Freewrite

Excuse me, but this is rambling and rabbit-trailing. You’ll find some amusement, maybe. Just remind yourself that it is a condition of the Midnight Disease, and move on from there. You have been warned about it.

Tiny sensations of broken glass across the chalkboard of a soul gone sour from the constant attentions of a chaste torturer. Like a wave of time and light and space expanded out into an indeterminable vastness of watching life go by with jaded eyes and constrained lips.
Never again to see the light of an untouched sun, or to feel the warmth of a regular moon. Always they will be a sad, swarmed, similar reminder of someone who touched the sun and stole the moon and laid them both to rest in tongues of fire underneath a sunset sky. Crematorium in the loosest sense of the word; just a pile of brambles behind a broken down shed that served dual-purpose as a hovel in which to spend hours among friends.
But now the shed is gone, burned up in that self same inferno that eclipsed the sun and broke the moon into tiny dimes and nickels that scattered among the rose petals and wood chips of the workshop floor. An entire childhood condensed into one smell and one longing.
One longing that never can be reached, and sounds more noble when spoken of than when really thought about. So don’t think about it, just pretend that you’re missing a love or that you wish that you hadn’t said that thing then, or this thing now. Just pretend that you aren’t going to go back and have the same feeling again and again on your way home through the darkness.
That’s the thing about darkness, though. When you know that you have a friendly darkness – not one that houses monsters and hides men with murder on the mind and ill-repute on the record – when you have a friendly darkness full of all the night sounds and smells and feelings, that’s when you can walk in safe solitude. The loneliness of someone who’s on their way home and knows that the light will be on and the laughter will be rolling through the door. It’s all ready to be opened and let out into the night. Then come inside to the din along with the glitter-bugs and the moths that are drawn to the overhead light as much as you are drawn to the glowing people.
You all know those people that I mean. The ones that test all your faculties to keep up with their jokes and small braveries. The ones that teach you new ways to be productive and still caring. The ones that have so much fun that you can’t help having a better day for having talked to them at lunchtime.
He always says that he isn’t going to keep on doing this every year. He isn’t going to come back to help those kids and their newest friends to learn and grow. But then he comes back from a five mile hike at five in the morning and tells me about how much fun he had, and how he helped that one kid get over his homesickness by playing his guitar. He’s a guitar player, this friend of mine that would never admit to being as cool as I saw so many times. He’s a really amazing guitar player and I can’t see how to do it; he just makes it look so easy.
And then there are all the other people that you know. Like those people that you shove into your little boxes when you first shake hands. The ones that keep surprising you when they jump out of their boxes and begin to dance. By the time that you realize that you were wrong about where you put them, they’ve already climbed into the right slot and started cracking jokes with their new neighbors.
But before I continue – rather, I shall not continue; those people won’t let me brag too much, otherwise they might think the masses are listening to me – I would like to muse on another subject.
Age has a way of doing things to a person. Even before you’ve seen half of your life, you begin to feel incredibly old. Then you look at pictures of people that are dead by now, and you feel akin to them in age, even though the smiling faces of the picture is older than your parents.
Pictures are one of those funny inventions that have gotten so many forms of complaint and misuse and still are so high on the list of means of remembrance. They still think that a picture is worth a thousand words, even though I have seen many that aren’t worth the time it takes to print them, and even more that told me an entire life story without so much as a tear falling from one eye in the crowd. Pictures that teach me how to do a job even though I’m not sure which one of the forty people held that job before me.

Nostalgia +1

That feeling of need and want an curious emptiness hits again and again in so short a time. Each hint of ancient rhyme or simply older-than-me time-passer gives a new jolt of pain at not being able to touch it. Each childhood game offers another chance at being young.

But, at the same time, youth will not be regained by an attempted session of remembrance; things will not be exactly the same and so the dream will disappoint and all will come tumbling in an arch of Jenga bricks.

But as soon as one game finishes lazily, another catches the eyes and sends a little chill of anticipation down your spine. Goose bumps rise only to be rested again as childhood retreats back to its toy chest rest home when this new game does not satisfy.

Games are given up, since they cannot fulfill, and words are turned toward instead. With a savage hope to find the realms of time inside a twisted phrase. And, although the phrase gives a shiver and a pang, it falls to the ground and shatters; breaks apart into words and letters and vague black-and-blue lines. And then it’s gone.

The game and the word have both failed, so now, perhaps, the art. Imperfect people painted so perfectly skewed. Tones and shades ready to make good their unspoken promises of colour, but soon fading back to black on white with grey in a close second. High cities and deep streams and hidden lands beneath frosted seas; things that could never be seen outside of a padded cell without the aid of a sketch. But, although the picture pleases for a time, it does not feed the want enough and we must move on. Art has failed us.

Now music takes the stage, flowing out and up and left like the sea on deaf ears. A frantic search for a favorite song from long ago and then the relief of finding it. Let the music and the rhythm beat through you. Then again when it finishes. Like the addict, keep restarting your song again and again until it’s been drained of all of its sweet remembrance. Then it falls flat into a world of Now out of its bubble of Yesterday.

