Archive for the 'Sunday Scribblings 2' Category

12
Apr
15

boiler room

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My soul made a sound

yesterday or the day before

The morning the wind stopped me cold

in the boiler room

by the window

hanging up clothes to dry

Immobilized, spooked, fearful, hopeful

I watched the leaves running

and the trees bending

Two birches and a Tamarack died

I wonder how long it will be

before they break

and who will deal with them

She is old and I am weak

in the head

in the heart

in all the places vital to

keeping a soul alive

and interested

in more than just living

I am tired

of interruptions

of urgencies

of jerks to my chains and knees

The rain is not good

for watering hopes

and floating dreams

nor does the blue sky make sense

The trash cans are perpetually full

the toilets and clothes and floors

are ever dirty

He is shiny and I am soiled

dim and numb

to the words

to break the spell

to stop the leak I sprang

while the Sorcerer was away

My soul hasn’t made a sound in years

or if it has, I can’t recall when

but I heard it then

in the boiler room

howling

I would have thought it the wind

but for the feeling:

something like painful

more like haunting

01
Jun
14

under the awning

Awning_640x photo AWNING_640x_the-cafe-awnings-at-chautauqua-institution-new-york-lisa-russo_zps3aa0ec9c.jpg
Image credit: The Café Awnings At Chautauqua Institution New York by Lisa Russo – prints for sale framed, canvas, acrylic, metal, art, as greeting cards and for iPhone and Galaxy cases at http://pixels.com/featured/the-cafe-awnings-at-chautauqua-institution-new-york-lisa-russo.html

 

Under the awning it took me, arrested me, foiled my plans. And then it left me, its work was done. And so was I.
 
It was a sweet awning, red and white striped, its fringes riffling in a breeze that smelled of hope. And it promised shade, I saw it myself.
 
Shade was the trouble, though. So tempting, so hard to judge… It was darker than I thought, and so much cooler. I understood, soon after I’d stepped under, when the maddening buzzing began, like an angry black fly trapped in an airless room with no way out, an angry fly that never dies.
 
My desires had seemed so simple, but simplicity is more complex than it seems…
 
For every minute of peace, there is an hour of noise. It is all lopsided and raining on muddy puddles. The sun shines in spurts, goes in when we go out. Time drives poorly, first speeding then slowing, headed for slipping away.
 
Chances slip into the yawning sky, like balloons into the ozone layer. Misfortunes are mudslides trapped in valleys. And I am caught in quixotic dreams here, under the awning.

 

Fin

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Click here for more on prompt “#22 – under the awning” from other Sunday Scribblings2 participants.

18
May
14

inklings of watering cans

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Image credit goes to Wallpapers Wide

 

Don’t do like Blanca Noire. She walks with a pebble in her shoe on the way to her grave, never stopping to take it out because there is no time. No time for anything but stop-gap undertakings. No time to excavate the inner self, to see what treasures might be found.

 

Easier to trudge the arid plains with a pebble in her shoe, the pebble as a blind eye turned toward the thirsty soil, not seeing how intellectually parched she is, and how hounded by inklings of watering cans she can’t help but be.

 

Don’t lose sleep like her. When she does sleep, she wakes dazed, forgetting the pebble and everything but how to tie her shoes, as if getting places, just the walking there, is all there is. She forgets the need to have something to show for herself when she gets there, something meaningful.

 

Easier to let her beauty speak for her, to let the golden ratio rule: the symmetry of her face, a pleasant tonal transitioning; her youthfulness, a naturally inspiring thing; and in her clear, smooth skin is the knowledge of the ages.

 

Don’t get old like Blanca Noire, surprised to find her path has led her to a day when she could have so much to say, but for all her benign neglect. She’s annoyed to find a pebble embedded in her foot and angry to see her face so dry and cracked that it can no longer speak of anything but regret.

 

Don’t die like her, alone and withered and reaching out for a watering can just a few million moments too late.

Fin

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Click here for more on prompt “#20 – pebble in her shoe” from other Sunday Scribblings participants.