I wished on a star but came up empty
But my jar was still full of light.
When I tried to chase the music I fell down the hill
And landed in a verdant green valley
That tried to lull me into peace
But I didn’t buy it
And used the stones to step across
To the charred remains
Of someone else’s dreams.
But I understood this shell
This empty wreckage
Because it’s what I carry every day
Sometimes hidden sometimes so painfully aware
To anyone who is sucker enough to ask how am I.
But until I can answer honestly
I will keep wishing on stars
And chasing the music
And fill up on words and images that make sense and don’t hurt.
Midway Through
Just a little longer, he thought. I can wait. I can sit on this bench and watch the people walk by. He sat just left of center, not inviting company. The people moving through the midway looked like they were being herded and led to slaughter. Very few smiled. Most didn’t look at anyone, just blankly stared ahead. Not one of the cattle noticed him on the bench. How could they not see?
He was slowly losing all sense of time and feeling in his extremities; soon he’d possibly melt right on the ground. Were there no warning signs or were people just showing selective sight?
In a few hours, it would be done. The freak show would pack up and move on. The herds of patrons would look for something else to whet appetites of destruction. He would not be on that bench. He was going to go out with a bang. A whirl. At least he’d make them pause in their tracks.
He got up and walked the midway. Carnies cajoling kids to throw darts and rings. Food vendors flipping treats to quick eaters. Loud music. Bright lights. Smell of grease, smoke, sugar, and leather as he neared the tent with belts and wallets. Purchasing a belt, he walked with purpose toward the Ferris wheel.
He stood and watched cycle after cycle until the sky was dusky enough, all the lights were on. This was it. The time for his glorious end. To tumble from the top of a lit Ferris Wheel was his ideal end. He went to the ticket booth, noticed they had raised their prices for the weekend. He pulled his remaining money from his pocket. Not enough. He had spent too much on what he thought was his last meal of pizza, taffy, and a root beer.
Almost numb but with some disbelief, he turned away and headed home.
Poetry Published
http://original-writer.com/verse/poetrywriting62word.html
“We are delighted to publish refreshing poems for this season by Word Rummager.”
Take a moment and peruse this online magazine that is an “ideal rest stop for creative minds.”
Fledgling Ideas
I was talking to myself in the shower this morning (my favorite Me+Alone place- not too many private spots in my house), wondering why in my “middle age” I have rediscovered my love of writing and feel I must get it all down now. I liken it to picking a scab. Yeah, it can be yucky, but it can be so much more.
When I have a scab, it’s there to help heal some hurt, some bleeding sore. The scab on its own will eventually fall off, sometimes only leaving a faint scar. But if you feel compelled as I often do to pick away at these things, it can really hurt and be bloody and even fester and leave ugly scars. So much more noticeable.
Sometimes the scab is bubbly and easy to remove, sometimes it is crusty and really stuck. Time and water help remove the debris. But when you step in and alter the healing process, being proactive can lead to some rewards like a smooth patch. Either way, it’s a hard thing to leave alone. You feel you have to keep picking away at it no matter what the outcome.
I know I’m probably beating this metaphor to death, but it’s just so appropriate, I can’t help myself. I have had deep wounds fester and had to take medicine and I have had surface wounds that shed their scabs quickly. I have had words and phrases stuck in my head for so long, some are really stuck and crusty and I don’t know how to get them out. I have some words that come quickly and smoothly. I’m not sure of what the resulting scars may look like, but I can’t leave it alone.
“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” -Ernest Hemingway
I Think I’m Having A Breakdown
Wild eyes filled with ideas that feel strange
Hard to see behind the light’s glare
Can’t focus beyond the wayward grasses blowing
Forgetting to pay attention to the importance around me
So if the games continue and the show goes on, what part do I play?
It’s going by too fast to find my footing
The scenes are changing so quickly I can’t think straight
I’m assailed with warm breezes and then I see it
A tall flower looming above the plain by the sound of the road
It holds me, transfixed, wondering at its reach
Hoping it finds what it’s looking for.
Do we have to travel for redemption
Or is it perched on a branch and we just have to climb a little
Out of our holes of despair and apathy
Before I can continue that thought I blink
And instead of grasses or flowers my sightline’s fuzzy, out of focus.
I’m getting older and my dreams are fading
Too full of tactical moves and tasks
Just want to slow down, breathe
There may be a path hidden by the undergrowth
Most won’t look hard enough, they like the smooth way
But I like wildflowers and fossils and looking under rocks.
Is it crazy to hear the stream speaking?
Hearing words of praise from moving water beats condemnation from those close
Skin prickles with the sun’s rays
I shouldn’t move too far from the stream
There’s no shade in the field.
No welcoming branches to hold me close
Feet keep moving though the mind wants to rest
The air is stifling and the heart slows
I can see an oasis on the horizon
Mine has books and trees and wine
All I need until the end of all things.
The Word Rummager 