Music has failed, so now turn to games again; an endless cycle continuing onward forever. A quest for the means to stop time and then reverse it; to get back to when memory is fuzzy and things are thought better. But that’s really all nostalgia is, in the end: Memory.

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A Cool Legend to Know

Mordovian circuits to find naught wrong with a world of rainy-day promises towards children of every single age. Magical wing-writes to teach in tongues of roller coaster lightning rods. Long-ago-men written on cavern walls in painted years. Nation’s legends to teach, instruct, and water plain wishes whispered between bedtime prayers.

A play wright of obvious benefactors o the town of Christmas play. Daylight through a broken window to toss a shadow of french vanilla sing-song. Frost across the window in a tiny taste of childhood breakfast cereal. Who could wish a better promise that that made behind the screen of hushed tones a long way beyond time for sleepy-bye.

A magic tongue of icicles to talk in tones of secret languages and broken codes in order to be better understood. Gibberish is more kindly known than all the strange deviants of English.

Collection

A time of not actually being able to post leads to a build-up of writing. Here’s three weeks, or so.

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My reflection in the window glanced back at me, eyes full of the storm that percolated outside. I knew that it was me, even if I didn’t recognize him. Common sense told me so. I turned my head this way and that, trying to find the angle of Me amid the lines and jaw of someone else.
My reflection complied with my movements readily enough, surely because it hoped not to be put to such lengths as the detached shadow of Peter Pan. But with every adjustment of the head and every stretch or relaxation of the cheek or eyebrow there came to mind a different boy that I had seen here or there in my life.
These crowds amongst the faces stood out from my reflection and waved me down to come and join them. But I have new promises to make and old friends to keep. So I shut those rainfall eyes and turn away to put down in black and white what I was thinking in shades without number.

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I felt the raw electricity and charged power of the wind and the hiss of the leaves on the trees. The air was ripe with feel of rain on my skin, although no actual water had touched me.
The glitter bugs danced among the trees to light my path during the intervals of darkness that came between flashes of lightning. The frogs in the forest made their own chirruping clashes from amongst the trunks although the thunder was missing from the mix.
Then, suddenly, the rain-pregnant air gave way to the wind of storm-herald and I felt the first drops begin to fall.

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Rain, child, like a summer day
Full of sunshine and drizzly pain

Sing, child, like a meadow lark
Wild in cherries as a smile can bring

Laugh, child, like an old coyote
Smile like the moon and it wants be half

Play, child, like a whippoorwill
Among the reeds after a long, hot day

Love, child, like a flea-bit dog
Never ask why the tears want flood

Live, child, among the stars
Come out at night full of hope to give

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Scribble scratch of pen, black and white of ink on page. Thinking, thinking, thinking. Make sure the words fit and then feel as they flow out. Twist that letter a bit more, smudge those words together, paint in lines of doctrinated pattern to show the face of things under the dark light. A palindrome to show how much it means and an oxymoron to suspend reality and add disbelief.

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Clouds
Everyone has seen the shapes in the clouds- faces, trains, air planes, and all sorts of animals. But there are more kinds of clouds that are less shapes and more emotion. Fires with faces filled with tears, reflections on water that isn’t really there, and canopies to hide a moon that refuses to be hid.
Glowering ceilings full of rumble and crash, pretty tufts of bright, summer day, swirls and twist in three dimensions that disappear again in an instant.
But none of them stay around forever. The light and time and winds push and shove and change and mould until one clouds turns into another. Then it’s gone around the horizon.

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Broadest of greetings, fair, lordly sun. A fair morning to be run along the ground. Freshest of breaths of wind across a lake of closest glass. Shards catch the light and glint a picture on a wall of cliff-face serious.

Closest of midnights, quiet, crescent moon. Teach songs to the meadow larks as they sleep. Guard we who find our solace in rest and watch us to keep away the night, and then show us how to find the light.

Brightest of glories, twinkling, little stars. Like eyes above the clouds that float in the sky.

Wish-it-was

I live in a land of wish-it-was
Between the silent starlight streams
Beyond a pale of dizzy fuzz
Made of valentines and silver moon beams

I live in a land of wish-to-be
In a castle far away
Built of bowling balls by the sea
It is my spring retreat by day

I live in a land of dreams-are-real
By night I fly my bird-wing kite
Above a sea with laughing seals
That watch my vicarious flight

Here in my land of time-matters-not
My life is a blur of flowers
If I ever had hardship, I’ve forgot
As I sit in my sunshine for hours

I live in a land of wish-it-was
Where I decide how things are
Where everything has hum and buzz
And I’ll never, ever travel far

Period.

