Category Archives: thoughts

The left handed Artist

the happenstance of noises
is interpreted as voices
they are baleful, malevolent, or wise
fraught with contradiction
but uttered with conviction
as senseless as senility’s surmise

within this pool of sadness
and the fear of creeping madness
(a blackened bloom that’s coming to the fore)
the consciousness is running
from the feral beast so cunning
while trying to lock the fifth and final door

and there! it’s done so proudly
and the door’s been slammed so loudly
and the voices and the visions are deterred
now, it’s time for more creations
for poetic innovations
but the inspiration utters not a word

so The Artist sits and wonders
what sort of mindless blunders
he has made, and why his symphonies are gone
now, perhaps it was the madness
and the overwhelming sadness
that once had given rarity of song.

The answer

On an errand from my town to another
(a lazy man’s errand- don’t you dare schedule me anymore)
I pass by the old weathered sign “Trail Entrance”.
It’s a blue arrow, meant to point north, to the left,
but now decrepit and flaccid in its old age.
Doing a face plant into the dirt,
telling us all to go to hell.
It’s been ten years, maybe longer,
since i took pride in making that steep ascent,
fording streams on stepping stones,
marching up muddy slopes,
finally reaching my destination:
a balding summit called Teapot hill.
It commanded a beautiful view of the countryside, and,
immersed in its quietness, on just the right day,
I could watch the cloud shadows roll across green fields,
gobbling the golden sun.
In the late summer, when these dark ships passed over me on the summit,
I felt a slight chill,
as little vortices of whirlwind seemed to spring up from the earth around me,
dispersing bugs and scattering the ashes of old campfires.
Tempests on the Teapot.
After a time, those black windblown spaceships would disperse,
giving way to green radiance once again.
A one act play that I would give anything to call up at will.

Today is such a day, and I know it, even from the pavement well away.
God, can I make it? (I think)
I surely would like that feeling once again.
That feeling of being soothed, of being comforted, of being spoken to
without words.
Of owning my place in this, a green jewel of the universe.
I stop, and reverse back down the gravel shoulder. Lock up and go, you fool.
It’s mid September. The rains have not been kind this summer,
and so the steep sections of the trail are not so muddy.
And, another kindness- someone has built rudimentary bridges across the streams.
Even with these blessings, I have only half the wind, and take twice the time.
I look nervously at my phone. Plenty of battery, but no signal.
On my own, I stop three times, and then reach the flat top.
Someone has carved an old stump into the form of an armchair, and I sit,
catching breath, head bowed.
There’s a sign, crudely carved.
You Are Here
You Are Here
Welcome Home.

the Tetris of decision

slowly he walks in the snowy night.  approaching the street lights, he’s in one of those glass globes, shaken.  frozen furrows underfoot. crispy, crunchy.  making statements in the deadened sound.  there’s only the baying of solitary hounds, fading back into cotton in the ears.  he’s glad of the long johns and the fur hood.  much to think about in this wintry vacuum.  a relationship that’s run its course.  irreconcilable, he thinks.  how much, or even whether, he has sinned in seeking or accepting new friendships.  whether he cares about the fallout.  what she will do if he leaves, how she will live.  will these clunky intractable blocks of woe somehow fit together and form a path, a way out.  she knows they are in trouble.  she sees his half smiles and repartee with others, and is despairing of what to do, what to offer.

he is rounding the block, and sees home now.  the wind is picking up and he’s shivering a little, but he thinks he will do it one more time.  Maybe one more time.

Song sung blue

The music of the singing strings
the melody and rhythm brings
and prints a pretty pattern to the ear.

The poetry of metre fine,
of effortless and flowing rhyme,
is close akin- to music very near.

The two together make a song
so well connected, seeming strong,
and memorable for all of us to hear.

Then, in a waltz, they consummate
a marriage of the intimate-
a swirling sensitivity, so dear.

Lose the Carnation, please

Should I be ashamed of creating, and of taking a little pride in it? (Cometh before a fall). Of making a poem, a story real or fancied, and putting it out there? (Don’t do it on Facebook, you’re seeking attention. Yes, I am.  Look, I have done this.  Is it not better than looking at pictures of my breakfast or my cat, or endless political flame wars?)

Of being in a musical ensemble, wanting to sing, be heard, create songs, but being called out for performing? (We prefer a singalong, so don’t take center stage).

Why do painters paint? (Rhetorical)

When I see someone else’s beautiful work, I am sometimes at a complete loss as to how to show my love and appreciation of it, lest I appear clumsy or redundant or high-handed.  (Note to self: if you like something, don’t read the comments, just go for broke.)

