance get scribbled on scraps of paper to flesh out later. I write, but it’s like I’m writing a check. Paying dues. I don't even make coffee in my sleep anymore. I set up the pot the night before and just flip the switch in the morning. I turn on the laptop and open YouTube and watch videos to avoid writing anything until a deadline forces the requisite number of words into lines. I think I miss the clunky old PC. |
This morning, the conversation over "SMALL TALK "  is about dreams. Well, it's also about cheese but that's not going to come up in this blog post so we'll just concentrate on dreams. My last blog was about dreams, too. Over at Small Talk, Solace.Bring  asks about three topics that come up in your dreams from time to time. My answer: " Three topics that come up into my dreams from time to time are my childhood home, people who have passed on, and hiding from some unknown danger."And strangely, just after I posted that, I opened an old poetry file at random which appears to have been created at this same time of year a few years back (Google docs says it was April 2023), and found this little poem tucked into the scramble of ramblings -- The weight of the blanket comforts, it’s a warm arm draped across my shoulders, even though the chill of a spring morning leaks through the window casement. The birds sing the songs of my youth ancient trills that convey their secrets they will sing long after I am gone and call to others who lie abed but for this moment, I am lost in reverie with no desire to greet a new day satisfied with drowsy memories my eyes unopened. I am beginning to wonder if this yearning to enter into an unchanged past through dreams and the resistance to reality is a sign of senility or if it is just the natural reaction to a world that has changed in so many ways and brought so many losses. I am not sure nostalgia is a disease, even when one prefers to stay in the warm embrace of memories and linger in the presence of those who no longer inhabit the physical world. I think it may be emotional defense, a way to preserve sanity rather than give in to unspeakable grief. |
| One thing about getting old is you look back much more than you look forward. It only makes sense I suppose, since there is more behind than ahead. But it's also a sense of loss, and wishing that old times and the people there could be brought back. Last night, I fell asleep for a minute or two and the television woke me. When it did, I was in the kitchen of my childhood home, talking to my mother. Both have been gone for many years. But it's always a difficult transition from comfortable dream to reality. I found this little poem in a file of doodads and scribbles. Don't know where on WDC it might be found, but it's probably out there, somewhere. Never believe a dream, that shows you what you want to see. Never mistake your desire, for somnolent prophecy. So often I wake, in a place I hold dear, until I open my eyes, and your face disappears. Or, as Roy Orbison put it: In dreams I walk with you In dreams I talk to you In dreams you're mine all of the time We're together in dreams, in dreams |
| April is here. I had barely got my mind out of February and into March before Spring arrived and April showed up. It's been a calm April so far, but I always think of April as a windy month. Perhaps because I always put kites in the kids' Easter baskets and we always took them to the park to fly them. I was reminded of those excursions today when I stumbled upon this little poem in my portfolio. The kite is heavier than air So, one would not fault it For lying on the ground And refusing the sky But when April boasts and blusters And the air is full of gusty arguments The trees wave their arms wildly and The kite is goaded into a reply Of course, once I had read it I remembered only the one reviewer who came upon it and rubbished it for various reasons. I felt the reviewer didn't understand the concept of quickly writing an eight line poem from a prompt on a daiy basis, as this was written for "EXPRESS IT IN EIGHT " . A lot of my little poems there are roughly drafted. Nevertheless, harsh reviews stay with us much longer than lavish praise.Still, it's April. Spring is here and there's time to write more bad poetry about it before Summer hits. |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