I just hid behind a period. I stuck my head down and covered my face behind the little pixel blot that served as an end to some short thought. I managed to avoid the blast that I thought my words would bring forth. It never came, despite my best attempts to stop its force.
I realized just after I placed that period that it wouldn’t be any good. Just because I knew what my duck-and-cover strategy was doesn’t mean that everyone will. You wouldn’t see the little barricade that I had built behind the dot and stocked with love-letters and cans of tomato soup to keep me warm while I waited for you to leave.
I’ll never look at that little, innocuous dot the same way again. It’s forever changed in my mind when it comes at the end of a line.It makes me think of that one time when-
Wait, what was it I said? I’ve been too busy thinking how I hid to remember what I said that I thought would be an object of objection. Maybe it wasn’t all that bad in the first place? Maybe I was over thinking? Maybe I can make fun of myself, now, for hiding behind a period?

Ten ’til August

School is done again, now it’s time for that wonderful thing we call Summer. That age and age and age untold where the youngest can find happiness among the trees and grasses and bright moon shining on a warm night away from home. Spring is long forgotten beside the rivers made by rain and the wind blustering through the trees. Fall is far away on the horizon and winter will never come.
It’s ten ’til August, too far away to begin to think of the upcoming of the new school year, and much to close to be near the cold and the ice. Time slows down to sluggish pace, but everything happens too fast. The night comes when we’re never ready to go to bed and the day comes again before we’re done playing with our midnight friends. The days slip past, but the calendar never changes.
It’s still ten ’til August, and years ’til September but the night is coming on fast. My dreams have already begun, even before I close my eyes. Then I blink, and the world turns. Suddenly, it’s five past November, and the time ran out of everything. I can’t quite figure out where it all went, but I know, deep down, that I’ll never quite get it back.

Gold Pen Poem

A golden pen as if to make
The words inside seem fairer
A forceful stroke as if to make
The words inside seem clearer
Long lines of letters pushed along
After the light should be out
Stopping to listen at the sounds
Of movement from without
Then writing again in a flurry of strokes
From a pen of gold and ink
And all else is forgotten for a moment
Then stop again, listen, think

Write about what came before
Or what shall come again
Secret dreams and deep desires
Flow from out that pen
A bit of soul, and another of yours
Added to the mixing bowl
Then a pinch of love and a dash of pain
And flatten out and roll
A recipe for poetry, met not rhymed
Then forgotten once again
After it flowed out of that
Golden, dented pen

Silver tongues of tapestry
Weave a silver tale
And bronze in fiery furnace
Is beat to burnished mail
To gird the flesh of warrior bold
And keep him safe from harm
Or wrap about a writer slim
To keep him nice and warm
While poems and prose and nobility
With golden pen he writes
Pours out his soul and lifeblood red
Deep into the night

The Green King Saga, Parts 2 and 3

This is a momentous occasion, alright. This right here is the one hundredth post on this blog. Go and count ’em if you want, there’s a hundred. Seems like a lot, but it has been four months now. That’s less than one post a day, which means I haven’t been keeping my numbers up, but I warned you when I started. Anyway, I’ll keep posting and we’ll see if we can’t just get all the way to two hundred.

Sonnet VI (Octameter; Katerine)
The summer sun turns now to fall
And leaves begin to hit the ground
While Green King sits and watches all
While he, by vines, to throne is bound
He can do naught but watch and wait
For come of cold and creeping frost
Until that time he sits in state
King of a land soon to be lost
While leaves of gold, yellow, and red
Like flutt’ring gems of ruby-gold
Fall from trees now gone cold and dead
To land among the leaves of old
That landed there just once last year
And lie there still in rain-drop tears

=

Sonnet VII (Octameter; Katerine)
Now all is white and crystal fire
Around Green King and throne of trees
Dead-all, dead-all in frosty mire
And snow in mounds lies deep on leaves
The life is gone from all the world
And flung from sky are flakes of steel
That land upon the flag unfurled
And cut and bite ’til flesh can’t feel
And wind howls down between the twigs
Where once leaves lay in thick clusters
And runs against the Green King’s legs
To strip away strength he musters
And hide it in the dark’ning sky
Where all the snow and ice now flies

Scratch and Dent Dreams

Find Eric Darby’s website here.

Music

Some music is soulful. It isn’t anything to do with the music itself, really. The music has borrowed soul from the one who wrote it, and from the ones who play it, and from those who listen to it and enjoy.
That bit of soul that you pour into your own work is evident enough to any that can listen. It flows out of the page and into the air to hover in a melodious cloud.
That piece that you give up by performing floats above the crowd  in notes and melodies, easy to hear. It swirls and eddies on the currents of sighs and yawns.
That piece of you that you put into a favorite song or a long-remembered tune is the easiest to get back. Whenever the first few familiar notes hit your ears, you get back that bit of soul in a rush of emotion and joy. Listening on, you begin to pour another portion into the song, allowing yourself to be sucked into the wonderful lyrics and loved lines. Now it waits and brings in interest on the investment until the next time you discover the song in the back of the lists.

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