(Another note to self:  false modesty is sickening.  If someone gives you public praise, just smile)

Once, I was at a wedding reception, dressed to the nines, with a carnation (I think) pinned to my lapel.  I was the best man, and had a prepared speech about the groom.  Afterward, our band played off and on for the evening.  Someone came up to me, looked at my flower, and said something that cut to the quick, and therefore perhaps has some truth:  “You should be wearing the Narcissus”.

I wish I may, I wish I might….

this heart has slowly settled
it wants to be at peace
pride and envy, jealousy
it’s willing to release

scriptures read and understood
’tis not a fairytale
their lessons are invaluable
companions without fail

I feel remorse for those who’ve died
without the chance to live
and I still here and need you now
my failings to forgive

my love’s been shown to some that were
impoverished in soul
and I’ve been given in return
their own, when they are whole

the call to judgement tugs at me
with spiritual strings
it mayn’t be long before it sees
my ghost upon its wings

and so I will not rage against
the dying of the light
or think that I am better than
the ones who’ve lost their fight

take me when it is my time
and leave the rest to me
I wish I may, I wish I might
your holy Presence see

 

From Thralldom to Salvation

“Are you an anxious person?”, the therapist said.

Our man then recalled the thoughts and emotions that preceded his blackout at the wheel on that wintry night not so long ago.  He had awakened, after what seemed only a few seconds, with his car in the ditch, a fat lip, and a bloody nose.  Otherwise, physically undamaged.  It had been the scare of his life, and he was still jittery and shaking.  Presently, he called for a tow truck, and was glad of the delay that allowed him to collect his thoughts.

“I wouldn’t say so.  At least, not until a few months ago”, he responded.

He then had to relate the unnatural attraction he had developed for a girl he had not even met, and how it had mushroomed to bring him to this state.

“Your tests, scans, etcetera, have all come back normal, and now here you are with me.  Are you aware of what stress, even the emotional type, can do to a person?  I believe your blackout was a “shutdown” reaction to the conflicts within your mind.  You have been close to losing control.  There is something called Situational Depression, and your symptoms are very close to this.  I will prescribe you some medication which should help, but you need to see if you can get some closure on this.  If you’re willing to risk seeing this girl just to tell her your feelings, then talk to family and friends, discreetly, if they are involved, and find out what to do.”

After some hard thought, and hearing that his nephew’s band had an upcoming date at another tavern, he contrived to be there that night, while his wife was otherwise occupied.  Knowing his guilt, but acting as casually as possible, he asked if they had any memory of “that odd looking dancer” from where they had played before.  His nephew grinned, and said “Oh, that’s just Sydney.  She’s there almost every Saturday night.  Just a fun loving kid, and doesn’t hang out with anyone in particular, I think.  Dances by herself most of the time.”

In the end, when he learns that the band will be back at their old bar for an encore, he makes it a night out, knowing that family and friends will once again be there.  It’s the same loud crowd, the band competing with them, and, after an hour or two, Sydney is there.  His wife says “Isn’t that the same girl that was here last winter?  I remember her dancing all alone.  You kept watching her.”  “I enjoyed her dance”, he says.  “I must go and give her my compliments.”

When the song is over, he walks up to the girl.  It’s the first time he has seen her eyes.  He holds back the rush of emotion, says nothing about the months he has gone through.  Only touches her hand, smiles, and says “how lovely you dance”.  She brings her eyes to his for just a second, tilting her head strangely to the side, gives a radiant smile, and a small squeeze to his hand in return.

The next morning, he wakes up with the cure.

Previous posts on this story are:

Captivated

From Captivated, to Captivity

The Captive, in thrall


The Captive, in thrall

Almost a year from the day he saw his “tiny dancer”, he still struggles to bury the image, and sees this as a strange and fascinating illness of the soul.

Am I weak? Evil? Insane, to let this affect me thus?
Has my life been so devoid of joy that I see, every day, the afterimage of this flicker of brightness?

He thinks he has been a fool, and would be justly held to ridicule if another soul ever knew of this.

And so…I need help from someone.  NO.  I will conclude this myself.  There will be a way to find her.  Ask some embarrassing questions, perhaps expose my desperation, if only it will come to the point of seeing her once more, just to tell her…..what?  That I’ve been in thrall to her image for a year?  It matters not.  I must do it.

His resolve hardens.  He gets into his car and heads out the wintry road, not knowing what he will do at his destination.  Thoughts are running, running, running, as on a treadmill.  This is dangerous.

Halfway now, halfway, when the thing happens to him, an electrical feeling up the back of his neck, vision going grey, then black unconsciousness.

for background on this, see  http://secret-lifeof.com/2017/11/06/captivated/
and  http://secret-lifeof.com/2017/11/06/from-captivated-to-captivity/
and for final story see

From Thralldom to Salvation